by Peter Clines
“Let the school take care of it.”
Dad glanced back at her. “If the school was going to take care of it, do you think we’d be hearing about it from Bobby? They’re going to try to brush it under the rug.”
Mom stared at the floor. “I should call the other parents,” she said, “and warn them.”
“If they haven’t heard already,” he said.
Bobby set his hand on his father’s. “Is it true, Dad?”
He looked Bobby in the eyes. “Is what true?”
“What she said. About Omnes.”
The parents looked at each other. Mom crossed her arms and turned to the window. Dad took another slow breath. “Well, he isn’t a monster. He’s a person, just like you and Mom. And me.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Than how come he can do all his stuff?” asked Bobby. “I mean, like, he can fly and see really far, and he’s super-strong and super-fast, and nothing can hurt him, and he makes lightning with his fists and all that.”
Mom’s fingers fidgeted against her crossed arms.
“No one knows how he can do all those things,” said Dad. “It’s like the old movies, where only a few people know how the superhero got his powers.”
“Is he a mootant?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is he an alien?”
“I doubt it,” said Dad, smiling and shaking his head.
“Does he get his powers from his suit or a magic ring or something?”
“No,” Mom said. “It’s all him. No one can take his powers away from him. They’ve tried.”
Dad glanced back at her then scooted back on the bed so he could see his whole family at once. He tapped his fingers on the back of Bobby’s hand. “I think… I think it was just an accident,” he told the boy. “I think Omnes didn’t want to get powers or expect them. I think one day, something happened to him at work or somewhere. Something that wasn’t supposed to happen, like an explosion or a radiation leak. But instead of getting hurt like most people, it changed him. It gave him his powers and made him into what he is today.”
The boy nodded. “A superhero?”
“Yes,” said Mom quickly. “A hero.” She looked out the window again, up at the sky.
“The best hero,” agreed Dad. “A hero for everyone.”
Mom nodded without turning her head.
“That’s what his name means,” said Dad. “It means ‘everyone.’”
“Yeah?” asked the boy.
“Yep,” said Dad. “He saved the city a dozen times at least and the country two or three times. He even saved your mom once.”
“Really?” Bobby’s eyes lit up. He looked at his mother for confirmation.
“It was before,” she said, and Dad looked up at her from the bed. “It was a long time ago.”
“And then,” said Dad, “he decided to save the whole world. So he got rid of all the bad people and made everything safe and happy and better for everyone.”
“But if Omnes is a hero,” said Bobby, “why’s so many people scared of him?”
“I don’t think anyone’s scared of him,” said Dad. “It’s just…it’s complicated.”
“Why?”
Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked back at her. Her head trembled, just a small, side-to-side movement.
He sighed and shifted on the bed, careful not to put his weight on the small form under the blanket. “Well,” he said. He let the word hang in the air for a minute, and Mom stared at him. “Well,” he said again, “you like orange soda, right?”
Bobby’s hair flopped back and forth.
“So if I gave you orange soda, that would be a good thing, right?”
“Yup.”
“But does everyone like orange soda?”
The boy shook his head. “Kevin says it tastes like aspirin.”
Dad managed a smile. “Okay,” he said, “so if I gave Kevin an orange soda, he wouldn’t think it was good, would he?”
Bobby rubbed his ear. “But he doesn’t have to have orange soda, does he? Can’t he have Pepsi?”
Mom let out a little noise, almost a snort. Dad gave her a sharp glance and looked back at Bobby. “Okay, kiddo,” he said. “Let’s try this. You know how you can go to a birthday party and there’s lots of stuff to do, like games and sports and toys to play with?”
The boy’s hair flopped back and forth again. “Like Jack’s party last month. It was really fun.”
“Right, just like Jack’s party,” said Dad. “So everyone gets to have fun and do what they like, but then the cake comes out. And everyone has to have cake and ice cream, right?”
“Right,” said Bobby with a nod.
“But everybody doesn’t come right away. Usually, one of the grown-ups has to go get all the kids, right? They have to stop doing everything else so they can have cake and ice cream.”
Another sage nod from Bobby.
“They think that they want to keep running around or playing games or jumping in the bounce house,” Dad explained, “but the grown-up knows that once everyone sits down, they’re going to be happy with cake. So they have to give up all that other stuff so they can have cake and ice cream. Does that make sense?”
Bobby twisted his lips up again. “I think so,” he said.
Mom rubbed her temples and looked out the window again.
“But there’s always a couple kids who don’t want cake,” continued Dad. “Maybe they just want to keep jumping in the bounce house or maybe they don’t like the flavor.”
The boy gave a sage nod. “Nancy doesn’t like chocolate cake,” he said.
“Right,” said Dad. “But the adults still make her stop playing and sit at the table with everyone else, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Because they know that once the cake and ice cream’s there in front of them, the kids will want it. It may not be the flavor they want, but it’s still cake, and they’ll all be happy. They’ll be upset at first, but then they’ll see it’s all for the best.”
Bobby shook his head and his hair swished to either side. “Nancy’s illergic,” he said. “She’s not s’posed to have any cake.”
“But they still make her sit down, right?”
The boy considered this. “Yup.”
“Even though she can’t enjoy it.”
“Yup.”
“Because it wouldn’t be fair to the other kids. They’re not going to enjoy their cake as much if someone else is running around and playing with all the toys. And the adults try to find something else for her, right?”
Bobby thought about it for a moment. “At Jack’s party, they got her a slice of banana bread I think,” he said.
“And was she happy?”
The boy shrugged. “Guess so.”
“See?”
Mom made another noise, and Dad shot another sharp glance at her.
Bobby weighed all the examples in his mind. “So Omnes gave everyone in the world cake?”
“More or less,” said Dad. “And it made all the good people happy.”
“Very happy,” added Mom. “We were all thrilled.”
“But Miss Richmond isn’t happy,” said the boy. “She’s mad.”
Dad pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Well,” he said, “sometimes, good people do bad things. They only think about themselves and not everyone else. That’s when they get scared of Omnes.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re being bad. And bad people don’t get cake.”
“But you said he got rid of all the bad people.”
“Yes,” said Dad, “he did.”
Mom sniffed. She reached up and wiped her eyes. She sniffed again and then walked out of the bedroom.
Dad set a hand against the boy’s shoulder and guided him back down. The blond-streaked hair spread out on the pillow. He really needed a haircut.
“Why’s Mom cr
ying?”
“Because…because she’s so happy.”
Bobby tugged at the sheet and twisted it between his fingers. “Omnes didn’t give everyone real cake, did he?”
The corners of Dad’s mouth went up a little. “No, he didn’t.”
“Was it something just as good?”
“Even better. He gave everyone peace.”
“Peace?”
“It means no more wars,” said Dad. “No more problems. Resources get spent on all the right things. Everyone has fun. Everyone gets cake.”
Bobby yawned. “Even if they think they don’t want it?”
“Yes,” said Dad. “Even if they don’t want it. Everyone gets cake because he knows it’ll make them all happy in the long run.”
The boy rolled onto his side. “Why’d he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Give everyone peace?”
Dad smiled. “Because someone had to.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Dad paused to organize his thoughts. “I think it’s like in the old comics. ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ And Omnes is very, very powerful. So he feels very, very responsible. For everyone.”
Bobby yawned again, and his eyes fluttered. His head shifted on the pillow. “Okay,” he said.
Dad bent down and kissed him again. Bobby smiled, and his face relaxed. His breathing sank into a smooth rhythm. Dad stood up, looked down at his son for a moment, and then took a few gentle steps into the hall. He tugged the door shut behind him.
The smile fell from his face as soon as the latch clicked. He walked down the hall to his study. Mom was there waiting for him.
“You’re still angry,” she said.
“Of course I’m angry,” Dad said. He slid his glasses off his nose and folded them flat. He only wore them for show, but he treated them as if they were real. “Can you believe that bimbo’s saying stuff like this, let alone in a classroom full of kids? Exposing them to dangerous ideas like that?”
“Please,” she said, “just let the school deal with it. They’ve probably disciplined her already, docked her pay or—”
“Discipline?” said Dad. He set the glasses down on his desk next to the photo of his family. “If there was any discipline at that school, this wouldn't have happened in the first place.”
“But just this once,” said Mom, “we could let someone else handle it.”
“I said I’d take care of it. None of the children will know.”
Her face dropped.
Dad unbuttoned his cuffs and pulled his shirt off over his head. It was an old habit from when he’d have to change in a hurry. It had been years since he’d had to rush like that.
The shirt slid off to reveal the blue and gold uniform. He rolled his shoulders, and the cape unfurled, spreading behind him like angelic wings. His hands tugged at the belt, and his slacks and the last of his secret identity fell away.
“He’s a good boy. He understands these things need to happen sometimes.” He walked past her, through the kitchen, and out the back door.
“But she’s his favorite teacher. I think he even has a little crush on her.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we can’t allow this sort of thing. You know where it leads. You remember what happened to China.” It wasn’t a question. No one would ever forget what had been done to the Asian nation.
Omnes rose into the air. He circled the house once then headed for the west side of town, over by the community center and the graveyard. He knew that was where Miss Richmond lived.
He knew where everyone lived.
The Origin of Slashy
Jeff Strand
Kaylie was raped. It wasn’t a particularly brutal rape as far as these things go. Oh, it was a rape all right—no blurred lines of consent here—but there were no weapons involved, and the violence was all implied. She was told to let it happen if she didn’t want to be beaten to death, and since she didn’t want to be beaten to death, she let it happen.
Kaylie knew the guy. Colin. Not a common name for somebody from New Jersey, but his parents were fans of British television. He lived in one of the apartments in her complex. At the time of the rape, she hadn’t known which apartment even though he’d lived there for almost a year, and she’d lived there for eight. She didn’t go outside much.
He was decidedly average in height and build. Not an intimidating figure unless, like Kaylie, you were four-foot-eleven and anorexic. Before he raped her, the only real time they’d spent together was one late night when they were both doing laundry. He’d tried to strike up a conversation, which hadn’t gone well because Kaylie wasn’t good at conversations, and when she thought about it later, there’d been a flash of an odd expression on his face when she folded her panties.
Three weeks later, he’d knocked on her door at two in the morning. He hadn’t awakened her because she was always still up at two, but it took three different knocking sessions within ten minutes—each more insistent—before she let him in.
He was drunk and sad. He asked for a beer, and when she explained that she didn’t have any alcohol, he said she was lying. Everybody had some alcohol in their refrigerator because it was rude to not have some to offer guests, and Kaylie offered to let him look through her refrigerator as proof.
Had he taken her up on that offer, she would have called the police while he was distracted, and though she might still have been raped, it’s entirely possible that nobody would have died.
He did not take her up on that offer.
Instead, he took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom, telling her exactly what he was going to do to her and exactly what would happen if she made it difficult to get what he wanted. He still sounded sad even though he was presumably describing things that he would enjoy doing, and that should therefore make him happy.
She asked him not to do this. She told him she was a virgin. He laughed at her though not like she’d said something funny. She was at least thirty, he said, and he knew she was lying just like she’d lied about the beer. Kaylie was actually thirty-two, and she was not lying.
In the bedroom, he did awful things to her. If she’d done them willingly, they might not have been such bad things, but with his hands around her neck, they were horrible, painful, disgusting things.
When he’d finished, he thanked her—thanked her—and left. He didn’t even tell her not to call the police. Did he think she’d be too frightened of retribution to tell anybody what he’d done? Did his guilty conscience make him want her to turn him in? Was he too drunk to care?
She stared at the phone for a long time. All night. She cried a little but not too much. She felt revulsion and fear and shame all at once, and though she tried to throw up, she couldn’t get the sickness out of her.
Maybe the sickness would never leave.
Why even live like this?
Just the thought of suicide filled her with relief. There was a way out. He could stain her body but not her soul, and if there was no soul, at least she’d be dead and wouldn’t care.
She thought there were a couple of razor blades in a drawer in the bathroom, and she was right. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she cut a deep red line down each of her arms.
It barely hurt at all. Blood flowed.
And then, seconds later, the cuts healed.
She stared at her arms. Had she imagined that?
No. The blood was still there.
She cut again, in the same place, slicing even deeper. Once again, blood spilled out onto the tile floor, but then the cuts healed. There wasn’t even a scar.
Kaylie stared into the mirror and then slashed her cheek very slowly. The cut began to close itself up before she’d even finished.
What had happened to her?
Had Colin done this? Or had this happened before? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d accidentally cut herself. It had to be a year or more. She
tried to think of any major events that could have bestowed this power upon her and came up blank.
Was she immortal?
If she was immortal, she didn’t have to fear anything, right?
Suddenly, she realized it was seven o’clock and time to get ready for work. She didn’t have to leave her apartment, but the insurance company knew when she logged in and logged out, and her boss would be mad if she was late.
She turned on the shower as hot as it would go. It disturbed her to realize that she didn’t need to take off her clothes because she’d never put them back on. As steam filled the bathroom, she stepped under the scalding water, which for about half a second felt like it was delivering cleansing and purification but then felt way too hot, so she turned it to a more reasonable temperature.
As she washed off her blood, she imagined the police taking Colin away in handcuffs. It was a mediocre mental image. She’d be glad that he wasn’t around to hurt anybody else, but would she feel vindicated? Not really. Even when she added the image of the cops zapping him on the back of the neck with a Taser, it didn’t make her smile.
Being completely drenched in Colin’s blood? That was a better one.
By lunchtime, she realized that long stretches of her workday had been spent staring at her computer screen without really seeing anything but that the time wasn’t completely unproductive because she’d made the decision to murder Colin. If she’d been gifted with super healing powers, why not try it? She’d do it as soon as she clocked out.
Kaylie didn’t own a gun and didn’t want to go that route because of the noise. She did own several knives. Obviously, she couldn’t just rush at him with a butcher knife, but his size advantage wouldn’t make a difference if he was asleep. You could be three hundred pounds of pure, steroid-enhanced muscle, and it wouldn’t protect you from a blade in your throat.
She needed to know which apartment was his. The first option was to wander around the complex until she saw him, but that wasn’t good use of her time. The manager would probably tell her since they would have no reason to be suspicious of somebody who’d lived there for eight years except that when Colin turned up stabbed to death, they’d probably remember that Kaylie had inquired about which apartment was his.