Corrupts Absolutely?

by Peter Clines

  “Full power, now. Climb, climb, climb!”

  Something broke loose inside the museum, sending century-old stonework downward in a great plume of dust and debris. The capsule suddenly popped free, and I saw a bend in the steel cables like slack in a fly fisherman’s line for just an instant. Then it fell, and the cables snapped, sending the capsule flying toward the flatbed and the Ex-pats. It struck at least two, pounding them into the grass like nails in soft pine, and then it smacked the flatbed’s cab sideways. Free now, the chopper pulled away. I ordered it back to land and come help out those inside, but the pilot either didn’t hear me or didn’t obey.

  The body count was steep. Two Ex-pats dead outside, seven more inside the museum when a 1970s retrofit steel beam buckled sideways then collapsed. Ghost and Kitty were also presumed dead, but in typical arch-nemesis fashion, no bodies were recovered.

  Zooster arrived in time to talk to the press. Cameras focused upward, on his face. I stood behind him and to the left, off-camera. If anyone else noticed that his codpiece was on backwards, they didn’t mention it.

  “When did you lose control of the situation?” asked one reporter.

  The question caught Zooster off-guard. “Nobody lost control of anything. I stopped two extremely dangerous criminals from taking possession of the Apollo capsule.”

  A tough reporter from the evening news leaned in. She said, “Captain O’Malley is investigating whether criminal charges should be brought against you. How do you respond to that?”

  Zooster swallowed hard then looked my way. Before I knew it, he had me by the shoulder and was dragging me into the shot. I scratched at a pimple on my lip, trying to hide it. At least my codpiece was on straight.

  “Some of you may recognize my side-kick, Z-pack. Truth be told, Z handled this operation himself tonight. And he handled it admirably. Not many kids could step up and protect the city like…”

  The woman from the evening news interrupted. “And where were you, Zooster, while Z-pack was out committing these murderous acts?”

  Zooster looked down for just an instant, like he was trying to get his story straight. “I was traveling back from a secret assignment when Captain O’Malley’s report came through. My instructions to Z-pack were to survey the scene, monitor the culprits, and stand by until I arrived. If he did more, it was against my orders.”

  I turned to him and started to speak, but Zooster pushed me out of the shot. The woman was already asking the next question. I caught something about “negligence” mentioned between them. By then, a cluster of reporters had broken off and encircled me. Above the din of their clattering, I thought I heard Zooster describe my actions as “rogue activity.”

  #

  “I want to change my name,” I said. We were back in the Tub.

  “Leave it. It’s a good name,” Zooster said. He sat shirtless at his computer station, receiving a back massage from the allegedly reformed Cabin Girl. One monitor’s tuner scanned constantly through static for network videos about him. When it found a station, the static faded only to be replaced by newscaster reports of Zooster sightings, Zooster’s love life rumors, Zooster’s Holiday Must-Have Gift List of 2003. Zooster refused to mute it, so I did for him.

  “It was always your name for me,” I said. “I don’t like it. Z-pack makes me sound like antibiotics.”

  “So you have the power to heal,” Zooster said. He paced his words slowly, fitting them in between Girl’s massage kneading action. “That’s good.”

  “It’s not good,” I said. I laid out cards to play solitaire on the steel table, trying to fill a few minutes before the next call. “Nothing’s good anymore. I’m doing all the work. You just sit here, or hang out with the Athena sisters, or give interviews. You aren’t a hero. You’re a public relations man, and that’s it. No substance.”

  At that statement, Zooster was out of his chair. As he walked toward me, he flexed his pectoral muscles one at a time. They flip-flopped like a juggled pair of tennis balls. “This is Zooster’s city, not Z-pack’s. You might remember that.”

  Zooster stepped right up to me and thumped his fingers into my chest. He was still strong from weights, but weights weren’t everything. On the second thump, I smacked his arm away with one hand while my other hand shot up toward that chiseled jawline of his. He tried to stop me, but his reactions were so slow, I could have hit him twice.

  He went down flat on his back, and I didn’t give him time to breathe. I pressed my boot into his neck and leaned. He tried to throw me off, but I wrapped up his hands until he started turning blue. “I always look for the missing details,” I said. “Lately, the only missing detail is you.”

  At that, I lifted my boot. He sat up, hacking and coughing and holding his throat. The pinch of my boot treads on his loose neck skin reminded me nicely of the hickey he’d gotten from Mama Athena those weeks ago.

  “Get out of here, murderer,” he said with a voice that sounded like it came from a broom’s splayed bristles. “Get out before I remember that I don’t kill.”

  So I went. But Cabin Girl went with me.

  #

  Anybody who wants to be anybody always asks me how to find an arch-nemesis. I used to smile and shrug at that question. Now, I rinse the fresh concrete from my hair or neutralize the acid with a strong base compound stolen from the chemical supply company warehouse that sits above my underground lair and say, “It all depends on the company you keep.”

  I should know. My name is Rogue Agent. My arch-nemesis is Zooster. He’s a real dick.

  Max and Rose

  Andrew Bourelle

  Rose looks tired. I notice this as our limousine pulls up in front of the hotel. She is reclined on the leather seat, her eyes sleepily gazing out at the city. I can’t read her mind like I can other people’s. She’s developed a resistance to me; I guess it’s because she’s been around since all this started. But it occurs to me that maybe she’s not happy. Maybe she doesn’t like this new life of ours. It’s ridiculous. But maybe.

  The driver opens the door. We get out. She takes my arm. We walk up the stairs to the lobby, which is beautiful and filled with rich, smiling people, the kind of people we could never be among before. The lobby is vast and spectacular with more green vegetation than a city park, more shining marble than an ancient Greek palace. Both the employees and the guests turn to look at us. I could read their minds, but I don’t have to. They sense me, what I am, that I am not like them. They know they are in the presence of greatness.

  “Wow,” Rose says, looking upward.

  I look up too. The inside of the hotel is hollow, with the rooms only along the outer shell, and rows and rows of parallel balconies running up the inside. A cluster of glass elevators glide up and down a large pillar. At the center of the ground floor is the restaurant, accessible from a series of walkways spanning large pools of water and spraying fountains on the basement level.

  “I told you it would be nice,” I say.

  She nods.

  We cross a catwalk toward the restaurant. The maître d’ stands where the catwalk meets the restaurant, like a guard just inside a castle gate, waiting as we cross the draw bridge.

  “What’s the name?” he says, smiling, beaming at me.

  “We don’t have a reservation,” I say.

  “Uh, sir.” He’s flabbergasted. He wants to let us through, but his sense of duty prevents him. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have to have—”

  I look away from him and walk forward, pulling Rose. He puts out his hand and touches my shoulder. I grab it and squeeze. He gasps. Bones crack. I let go then extend my arm, palm out, like I’m opening a door. The push sends him off the balcony like he was hit by a car. He holds his scream in, trying to please me in at least this way. He splashes into a pool below.

  “Max,” Rose says, her tone shocked.

  I turn to her and smile. I take her arm and lead her into the restaurant. No one tries to stop us.


  “You could have just made him let us in,” she says.

  “The old Jedi mind trick? I know. But that was more fun.”

  She shakes her head.

  “How about this table?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  I pull out her chair then sit across from her. Her dark hair is done up nicely with long, curling locks hanging around her shoulders. Her blue dress hugs her body, showing off her nice figure. The new necklace I gave her hangs around her neck, pretty next to her golden skin. She is the sexiest woman I’ve ever been with; I’ve always thought so and even now, when I could have any woman I want. But she looks so very, very tired. Puffy bags hang under her eyes. Her face is slack.

  “Are you okay, honey?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  A waiter comes, carrying two menus. He is excited and eagerly lists the night’s specials. We order wine, the most expensive bottle on the menu. Who cares? They’re not going to make us pay. And the waiter leaves. Seconds later, he returns with the bottle, filling our glasses and taking our order. I have steak; Rose has a salad.

  “You think they’ll call the cops?” Rose says, referring to the host down in the fountain.

  “No. They’re not even going to call an ambulance. They’re making a busboy drive him to the hospital.”

  “You know this?”

  “Yes. They’re so fucking excited right now. They don’t even see that as a bad thing.”

  “Neither do you,” she says.

  I smirk, giving her the look I sometimes give her, trying to tell her not to be a bitch without actually saying it aloud.

  “That host wasn’t too excited about you,” she says.

  “He was. He was just confused.”

  “Maybe,” she says, taking a drink of her wine. “And maybe some of these other people around here can think for themselves too.”

  “I’m not making them be excited about me,” I say.

  “Are you sure?”

  This stops me. I never thought of that before. Since this began, I assumed people treated me this way voluntarily, sensing something about me, my superiority, but not based on anything I did. Like I secrete a pheromone that pulls people to me, making them desire to be around me. The idea that I could turn this off hadn’t occurred to me.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, reaching for my glass. “I’m still figuring all this out.”

  The waiter brings bread, and we sit silently as he delivers it.

  When he leaves, I say, “And I’m sure it hasn’t stopped yet.”

  “Stopped?”

  “You know,” I say, “my development.”

  “Your super powers?” she says.

  “I don’t like to call them that, but yes.”

  “It’s not enough for you?” she says, reaching for the bread.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” I say.

  “But you’re sure enjoying it.” She puts a piece on her plate, but then, she doesn’t touch it. She peers at me.

  I shrug. “Yeah. So?”

  She shakes her head sideways, as if I’m supposed to know what that means. I take a piece of bread and grab my knife to butter it.

  “You think you’ll be able to get all stretchy like that guy from that comic book The Fantastic Four?” She smirks. “Or maybe you’ll turn into that rock guy.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, giving her the look. “Although I would like to be able to fly.” I grin as I say this; I can’t help myself.

  “Have you tried flying, Superman?” she says sarcastically.

  “No. But I didn’t try to read minds or become stronger either. Those just happened.”

  “What happens if your powers just fade away?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I say. “They’re only going to grow.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. I can feel it.”

  She tears off a small piece of bread and pops it into her mouth. She shakes her head, looks away from me. I follow her gaze. The restaurant is abuzz with excitement. The people love having me here. They don’t know who I am. Or what I am. But they can sense something is special. It’s like a drug is floating in the air, and they’re all inhaling it, high on my presence.

  “What makes you so special?” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What makes you so God-damn special? Why do you get to have this happen?”

  “I don’t know, hon. Are you jealous?”

  “No,” she snaps then stares at me.

  “I don’t know, baby. Maybe I’m just lucky.” I say this, but I don’t believe it. “You’re the scientist; you tell me.”

  “I studied biology in college before dropping out. I’m no scientist.”

  “You’re scientific,” I say.

  She’s quiet.

  “Do you wish I didn’t have this?” I say, thinking again if it might be possible to just turn my abilities off, turn my aura off so no one around us would sense what I am. The idea of this hurts me a little. I wouldn’t want to do that, but I say it to Rose anyway. “Maybe I can just learn to shut it off. Not be this person all the time.”

  Rose looks at me, staring silently. I find myself wishing I could read her mind. The waiter comes, setting down our plates. He’s enthusiastic, wanting to please. But he senses that we don’t want to talk, and he walks away quickly.

  Rose picks at her salad, hardly eating. I devour the steak.

  “Isn’t this nice?” I say. “We could never eat in a place like this before.”

  Rose shrugs.

  “Honey,” I say, “you’re happy, aren’t you?”

  She looks at me sadly.

  “I was happier then.”

  I drop my knife onto the table. “What?”

  She nods, confirming this.

  “Living in that shithole? No money to eat? No money to do anything?”

  She keeps nodding.

  “We were so unhappy.”

  “It’s all relative.”

  “I can walk into any store in the city, and they’ll give me a suit. Give. That necklace you’re wearing. That dress. All free. All because of who I am.”

  “It’s all taking,” she says. “It’s all stealing.”

  “That,” I say, “is all relative.”

  She gives me a look like the ones I was giving her earlier: Don’t be an asshole.

  “Only once since this has started has anyone really tried to deny me anything,” I stress the word “really” to make her know I’m not talking about the dumb-ass maître d’ of the restaurant.

  “Yeah,” she says, “and you put two cops in the hospital.”

  “So,” I say. I lean forward. “They’re not going to come after me. I’m untouchable. Why is that a bad thing?”

  “Why is that a good thing?” she says.

  I lean back in my chair, frustrated. I wad my napkin up and toss it onto my plate. I pour myself more wine. Rose’s glass is still nearly full.

  She shakes her head. “What if someone comes along, someone who’s developing like you, just in a different way? What if that person can keep you from doing whatever you want?”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You’re not invincible,” she says. “Not yet. Probably not ever. Every super hero has a kryptonite.”

  “Hon,” I say. “This is the real world. I can’t fly to the moon, and I can’t survive a nuclear explosion. I’m not saying I’m God. But I am godlike. And I’m getting better and better every day.”

  “What if you got shot? You know, with a bullet?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll probably be able to survive that soon if not already.”

  “Could you survive a fall from up there?” she says, pointing to the top balcony some fifty stories up.

  “Not yet, I don’t think. Soon maybe.”

  “Do you think you’ll be immortal?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think you’ll
go and find another woman, one who’s better looking than me and doesn’t ask all these questions?”

  I smile. So that’s what this is all about.

  “Honey,” I say. “I want only you.”

  It’s true. I could take and fuck any woman in this restaurant. In this city. But I love Rose. The two times I’ve messed around on her since all this began were emotionless conquests, like games, just to see if I could. But the games were too easy. By the second one, there was no challenge. And there was certainly no feeling, no love.

  I take Rose’s hand and wish I could will her to look at me like I could anyone else.

  “Baby,” I say. “I don’t want things to be like they used to. But I want us to be like we used to be. I want to lay on the couch all day and watch TV. I want to have kids, raise a family. I want—”

  “I have to go to the restroom,” Rose says, standing quickly.

  She takes her purse and walks away.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say.

  I want to punch the table, but I might split it in half. The waiter approaches.

  Get the fuck away! I say with my mind. He stops and does an about-face. I take a deep breath, exhale. I feel better. I stand.

  “How y’all doing?” I say to the next table.

  There are two couples. Young. Good looking.

  “Great,” they say, almost in unison. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I say, smiling.

  I am not controlling their minds. But they love me. I walk through the restaurant. I say hi. The people are exuberant. They want to talk. They want to love me. I am a celebrity, a star athlete, a super hero. And this is all just me. I’m not forcing their minds to think a certain way. I’m not twisting their arms behind their backs. I could do both. But I don’t have to.

  I approach a table where a waitress is taking a couple’s order.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling.

  She is pretty.

  “I think this nice couple would like you to dance for them,” I say.

  “What?” she says, confused.

  Dance, I think toward her.

  “Oh,” she says, and begins jumping around, moving her hips and her arms. There is no music, but she dances as if there is.