by Lucas Flint
“There it is,” said Adams, who I hadn’t heard walk up to my side. “The Rubbermobile itself, custom-made according to Mr. Pullman’s specifications.”
I looked at Adams eagerly. “Can I drive it?”
“No,” said Adams. “Remember what I told you before?”
“Okay, but can I at least sit in it?” I said. I patted my suit. “I’m pretty clean, so I won’t dirty the seats or anything.”
“No,” said Adams. “Mr. Pullman was very clear that you are only allowed to look at the Rubbermobile and ask questions about it. You can’t even touch it.”
“Why?” I said. “Would that really hurt anything?”
“The Rubbermobile is the company car, essentially,” said Adams. “It is very expensive to maintain and cannot be easily replaced if it is wrecked or damaged. We wouldn’t even have it at all if Mr. Pullman didn’t need it; as it is, it is his most reliable form of long-term transportation and has been helpful in getting him to crime scenes in a reasonable amount of time.”
“Cool,” I said. “How fast does it go?”
“It can go up to two hundred miles per hour,” said Adams. “Sometimes even faster, although Mr. Pullman has never tried to push its speed beyond that level.”
“Two hundred—?” I couldn’t even finish that sentence. “That’s practically as fast as a race car.”
“Indeed,” said Adams. “In fact, Mr. Pullman ordered his car from the same people who make NASCAR race cars, although he had a trusted mechanic alter it a bit to make it more suitable for fighting crime.”
“You mean that thing is street legal?” I said.
“Yes,” said Adams. “He had to get a special permit from the government for it, but the Rubbermobile is as legal as any other car out there. He does have to be careful, though, because the roads are not designed for such a fast car.”
“Does he ever race in actual races with it?” I said in excitement.
“No, although he has been looking into NASCAR sponsorships,” said Adams. “Some superheros do quite well with them, although Mr. Pullman does not want the Rubbermobile to be used for anything other than crime fighting.”
“Does it have any merch based off of it?” I said.
“Almost as much as Rubberman himself,” said Adams. “There was a series of collectible race cars released a few years back and the Rubbermobile was one of them as a special collector’s item. It is quite popular, especially among young boys and men your age.”
“Can I go down and see it up close?” I said.
“Yes, but be careful not to touch it,” said Adams. “Mr. Pullman would be quite displeased if you scratched it.”
I was already halfway down the stairs to the bottom floor even before Adams finished speaking. I jumped the last few steps and raced over to the Rubbermobile. Up close, it was even cooler, although I stopped a few feet away from it in reverence. It was even shinier up close, if that was possible, and I could see my reflection in the windows so clearly that it was like staring into a mirror, albeit a tinted one. I carefully walked around the car, looking at every inch of its beautiful form. I didn’t touch it, just as Adams told me, but it was hard to resist the temptation to run my finger along its shiny surface. I could just imagine how smooth it would feel. It made me jealous.
I looked up at Adams suddenly. “How much did it cost?”
Adams—who was still walking down the stairs, the slowpoke—shouted back down at me, “More money than you’ll earn working three minimum wage jobs full-time for a year without breaks.”
I looked at the Rubbermobile again, feeling slightly crushed by that answer. I figured that it was well outside of my price range, but I had been kind of hoping that my first car would be like the Rubbermobile. Driving a car like the Rubbermobile would get Greta’s attention for sure; for that matter, it would probably get me the attention of every other girl not just in my school, but in the entire city, too. Guess I’d just have to settle with whatever I could save up for.
“Is this all that is on Level Two, Adams?” I said, turning to look at the old butler as he finally reached the bottom of the steps.
“This is it,” said Adams, gesturing at the rest of the chamber. “Aside from the Rubbermobile, we have plenty of extra tires, oil, windows, and various other spare parts to replace any broken or damaged parts on the car. Most maintenance is done in Level Two itself.”
“Really?” I said. “Do you do the maintenance?”
“Some of it,” said Adams, “mostly the basic things. For more advanced problems, Mr. Pullman has a trusted mechanic who he calls up to come and work on it when necessary.”
“You don’t take it to a shop?” I said.
“Of course not,” said Adams. “The Rubbermobile is a one of a kind vehicle. Mr. Pullman does not want its secrets known to the wider world, because there are plenty of other superheroes who want to copy his secrets and that includes the Rubbermobile. The mechanic, Mr. Jameson, is an old friend of Mr. Pullman’s, which is why he is one of the few people who does not work for Mr. Pullman or the government who is allowed to come into the Elastic Cave.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “But how does it get to the surface?”
Adams gestured at the huge round doors I’d noticed earlier. “Those doors lead to a tunnel that is connected to an abandoned building from which the Rubbermobile emerges. That particular entrance is secret, known only to a few people, but even if it was known, the doors are made of titanium steel, meaning that it would take an absurd amount of power to even dent it.”
I nodded, but then a question occurred to me. “Adams, Rubberman took the Rubbermobile when he went to fight Fro-Zen, right?”
“That’s correct,” said Adams.
“Then how did the Rubbermobile get back here?” I said. “Did you drive it?”
“It drove itself back,” said Adams. “That is the biggest secret of the Rubbermobile: It has a basic AI that allows it to drive itself around, which includes dodging obstacles, changing route in response to blockades or other problems, and so on.”
“Really?” I said in surprise. “You mean Rubberman doesn’t have to drive it?”
“He still does,” said Adams. “It simply has two modes: Automatic, which is where the AI takes control, and manual, which is when Rubberman is driving it. But the AI can activate in case of emergency; for example, if Rubberman is knocked unconscious, the AI will kick in and make sure that the Rubbermobile does not crash.”
“It’s even cooler than I thought,” I said. “Where did the AI come from?”
“That’s not important,” said Adams. “But you shouldn’t expect the AI to do everything for you. It is technically only programmed to keep the car on the road and return to base; otherwise, it can’t do anything else and is certainly not a miracle machine.”
“Even with those limitations, it’s still awesome,” I said. “I wish I had an automated car.”
“Very few superheroes do, since the technology is still very new,” said Adams. “But Mr. Pullman believes that automated cars are going to be the next big trend in the superhero industry, so, as usual, he wants to be ahead of the game before anyone even knows that there is a game to be played.”
“Does that mean sidekicks will get one, too?” I said.
“Don’t push your luck,” said Adams. “The Rubbermobile is very expensive. Getting another car, even a cheaper one, would just be another unnecessary expense; besides, the Rubbermobile can seat four people, so chances are Mr. Pullman will let you ride with him at some point anyway.”
“What about a motorcycle?” I said. “I’ve never driven a motorcycle before, but they’re really cool and it could probably be made into a toy or something like that if he wants to make money off it.”
“Motorcycles were a big thing among superheroes in the nineties, but they died out in the early oughts, so I doubt Mr. Pullman will bother to buy you a motorcycle,” said Adams, waving off my idea like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.
“Aw, come on,” I said. “It could be awesome. It could be called the Beamscycle or the Eyebike.”
Adams just stared at me like I was an idiot. “I now see why Mr. Pullman has never asked for your opinion on branding.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Adams. “Anyway, I’ve shown you the Rubbermobile, so I think that it is time for us to go back to Level One.”
“What? Why?” I said. “Isn’t there anything else down here you can show me?”
“There’s really not much else, aside from the storage rooms where the extra tires and the like are kept and the laundry room,” said Adams. “Besides, your shift is nearly over, and Mr. Pullman was clear on making sure that you do not stay longer than you need. He doesn’t want to pay you overtime.”
I frowned, but said, “Okay, but what about Level Three? You mentioned that the Elastic Cave has three levels when I first came to work here. What’s on Level Three?”
“Nothing you need to see,” said Adams abruptly. “It goes mostly unused; besides, only Mr. Pullman has access to Level Three. It requires a password to enter in the elevator’s control panel, a password even I don’t have, so I couldn’t take you down there even if I wanted.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Because Level Three sounds pretty interesting.”
“I am quite sure,” said Adams. He turned around. “Now, follow me back to the elevator. I have only a couple more things for you to do and I would like to get them done before you end your shift for the day. Mr. Pullman would be quite displeased if he learned that some of your responsibilities went undone while he was in the hospital.”
I nodded, but then glanced at the Rubbermobile. I wondered if Fro-Zen had driven in it with Rubberman before he became evil. I also wondered if I should bring up what I learned about Fro-Zen or not to Adams, but decided against it. For now, I would just go and do whatever work Adams wanted me to do and then I would leave and go home in time for dinner. Perhaps I’d ask Rubberman about Fro-Zen later, when he got back from the hospital.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The rest of the week was pretty uneventful, all things considered. I fell into a stable routine: Get up, go to school, go to work afterward, and then come home, eat dinner, and go to sleep. I always came home from work very tired, so tired that I couldn’t do much more other than eat dinner and go to sleep afterward, which helped me understand why Dad always seemed so tired whenever he came home from work.
Adams continued my training sessions with me, because Rubberman was still in the hospital recovering from his fight with Fro-Zen. Adams must have been a good teacher, because his guidance helped me to become more and more efficient at controlling my powers. I even got to the point where I could make a small laser beam that could cut small holes in things; however, my accuracy was still not quite as good as it could be, because I kept missing the center of the targets we used for practice, plus the concentration required to focus my eye beams was difficult to achieve. Still, I was no longer afraid of losing control over my powers, although I always felt a bit nervous whenever I used them.
As for Rubberman, he was apparently recovering very quickly, much more quickly than the doctors first assumed he would, and so there was a chance that he might be back in the Elastic Cave by next week. I still wasn’t allowed to visit him; however, I did get to talk to him on the phone once. He told me that he was glad to hear that my training was going well and that he was going to have a special assignment for me when he got back from the hospital. He didn’t go into detail about what it would entail, but he told me that I would probably enjoy it. I figured that Rubberman was going to teach me how to use the Rubbermobile; that was probably more wishful thinking than anything, but hey, what’s so wrong with that?
There was no news of Fro-Zen’s whereabouts at all during the week. I should know, because I set up an alert system on my phone to send me any news articles or reports about any sightings of Fro-Zen online. I kept track of him not because I wanted to fight him, but because I wanted to make sure he didn’t come after me. It seemed unlikely that Fro-Zen would try to get me, considering how he still didn’t know I even existed, but better to be safe than sorry, in my opinion.
I also resumed my research into Fro-Zen’s past with Rubberman, but there were frustratingly few articles about what caused their falling out. The most I could find was a gossip article from 2013 that theorized that Fro-Zen had been brainwashed by the government in some sort of attempt to discredit sidekicks and push for the criminalization of that profession, but that article had no real facts in it, just the writer’s opinion. Another article, written a year later, claimed that Fro-Zen and Rubberman had been gay lovers who had had a lover’s spat after Rubberman cheated on Fro-Zen with a gay escort, although that article had even less facts than the government brainwashing one.
It seemed like no one knew for sure what caused Fro-Zen to become a supervillain. I shouldn’t have been surprised; given how secretive Rubberman was, it made sense that he would make sure that private information like this would not be leaked to the public. I did find it odd that Fro-Zen apparently never bothered to tell anyone why he went crazy, even after he was arrested. All of the articles written about Fro-Zen’s court trial made it sound like Fro-Zen was completely silent during his trial, even to the point of refusing to answer questions from the judge. That’s probably why he ended up going to jail, although one article stated that Fro-Zen broke out of custody, before he could be officially put behind bars, and disappeared after that.
It was clear, from my research, that Fro-Zen had vanished off the face of the Earth after escaping custody. There were no articles about what he was doing between the time he broke out of custody and the time he came back to Golden City. My guess was that he went into hiding, laid low for a while to avoid being arrested again, although that didn’t explain why he reappeared out of nowhere recently. Maybe he was trying to get revenge on Rubberman, but if so, why wait so long? Clearly, Fro-Zen had a plan, although what that plan entailed and what its ultimate goal was (aside from killing Rubberman, of course), I didn’t know.
In any case, I was quite glad when Saturday rolled around, because that meant I didn’t have to go to work. Oh, I was enjoying my job all right, but I was starting to get too obsessed with researching Fro-Zen, so I wanted to take my mind off things for a while. Frank and I decided to hang out on Saturday by going to the Golden City Park, which had since been cleaned of the ice that had covered a large portion of it after Fro-Zen’s attack. It had been a while since I last went to the park, so I thought it was just the thing I’d need after a long week cooped up underground or inside my classroom (which often felt like being trapped underground).
On Saturday morning, Frank and I sat on a park bench, eating hot dogs that we’d bought from the hot dog vendor who based his business in the park. There weren’t too many people in the park today; the hot dog vendor told us that Fro-Zen’s attack on the park had caused attendance to collapse, although he was confident that people would start coming back, because there had been a similar clash between Rubberman and another supervillain here about a year ago that had caused a similar collapse in attendance only for attendance levels to snap back to normal just a few weeks later. I vaguely recalled hearing about that battle, but I decided not to think about it. I just wanted to focus on hanging out with Frank and taking it easy for the day.
“So,” said Frank between mouthfuls of hot dog, “my sister told me to get out of her room and never come back. She didn’t even let me grab my stuffed possum. I found it outside the window of her room later, though, and it was just a little dirty, so I wasn’t too angry about it.”
I nodded. I had been listening to Frank tell me a weird story about him and his sister that happened yesterday. I didn’t quite understand all of it, however, so I said, “And where did you get the stuffed possum from again?”
“I won it when my family went to Disney World last year,”
said Frank. “Remember? It was in a crane game. First time I ever won a crane game prize.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. I forgot about that. I thought you’d gotten rid of that thing at some point.”
“I would never get rid of Mr. Possum,” Frank said in a solemn tone. “He’s one of my best friends, just like you.”
“Um …” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I took another bite out of my hot dog to avoid having to answer.
“Anyway, where do you keep running off to after school?” said Frank.
I almost choked on my hot dog, but managed to swallow it, although it hurt and caused my eyes to water. I looked at Frank through watery eyes. “What?”
“Every day after school, you’re almost always the first one out,” said Frank. “And you don’t go home, because you don’t go back in the direction of your house. So what are you doing?”
I gulped. I always made sure that no one followed me whenever I went to the Elastic Cave, but I had hoped that Frank wouldn’t notice that I never went directly back home after school. But I couldn’t just tell him that I was a sidekick; if he knew, I would get my license revoked and I wouldn’t be able to be a sidekick anymore. I hadn’t expected him to just ask me about where I go up front like this, though.
“Uh, well, you see, I actually do go home every day,” I said. “I just, er, take a different route back home than I do in the morning.”
“Really?” said Frank. “Is it a short cut?”
“Yeah,” I said, perhaps a bit more quickly than I should have. “I mean, it’s short from the school to home, but it isn’t from home to school.”
That sounded really stupid and probably made me look like an idiot, but Frank, thankfully, just nodded and said, “Oh, okay. I thought you went off to see a girl or something.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And anyway, you know I like Greta.”
“But you still haven’t asked her out,” Frank pointed out. “Got any plans for doing that?”