The Good Fight 4: Homefront

by Ian Thomas Healy

  * * *

  I switched on the radio and sat quietly on the edge of a chair and listened as a reporter described the events unfolding downtown.

  “-dies and gentlemen, it’s some kind of giant . . . mechanical monster, stalking down Forty-Seventh Street! The sheer size of it . . . it must be at least thirty feet tall!”

  In the background, I could hear rumbling sounds of destruction, punctuated by the whine of electric motors, the hiss of steam, and a ponderous rhythmic thumping that had to be footsteps.

  “It looks like a dinosaur, with steel pincers for arms. Oh my . . . it’s stopping in front of a building and . . . Ladies and gentlemen, it has just picked up an automobile and thrown it like an empty can. Diamond merchants are frantically gathering up their stock and fleeing for their lives.”

  I realized with a start that this monstrosity was attacking the diamond district. It was a single block where merchants traded the precious stones, dealing in amounts of money so large I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  “I see something in the sky. It’s Lady Athena, flying this way. That means the rest of American Justice can’t be far behind. Yes, there is Colt, running up Fifth Avenue, followed by a car driven by Dr. Danger and escorted by motorcycle policemen!”

  Even though I knew what to expect, to hear about the people I’d just met going into action excited me and made my heart pound. And underneath that excitement, I discovered fear as well; fear that something might happen to one of them.

  I hadn’t had to deal with that fear much since I began to date Athena, simply because there hadn’t been much need for American Justice in their capacity as superheroes. They’d made a few public appearances and halted a few mundane crimes, but nothing that couldn’t have been handled by regular police. This time was different, though, and I found myself afraid for her.

  The radio newsman went on to describe a fast-paced, confused battle, punctuated by loud crashes and bursts of static. American Justice divided itself into two groups; some attacked the infernal machine and the rest moved civilians to safety.

  Athena, Kid Crash, and Dr. Danger battled the monstrosity, each in their own way. Dr. Danger shot forked arrows at it to slice through its hydraulic lines and wiring. Kid Crash used his explosive powers to shatter the thing’s armor. Athena dug her spear into the machinery, which ruined motors and stripped gears. Between the three of them, they made short work of the giant mechanical creature.

  While they fought, Flashpoint, Colt, the White Knight, and John Q. Public helped get the civilians to safety. Every few sentences, the reporter managed to slip one in about the other heroes bravely saving innocent lives.

  “But wait, what’s this?” cried the reporter. “A man is running across the street, holding a case. Another man is chasing him . . . It’s John Q. Public, calling for him to stop, thief! He must have stolen somebody’s diamonds! The man stops and turns . . . Is he surrendering? No, he’s got a gun! Watch out, John Q.!”

  A gunshot sounded clearly from the radio speaker.

  * * *

  It was stiflingly hot the day we buried John Q. Public. He’d sold his life for the sum of eight thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds. He wasn’t the first member of American Justice to have lost his life in the line of duty, but it had been two years since Apollo and Flicker bought it, and only Flashpoint and Colt had been on the team that long.

  The Tyrant had been behind the monster machine attack. A brilliant scientist and criminal mastermind, he’d built it solely as a diversion. While it raged through the Diamond District, attracting police and American Justice, he and his cronies had quietly gassed a wing in the art museum, leaving two hundred patrons suffering the aftereffects of the induced unconsciousness. Then they had carefully removed several paintings worth a combined total of two million dollars.

  There had been a great hue and cry, and people were calling for American Justice to disband in the wake of such an embarrassment. Speculation ran rampant that American Justice had somehow been involved in the heist. The FBI announced an investigation of the team. A seemingly never-ending flow of faceless men in dark suits and hats asked pointed questions of anyone connected to the team.

  Athena did her best to shield me from such attention, but short of locking me inside the team’s headquarters, it was a practical impossibility. Even I was eventually cornered in a room at the bank by three G-Men and questioned mercilessly for almost three hours about American Justice. My boss, Mr. Jackson, had been looking at me funny ever since and I was afraid I was going to lose my job.

  But all that seemed far away as the casket containing the mortal remains of a man known only as John Q. Public were lowered into a hillside grave. Besides American Justice, there were maybe another fifteen graveside mourners. I assumed they were Public’s family or friends. None of them spoke to us.

  The pastor finished speaking his words. We each tossed a rose upon the casket and said goodbye in our own ways. Then the group broke up. Public’s other mourners hurried away as if they were afraid to be seen in the tarnished company of American Justice. The other heroes had worn dark suits, as had I, but Athena had dressed in her costume. She’d chosen to replace her helmet and red cloak with a hooded cloak of black velvet.

  “Walk with me, Stan,” said Athena quietly.

  Despite the heat, it was a beautiful morning. Birds sang in the trees, bees zipped between the gravestones and looked for flowers. The peace of the hero’s final repose made me think about my own mortality, and that I’d sure like to be buried in a place just like this.

  We walked across the carefully-mowed grass, around trees and gravestones, and eventually wound up atop a small hill where a slight breeze moved Athena’s cloak around her ankles.

  Not a word had passed between us since she bade me join her, but now Athena turned to face me, and the sight of tears in her eyes frightened me. I never thought I’d see such a human response from the woman I thought of as a goddess. I held out my arms. She slipped into them and buried her face against my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I just held her, and we stood that way for a long time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as she finally stood back and wiped a last errant tear from one eye. “I never had a chance to really meet him, but he seemed a decent fellow.”

  “Oh, he was,” replied Athena. “You’d have gotten along famously. That’s just how he was. He could make friends with anybody.” I offered her my handkerchief but she declined and drew herself up a little straighter. “We need to talk, Stan.”

  Something in the tone of her voice scared me. “About what?” I asked guardedly.

  “About us. You and I,” she replied.

  My heart hammered in my chest so hard I’m sure she could hear it.

  She turned away from me for a moment, took a breath as if she was going to speak, but then faced me once more. “Stan, I love you.”

  Suddenly it felt like I was being lifted into the air by a thousand balloons. I smiled back at her, and felt in my pocket for the little velvet-wrapped box that held the ring I’d purchased two days ago. “I love you too, Athena.”

  “And that’s why it’s so hard for me to say we can’t see each other any more.”

  As quickly as my spirits had lifted, the balloons all popped and hurled me back to the hard earth. The box fell from my nerveless fingers to nestle back in my pocket. “W-what?”

  Her face drew into a frown. “Bad times are coming, Stan. A storm is growing on the horizon. It’s going to swallow up American Justice and anyone associated with us.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, and meant it. “Athena . . . you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t want that to end. Especially not like this.”

  “Oh, Stan,” she said. “I can’t let you be pulled into this. You’re a wonderful person and I care about you so much. But this . . . this can’t work between us. I don’t ever want you to be waiting for me to come back from a mission and then I don’t. You deserve better than tha
t.”

  “I don’t care,” I repeated doggedly. “I love you now. I want to stay with you for the rest of forever.”

  She sighed, looking at her hands. “I always wondered why these powers came to me,” she said. “And at times I have cursed them, wishing I could be done with them. This is one of those times.” She raised her head. “But I can’t be done with them, Stan. They’re part of me, and I have to use them to do what I can to help people. It’s the only way I can sleep at night.” Her eyes dipped down to my pocket just for a fraction of a second, but in that moment I realized she knew about the ring. “And I had to tell you this before things go any further. I wish it could be different, but it can’t.”

  I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream and shout and break things, but instead I just bowed my head. “I understand,” I said. And in a way, I did understand perfectly why she’d come to this decision.

  “I’ll never forget you, Stan. You made me feel so . . . special.”

  “You are special,” I said. “You’re a superhero.”

  She shook her head. “That’s just my job. You made me feel good about everything not part of my job. Thank you, Stan. I’ll always love you.”

  She turned away. Tears tracked down her cheeks once more. The scent of rose petals filled my head as wind swirled around her cloak to fill it. She flew away from me one last time, a departing vision in crimson and black. “I’ll always love you too, Athena,” I whispered as she left me forever.

  I am an old man. But once, I was much younger, and held the heart of a goddess.

  -~o~-

  Ian Thomas Healy dabbles in many different genres. He’s a thirteen-time participant and winner of National Novel Writing Month and is also the creator of the Writing Better Action Through Cinematic Techniques workshop, which helps writers to improve their action scenes.

  When not writing, which is rare, he enjoys watching hockey, reading comic books (and serious books, too), and living in the great state of Colorado, which he shares with his wife, children, house-pets, and approximately five million other people.

  Visit www.ianthealy.com for more information.

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  Family Reunion: A Tale of the Second Life of D.B. Cooper

  Nicholas Ahlhelm

  The sun crept down towards the edge of the sky, but it offered no relief to Coop. Key West in July stayed hot and muggy on the constant. Years ago, it didn’t bother him. Now it just made him feel old and tired.

  Probably because I am old and tired.

  His back and knees ached. His gut was flabby. He could still run a mile in under seven minutes, but he couldn’t maintain the shape he once kept easily. The worst was the wrinkles. His laugh lines didn’t leave the area around his eyes. He was a far cry from his prime.

  Only on the open ocean did the aches and pains seem to wash away. Away from the Keys and any “old friends” interested in using his talents. Too many visits and too much trouble. He doubted he would survive many more.

  He could sit out here in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and no one cared. He could fish, but he didn’t often. Seemed like too much work.

  As the sun dipped towards the horizon, he knew his day on the water was at its end. He stood up, folded the lawn chair he sat on and walked back to the controls. Some nights he slept out on the ocean, but not tonight.

  Tonight he had a date.

  Isobel came from Cuba as a toddler but still spoke like an extra from Scarface. Stacked to the gills, she was almost half his age. But she clearly saw his charm, so it worked out all right. He could even stand her nine-year-old and he hated kids.

  Yep. I’m definitely old. Ready to settle down. Grigori would laugh if he could see me now.

  The boat cut through the water with ease. It was built to go fast, but Coop rarely pushed it. If he ever needed a quick getaway, he knew he had it.

  He pulled into the private dock he shared with a row of properties on the oceanfront. The other six docks were already full and the place was quiet.

  He shut off the boat lights and the dim lights on the dock were the only light as the sun disappeared. Key West was never dark nor quiet, but he saw no one else around. It was rare to see the beach this deserted. But the other boats were all quiet and everyone else was probably out on the town. Wasn’t like the Keys didn’t have a thousand ways to pass the time.

  He started to tie the boat down. As he stepped onto the dock, he heard more footsteps than just his own. Most people on the Keys wore sandals, sneakers or no shoes at all. He could hear the sharp click as their loafers hit the wood.

  “Mister Coop, we would like to have a word with you.”

  Coop continued to tie the ropes as if nothing strange was going on. But these guys were clearly not locals. He turned and took a quick study of the three of them. They all wore black suits with visible bulges. From the accent of the speaker, he guessed they were Japanese. Probably Yakuza. Not exactly his normal visitors.

  “It’s just Coop. Not sure if I know any of you fellas. I’ve been out all day. Mostly want to get home and get some shut-eye.”

  “I apologize, but we must insist. We wish to have the girl returned to us.

  The Yakuza drew closer to him. They weren’t afraid of a fight. Probably thought a past-fifty beach bum wasn’t much of a threat.

  Sure hope Isobel is late tonight.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen. But I’m single and too old for girls. I got a few women’s names in my pocketbook but you will have to be a bit more specific.”

  Talky turned to his friends. He shouted a quick command in Japanese. Probably didn’t know Stargate uploaded dozens of languages into his noggin years ago.

  “Search the boat.”

  The two men moved toward him, their leader a few steps behind. Coop stepped forward to cut them off. He suddenly found himself staring down the barrels of two DP51s.

  “Come on now, guys. No need to get crazy. I don’t know this girl and you don’t need to touch my boat.”

  They stopped in their tracks and lowered their weapons. They turned back to the leader. “We don’t need to look,” one of them said in Japanese. “There’s nothing on the boat.”

  The muscle was surprisingly easy to nudge.

  “I’m not paying you to think. Just get in there!”

  Too out of practice. Apparently can’t nudge all three of them.

  “Come on,” Coop said. He pushed into their minds as he spoke. “Let’s end this. No one needs to get hurt. Please drop your guns.”

  The thugs next to him dropped their pistols to the stand. He turned towards their boss before Talky could react.

  A solid right to the jaw made sure Talky wouldn’t say much else for awhile. He felt the bone break beneath his hand, but his hand screamed in pain with the impact.

  He pushed away the pain and turned to the two unarmed men. They moved to tackle him faster than he thought they would shrug off his command.

  “Slow it down.”

  It was hard to nudge someone multiple times and this clearly didn’t work as well as his last two commands. They moved a little slower, but they were still on him and ready to beat him to a pulp.

  He hit the closest with a palm strike to the chest. The blow staggered but didn’t drop the Yakuza. Coop used the free second to turn and drive a swinging elbow into the jaw of his compatriot. Unlike his friend, he dropped hard to the ground.

  The other Yakuza shook off his stunned silence and came back after Coop. A knife appeared in his hand. It glimmered under the artificial light on the pier as Coop narrowly sidestepped a strike. Coop fell back a couple steps and watched the man move. He was close to normal speed now. Coop knew his tired body couldn’t last against a much younger fighter with a knife very long.

  He did the only thing he could do. He charged straight for the Yakuza and barreled into him like a linebacker for the Dolphins. The move caught the gangster off guard and sent them both tumbling down off the wooden pier and into the sand. The knife
flew loose into the air and clattered somewhere behind them.

  Coop didn’t let up his assault. He kept himself tied up close to the Yakuza. From this position, he could rain elbow strikes down upon his attacker’s jaw. Seconds later, the Yakuza was old cold with a broken jaw. Coop was sore and breathing hard, but still alive.

  I’m getting too old for this.

  As Coop stumbled back upright, he saw Talky was back on his feet. And he held his gun drawn on Coop.

  Coop stared down the barrel, sure this was the last fight of his life. But instead of shooting him, the Yakuza just crumpled forward.

  His gun clattered across the wooden pier moments before Talky struck the walk with a loud thunk. The knife of his compatriot rose like a stalagmite out of his back.

  Another shadow stood behind Talky. It was a woman, but the dark seemed to cloak her in shadows.

  “Isobel?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” She stepped forward into the light. She couldn’t have been over twenty. Her skin was a soft mocha, her hair hanging in dark curls around her face. Her features were strangely familiar, but Coop couldn’t quite place from where.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Divina. And I’m your daughter, Coop.”

  * * *

  Even as he walked with her back to his house, Coop couldn’t quite process the girl’s words. Not yet. His immediate concern was three Yakuza corpses rotting on his dock. Fortunately, twenty-five years of semi-official life in the Keys gave him an array of contacts for less savory sorts of business.

  Rick—“Just Rick” to his friends and enemies alike—ran a treasure hunting business from his boat. It served as a good cover for the more criminal enterprises that kept him earning a good living without ferrying tourists over the water. For a few thousand dollars, he would dispose of bodies out in the Atlantic waters, far from where they would ever be seen again.