The Supervillain High Boxed Set: Books One - Three of the Supervillain High Series

by Gerhard Gehrke

  The camera vantage point changed, and the quality of the image improved from the bank feed. The news agency now had footage from outside the bank and relatively close, either taken from a news drone or in a zoomed shot from across the street.

  More of Drone King’s flying machines appeared above the heads of the kneeling hostages. Each was the size of a small bird and was equipped with four rotors that allowed finesse in maneuvering. They crowded together at the front door until something happened that shattered the glass into a cascade of white pebbles.

  “Gunshot?” the big kid in front asked.

  “No, a drone touched the glass,” Poser said. “They must be equipped with—”

  Tina shushed him.

  “This is a rerun from earlier.”

  Several people joined in the shushing, one adding “Shut up.”

  The police shouted for Drone King to surrender. The drones flew single file through the shattered door and spread into a line just outside. Then they belched out some kind of gas. Soon the front of the bank was shrouded with white smoke.

  “Think it’s weaponized?” Tina asked.

  “Doubt it,” Brendan said, although he couldn’t say for certain. “He’s never used poison gas before.”

  “For someone who wants the channel changed, you know your supers.”

  Someone else shushed her and said, “Look!”

  “We’re in for a treat, Linda,” Dale said excitedly. “This is an afternoon that will make this year’s top ten showdowns.”

  The spreading mist swirled towards the police line. The cops pulled their people away to the opposite side of the street. Then something or someone descended from the sky into the cloud of smoke. The student lounge erupted in shouts: “Ooh!” “All right!” “Fight!” The camera shot went in tight on the newcomer while the news anchors babbled in incomplete sentences, reminding Brendan of his aunts saying their rosaries. Having finished their task, the smoke-spitting drones shot forward and vanished into the mist.

  Brendan groaned.

  An object flew out of the cloud, followed by another. The camera missed it at first, but then a digitally stabilized shot provided clarity. Two drones—or rather, their crumpled remains—went flying towards the bank. A tight zoom-in followed a third object, metallic, crumpled, and sailing up like a fly ball. It soon fell and bounced off a cop car. As the cloud dispersed, the rest of the wrecked drones were revealed. A tall figure stood there for a moment before approaching the bank. The air was clear enough to see the white, tight suit spun onto the muscular form of Silver Eagle. The hostages’ fear became elation as they pointed at their savior.

  “Boo,” Tina shouted at the screen, and a couple of kids laughed and joined in the jeer.

  Brendan wanted to hide, cry, or telepathically ask his father to allow him a shred of dignity by surrendering. But he had no idea how this confrontation had turned out, if his father had escaped, or was arrested or dead. He stood transfixed.

  Silver Eagle now stood a few paces away from Drone King, who waited just inside the bank’s front door. The villain in purple flung a weapon at Silver Eagle, which the hero caught and smashed on the floor. Then the hero gestured expansively.

  “We apologize, but we weren’t able to get audio,” Dale said.

  Whatever Silver Eagle said had an effect. The bank hostages dove to the floor or scrambled away, a few making it out the side door past Sir Duke’s unconscious body. A half dozen more of the small drones appeared behind Drone King. Different perspectives cut in from the interior bank cameras before the footage paused to identify Silver Eagle and give his bio and history. Then the entire scene rewound for the hero’s entrance from a new perspective, from footage that might have been taken by one of the hostages. Again, it was clear the hero was talking.

  “What’s he saying?” Poser asked.

  “Turn it up,” the big kid in the front said.

  Someone did, but it only increased the volume of the newsreaders’ chatter. Little of the street noise made it past, and nothing could be heard from within the bank.

  “Oh god, it’s a monologue!” Tina said. “How cheesy.”

  “And Drone King is letting him give it,” said Brendan.

  The last traces of the smokescreen scattered. The purple-clad robber stood motionless as Silver Eagle demanded surrender, or recited poetry for all Brendan could tell. Then Drone King’s right hand moved. A small gesture, hard to see, but distinct. Brendan had researched his father’s technology, piecing together data on the equipment he had used throughout his career as Drone King. His dad had several remotes built into his costume, including his gloves, all part of a suite of control devices that complemented the drones’ programmed recognition of his dad’s voice and eye movements. But the drones floating in formation behind him didn’t move. Something else was coming.

  Descending vertically in front of the bank and just behind Silver Eagle came a large octo-rotor drone the size of a motorcycle. Wind kicked up underneath it. It had something like a bazooka slung to a fixed undercarriage.

  “Yeah! Yeah!” the big kid shouted, and the rest of the lounge cheered.

  On screen, Dale was nearly hysterical. “Is that a weapon of some kind? What are we seeing? Do we have stats on that drone, or is this something new?”

  The weapon fired. There was a flash and a noise, and the recoil pushed the large drone back towards the police cars.

  The weapon’s projectile was the object in motion. Silver Eagle was the object at rest. The impact played three times through at slower speeds as the anchors aahhed and the students oohhed. The hero got blasted forward off his feet. Unfortunately, Drone King was standing directly in Silver Eagle’s path. A cloud of dust erupted where Drone King had been standing. The remaining hostages fled. And the footage paused.

  Dale said, “We’ll remind our audience that this program contains violence and graphic images not suitable for young children.”

  A commercial began for a prescription laxative that doubled as a weight-loss drug.

  “Come on!” Tina shouted.

  Poser made a hand-waving gesture towards the screen. “Well, this is important too, you know.”

  Brendan checked his phone. Still no cell signal. The commercials marched along at an ever-increasing volume, and the students in the lounge pulled up their phones and tablets while they waited.

  “I know you,” Tina shouted in Brendan’s ear.

  Someone mercifully turned the volume down on the television.

  “Tina, this is my neighbor,” Poser said.

  “Yeah,” Tina said. “We share a couple of classes.”

  Brendan smiled at her, unsure what to say. She dug into the pocket of her vest, pulled out a roll of fruit candy, and popped one into her mouth.

  “Genuine personal interest usually works best,” she said.

  “Sorry, I’m just…my head’s still spinning. New school, people, away from family.”

  “Don’t let it fool you. Everyone else here feels the same way, at least the other freshmen. All the extroversion you see is just for show. Except for Poser. He was excitable before leaving his mother’s womb.”

  “Bouncy from the get-go,” Poser said.

  “Did you two know—” Brendan began, but Tina pointed at the TV. The sound was turned up again.

  “We’re back,” Dale said. “We still can only speculate what the weapon is that Drone King used on Silver Eagle. Early analysis tells us it’s some sort of slug thrower or concussion cannon. We have an expert in the studio who can give us some idea of what it is exactly.”

  The screen divided into three, split between the anchor, a goatee-wearing guest wearing spectacles, and a close-up of the big drone with the cannon. As they spoke, Brendan felt a surge of delight. If they were speculating on the weapon’s makeup, that meant it hadn’t been captured, didn’t it? Or had the police swept in after the action and taken everything—gadgets, cannon, and his father alike?

  “Get on with it,” Brendan said in a
low voice.

  “I know,” Tina said.

  Finally, the interview ended, and coverage of the afternoon’s events continued.

  The big drone had corrected itself after its weapon’s initial firing. The cops kept their heads down, but a few looked over their shoulders and off camera, perhaps up to a nearby building. One with a bullhorn made a rapid hand chopping gesture.

  The drone quivered. A spark flashed center-mass. The machine pivoted as a pair of its rotors went dead. A second spark exploded on its body, and dark debris puffed up from it like it had developed a blowhole. The thing listed sideways, corrected, then hung low against the ground.

  “Drone King’s machine is being hit by something,” Dale said. “It was struck by some weapon, some unseen force, perhaps something from Silver Eagle? Another hero? Can we cut to a shot of the rest of the street?”

  “Oh, it just got hit again,” Linda said.

  “Sniper?” the big kid asked.

  “Definitely,” Poser said. “Fifty cal. Can pierce an engine block.”

  “Something smaller,” Tina said. “Can’t chance the penetration on a big round like that with civilians nearby. Maybe even a sabot round.”

  With a fourth hit, the big bad drone gave up the ghost and flopped on the ground, the rotors shattering as they hit the asphalt.

  “Awww, so sad,” Poser said.

  Others agreed.

  Again came a round of anchor and expert commentary from the studio. Then the scene cut to a street-level shot of the police line, with one cop waving for the floating news camera to go back. The zoom steadied, showing the bank’s interior. Deposit slips and dust drifted in the air. Silver Eagle was leaning on an overturned desk. He held one hand to his nose. Blood flowed from both nostrils, through his fingers, and onto the floor.

  “What we’re seeing here is the limits of a bulletproof suit,” Linda said.

  A line of cops moved forward with shotguns and pistols, the man in front carrying a large black ballistic shield with a small window. They ignored Silver Eagle and checked to both sides and above as they entered.

  “And here is where we can resume our audio coverage,” Dale said.

  “...out with hands visible,” the cop with the bullhorn was saying. “Surrender, this is your final warning.” The policemen inside were shouting indistinctly.

  Silver Eagle held up a hand as if to say, “No, I’m fine,” but no one was offering to help him. He vomited.

  Drone King rose from behind a long counter and struggled to keep his balance. None of his drones were with him. He looked a bit worse for wear, his face blackened and sooty, his mask askew. He straightened it.

  “Both hands up!” a cop ordered.

  Drone King put a hand up to an ear and Brendan felt a jolt of fear. Maybe his father wasn’t trying to activate another device. Maybe he just couldn’t hear anything after that blast.

  Someone shot him.

  5. Missed Call

  Brendan’s stomach gave a squeeze. The noise of the television, the warm air inside the lounge, and the image of his father crumpling to the bank floor was all too much. He raced outside to find a place to throw up. Once he hit the fresh night air he coughed a few times. When nothing further happened, he sat down on a raised concrete curb. Poser and Tina followed.

  “Show’s not over,” Poser said.

  “Are you okay?” Tina asked. She crouched down next to him and put a hand on his back.

  Brendan nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “How much did you eat tonight at supper?” Poser asked.

  “It’s not that, Brian. I just needed some air.”

  “There’s a few minutes left on the program,” he said. “We’re going over to the Bean after. Why don’t you join us?”

  Brendan gave a noncommittal wave. Poser went back inside.

  “You can call him Poser,” Tina said. “Everyone else does. And deep down he’s a caring soul.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “I know. It was getting too hot in there anyway. Besides, I watched the whole thing when it went live. Had to do something to stay awake in biology. So are you coming?”

  “Where?”

  “The Bean.” Before he could ask, she elaborated. “One of the coffee shops just off campus. It’s a bit more rustic than Starbucks. Want to join me?”

  “Maybe another time. I just need a moment.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Tina left. Only later would it dawn on Brendan that he had just been asked out on his first date.

  ***

  Back in his room, he fell asleep searching for news on his father, having resigned himself to using the school Wi-Fi. Drone King had been taken to a city hospital and was in critical condition. A brief web search on what that nonspecific medical state meant didn’t comfort him, and the information trail went no further.

  When he woke up, his neck was stiff from being awkwardly propped up on his two pillows. He still wore the previous day’s clothing. The clock read 6:03 a.m. He forced himself to get up, plugged his phone in the charger, and went to shower. Class wouldn’t start until nine thirty, so he had some time.

  He only saw a couple of students outside, each walking briskly about their business. The morning had a frosty sting to it, as the desert air proved unexpectedly chilly when the sun wasn’t out. He walked off campus in search of any kind of signal.

  There wasn’t much to the town of Dutchman Springs. A few main streets had all the businesses, and a green belt circled the school campus, separating it from the residential areas. On the west side of town was the hyperloop station where train pods could be taken to multiple locations around California’s southern Central Valley. From here, he could jump off to Palm Desert, Bakersfield, or what was left of Los Angeles. The station also had its own Wi-Fi. A few people headed towards the turnstiles and the stairs to the departure platform. Brendan didn’t need to buy a ticket; he just wanted to get close enough for a signal. He checked his phone. No internet. The hyperloop Wi-Fi wasn’t showing up. Now it appeared that his phone had zero reception of any kind.

  “What the hell.”

  He held his phone higher, but it did little except make one passerby give Brendan a wider berth. He began wandering back towards school. He found a side street he hadn’t taken before. Behind a pet food outlet there was a beige stucco building with a simple green sign: a black bean with white lettering that read “The Bean.”

  The shop was empty, but the lights were on. He went inside.

  A steel counter with a register separated the six small tables and chairs from a copper-colored machine replete with pipes, valves, and gauges. The place smelled of coffee, an aroma he associated with his mother. She would get up at four in the morning, and the automatic pot would start just before her alarm went off.

  “Hello?” Brendan said.

  “Be right there.” A blue-turbaned young man with a short beard came out from a curtained back room. “Welcome to the Bean.”

  “This is going to sound like a dumb question, but what do you got?”

  “Not a dumb question. I haven’t put the board up. Today’s roast is a bright Indonesian bean with notes of pecan, dark chocolate, and molasses.”

  “You have Wi-Fi?”

  The owner’s face clouded.

  “I’ll, uh, take a small coffee,” Brendan said.

  “Coming right up.”

  The owner went to machine and began reaching for different valves. A hissing noise began to rise and a small plume of steam escaped a side port. Next came a gurgling sound. Brendan gave his debit card to the owner while a white coffee cup set under a dispenser slowly filled with black bubbly liquid. Transaction completed, the owner handed over the coffee.

  “The Wi-Fi is Champ’s Domain.”

  “Password?”

  “It’s soylentgreen1984. No caps.”

  Brendan took the cup and sat down. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, so he took a tentative sip first before getting on his phone.
r />   The molten black acid that touched his tongue forced him to spit the coffee back into the cup. Brendan rose and went to a back counter where among the sugar, milk urns, and napkins he found a water dispenser and a stack of paper cups. The owner didn’t comment as Brendan quenched what felt like a mouth full of blisters. He finally sat back down, the fire extinguished, but the pain in his mouth very much still alive. He eyed the cup warily.

  “Something to eat?” the owner asked as he hoisted a white board with menu items onto a pair of hooks.

  Brendan just shook his head. He checked his phone. He typed the password and tried to join the network. The network let him on. The internet didn’t.

  “Your internet is out.”

  “I know. It’s been out all morning.”

  Brendan gritted his teeth. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. A school therapist had suggested the trick once. It never worked. He went over every possible phone option, as if some new invisible update had installed a settings feature that had to be triggered for the phone to be used.

  “Has your phone been out too?” Brendan asked.

  The owner reached under the counter and checked a small silver device. He held it high.

  “Yeah, something must be up. I’ve never had a problem here.”

  “Something must be going on.”

  The owner turned on a radio that played over a speaker system. Pop music began to play.

  “World hasn’t ended,” the owner said. “It’ll come back on.”

  Brendan nodded and tried to calm down. He took a tiny second sip of the coffee, slurping it as much as possible. It had an odd earthy, tart taste that progressed to a slightly fruity flavor. It confused his mouth. He blew on top of the cup to disperse the rising steam and tasted some more.