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

by Gerhard Gehrke

  “Who are you?” the man with the bat asked. He was tall but bent, his head held at a tilted angle.

  “Brendan Garza. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m lost.”

  “Where did you come from? How are you here?”

  “I’m from New York. It’s a big city far, far away.”

  “I know where New York is. But how did you get here from there?”

  Brendan looked around. A few of the women were watching from behind a row of shanties.

  “Isn’t this Dutchman Springs?”

  “It used to be. But no more questions. Which warlord sent you?”

  Warlord? “I wasn’t sent by anyone. I’m looking for a friend. She was—”

  “No more questions,” the man snapped. He leaned close and studied Brendan’s skin. He tugged on Brendan’s shirt collar and grabbed each of his arms and examined them.

  “He has no markings,” one of the others said.

  The first man grabbed him by the wrist. The grip was strong and Brendan found it hard to resist. He was dragged forward into the village. He allowed himself to be led along, but he wondered how much stronger than him these old men could be. If this was an upstream Earth beyond Charlotte’s, he worried he might be exceptionally weak here.

  A small fire heated an iron pot where something that smelled like a stew simmered. Several strips of meat cooked on flat stones at the fire’s edge. Brendan could hear whispers from the closest huts.

  “Summon Torben,” the man said.

  One of the others went into the largest hut, which had trinkets and jewelry attached to the front posts. Christmas ornaments hung from the awning. A metal plate that might have been a fancy hubcap held fruit on a small stand near the entrance flap. The man came back out, followed by a tall, muscled but slender man wearing nothing but leather trousers that went down to his shins. He was browned by the sun and had long hair that thinned up top and etched cheekbones that made his mouth look long. The man’s thick brow furrowed when he saw Brendan.

  “Who are you?” Torben asked.

  “I’m Brendan. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I’m kind of lost.”

  Torben appraised him. He was taller than Brendan by several inches. Brendan saw a single prominent tattoo on his right pectoral: two small circles with a line underneath. The other men had a similar marking on either the neck or wrist.

  “No one here is upset, boy. It’s good to have visitors, even ones who are lost. Where do you come from?”

  “New York,” the first old man said before Brendan could answer.

  Torben turned and glared. The old man looked down at the sand.

  “From out of town,” Torben said. “Just dropped by. All just to visit me?”

  “Not exactly. I’m looking for someone. A friend. She’s fifteen, pale skin, short brown hair.”

  “You think maybe one of my women belongs to you.”

  Belongs? “No, it’s just she’s lost. I don’t think she’s anyone’s woman. I just need to find her.”

  Torben let out a laugh. “He’s lost track of his woman. And yet you come here searching. From New York.”

  Brendan looked at the other men. They were laughing politely, yet the way they were looking at him made him uncomfortable, as if they were in on a prank and he was the target.

  “I’m originally from New York, but not recently. I used to live nearby.”

  “Did you now? You live alone in the desert? Or perhaps by the sea? Which warlord cast you out that you might trek here to request what is mine?”

  “I don’t want anything of yours.” Brendan found himself backing away, but he bumped into one of the old men.

  “Don’t you? You’re here for a challenge then. Yet you have second thoughts now that you see me and make excuses. What kind of a man are you?”

  “I’m not challenging anything. I don’t want what’s yours or your women. I’m just trying to find my friend.”

  “But you’re here unadorned with no marks. In my village. I view this as a challenge. It’s been too long. It is a good morning for a fight.”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come.”

  Torben grabbed him. With little effort, he hauled Brendan to a bare patch of ground away from the fire. He pushed him down to the ground. Against one hut hung drying pieces of meat on a cobbled-together wooden frame. Below the frame, Brendan saw a machete.

  “Pick it up if you think it will help,” Torben said.

  A woman came out of Torben’s hut. It took a moment for Brendan to recognize her. It was Ms. Hayes, his electronics teacher. She wore the remains of a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves removed and a short skirt. A blue tattoo marked the side of her neck. She had gold bracelets on both wrists. When she saw Brendan, there was no recognition in her eyes.

  “Perhaps it’s like he says and he is just a visitor,” she said. “Perhaps if you listen to him, you might learn of the place he comes from.”

  “Go back in the hut and do not interrupt the challenge.”

  Ms. Hayes let out a laugh. “A challenge? Him? Does he look like someone who can fight or has ever fought?” She went over to Brendan and leaned down. “Show me your hands.”

  Brendan got up on his knees and presented his palms. His heart hammered in his chest. Torben glared at him with a hunger in his eyes.

  Ms. Hayes showed Torben his hands. “Clean, no calluses, no bruised or split knuckles.” Brendan was grateful he had healed since last punching anyone. “This boy isn’t a warrior. He isn’t worth your time.”

  “Then what good is he?”

  Ms. Hayes stood and looked down at Brendan. “Find out where he came from. If he’s met other warlords, he can tell you about them. It’s time you looked beyond our oasis. You’re strong, but to get stronger, you will need to think about what to do next.”

  By his expression, Torben was thinking. “Things have been comfortable for too long. You speak wisdom, woman.” His hand lashed out, slapping Ms. Hayes across the face and sending her down. “But remember your place and don’t speak to me as if you are my equal.”

  She held a hand up to ward off another blow. When none came, she said, “My humble apologies.”

  Torben considered Brendan. “You can’t fight. You have the hands of a child. You’re weak. But she says I can learn things from you.”

  Brendan nodded. “Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Your answers had best enlighten me. Otherwise I’ll skin you and watch you cook in the sun this afternoon. I have need of a diversion.”

  14. Warlord

  They had him wait by the fire. Ms. Hayes went with Torben back into the tent. The sun was overhead now, leaving him no shade. He asked one of the old men watching him for water. The man ignored him.

  After a while Ms. Hayes emerged and took Brendan inside a neighboring hut, having him sit on one of two straw mats. She moved about the small space, taking a cup from a basket and filling it with water from a jug.

  “Drink up. It will make you feel better.”

  “Ms. Hayes, do you recognize me?”

  “How…” she paused, clearly confused. “No one calls me that anymore. I haven’t been called Ms. Hayes since…”

  “You were a teacher. Science and electronics at the Dutchman Springs Academy.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re mistaken. The school was just starting construction when the disaster struck. I was still working as a teaching assistant and finishing my doctorate at Cal Tech. They offered me a job, which I accepted, but how would you know that?”

  “What disaster?”

  She eyed him curiously. “Did your head injury cause you to lose your memory? From your appearance, you’re not from here.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  She nodded. “You need to get out of here as soon as possible. Torben isn’t kidding when he talks about the things he might do. I’ve personally seen him murder over twenty people since he arrived. But he’s killed many
more. He takes what and who he wants. He’s incredibly strong and ruthless. He’ll kill you for the sport of it.”

  “I need to find my friend. Her name is Tina. There may have been others from where I’m from. A couple of men, but they’re not my friends. Perhaps it looked like they showed up out of thin air. Do you know anything about them?”

  “No, but I met a girl your age several times at night in the garden. She said her name is Charlotte.”

  Brendan took another sip of water. It was soothing. He couldn’t take his eyes off this Earth’s version of Kim Hayes. She had the same eyes, the same color hair, almost everything physical was identical. But then he realized that she appeared about fifteen pounds lighter. She had lines under her eyes and recently healed marks on her face next to the rising red lump on her cheek.

  “What did Charlotte want?” he asked.

  “Just a few pieces of fruit. I caught her stealing the first time, but she brought me food the next night so nothing would be missed. She won’t explain why she wants the skinny grapes and pomegranates we grow. I let her take what she needs as long as she can bring something to replace it. If Torben gets his food, he stays happy. So where is it she goes when she leaves? You have a hidden camp somewhere?”

  “It’s the same place I come from. An Earth like this one, but things are different there.” He didn’t know why he told her; it just seemed easier than making something up, even though he knew she wouldn’t believe him and would think he was suffering from a delusion or trauma from his head injury.

  “In what way is it different?”

  “There’s been no disaster. Well there was one, but it only hit Los Angeles. A giant earthquake. A lot of people died. But Dutchman Springs is still a town. The Academy is there and open. You—the other you is one of my teachers.”

  “The other cities are there? Is Santa Barbara?” He heard a tremor in her voice.

  “I think Santa Barbara’s mostly fine. I don’t know if anyone died there. The whole Southwest felt the quake. There was damage everywhere, from what I saw on the news.”

  “Oh god.” She took a moment to compose herself. “Sorry, it’s just my parents were there. But how could you not know about the rest of the disaster? It wasn’t just Los Angeles.”

  “On my world it was. Santa Barbara wasn’t destroyed.”

  “But if in your world Santa Barbara made it, that would mean.” She hesitated. “They’re alive. It’s such a nice dream you have. So many still alive in your world.”

  He let the comment be. For someone whose world had ended, taunting her further with a fantasy land that contradicted her nightmare would be cruel. “What caused all this?”

  “I don’t know if anyone knows. It was everywhere, like earthquakes across the globe. Most news and radio only lasted for hours afterwards before going silent. Cities fell. It was as if the planet was having a seizure. It was the end, or at least it should have been. Some of us survived, though.”

  “When?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  Four years before his own world’s L.A. disaster, yet around the time when the headmaster had been building his machine. So many questions ran through his mind. The warlord, the survivors, the possibility of other gates.

  From outside, he heard a commotion. “Torben!” one of the men called. Kim got up and looked out the front flap.

  “They have someone,” she said.

  He heard Lucille scream. Brendan pushed past Kim. Torben was coming out of his hut, where the crooked old man stood guard with his cricket bat. Two of the village women were hauling Lucille along. Lucille thrashed and kicked, but the women had no problem handling her.

  “We caught her stealing fruit,” one woman said. She kept her head bowed as Torben strode over. He took Lucille’s chin in his hand and looked her in the face. Turned her head side to side.

  “Let me go,” she spat.

  “You’re a pretty one,” Torben said. “Skin and hair so fair. Where have you been hiding?”

  He examined her neck and her cleavage in much the same way as Brendan’s grandmother would check her produce.

  “No marks on you. Two in one day. So where do you hail from? Also New York?”

  The old man behind Torben laughed.

  Before Lucille could respond, Brendan said, “That’s my half-sister. She’s from my tribe.”

  Torben poked at her. “Indeed? Are all of your women this soft? You’ll be telling me more about your tribe.” He took her by the hair and tugged her close to him.

  Lucille looked at Brendan, her eyes wild with fear. She was scratching at Torben’s arm but he didn’t seem to notice. If there was any juice or mojo to her talent, it was completely gone here.

  “I’ll tell you,” Brendan said. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  Torben let Lucille go. She caught her breath and straightened her outfit before moving away. He saw her trembling with rage. He tried to give her a hand signal to calm down, but she wasn’t paying attention. Torben wore an expression of mild amusement.

  “Then tell,” Torben said.

  Brendan knew how to spin a yarn. Stick to half-truths. But with Torben’s eyes on him, he came up short.

  “We’re students,” Brendan said.

  “As in teachers, books, studying, and all of that? And where, please tell, is the warlord which allows his people to go about unclaimed and educating themselves? Where is it that you live in such luxurious surroundings that you can get by without the necessary toil for your master? Unless you’ve been hiding away somewhere. Were the displays of what befalls those who don’t submit not clear enough?” Torben got close. “Perhaps you need a reminder.”

  He grabbed Brendan by the arm and pulled him. When Brendan stumbled, Torben flung him with ease as if he weighed nothing, sending him sailing forward to crash into the sand. Torben hadn’t exerted himself at all. Brendan had never heard of anyone this strong, even with a power suit. He was stronger than anyone he’d met from Charlotte’s home world.

  Torben picked him up by the back of his pants and pitched him further down the trail. Brendan scrambled to get up and managed to stay just ahead of the warlord. The man strode away from the village and pointed in the direction he wanted Brendan to go. Brendan didn’t dare deviate.

  They approached a building at the edge of the oasis that was partially engulfed by sand. It was Dutchman Springs’s city hall. A few nearby crumbling walls poked above the layer of sand, indicating where some of the neighboring buildings once stood.

  The entire structure of city hall looked off-kilter. Large sections of plaster had fallen, making the building look like it was covered in diseased skin. Sand engulfed the back and the sides of the building. The twin doors were propped open, but the glass was gone. As they got closer, Brendan noticed none of the windows remained. A pair of crows flew out of an upper room, cawing their irritation.

  “This is the wall of pain,” Torben said.

  Brendan climbed a mound of sand to get to the front door. Torben followed him as if on a stroll through a garden, an odd smile on his face. The foyer and farther hallway had light pouring in from the skylight of a central rotunda that was now open to the air. It took Brendan’s eyes a moment to adjust to the shadows. Paper and photographs lined both sides of the hall, having been pinned or nailed to the walls. There were pictures of people and notes and cards and even some newspaper clippings. Quite a few were scattered about in the sand on the floor. Several faded packets of forms were attached to clipboards. He caught the words “Emergency Service Sign-In” and “Survivor’s Contact Sheet.”

  Brendan flipped through one of the packets. It had hundreds of names and phone numbers on it. He didn’t find a date. The paper was curled and felt dry as if it had been in the elements for a long time. He browsed the photos. Many were wallet-sized. The notes attached had hearts and names and prayers, pleas for their safe return, and appeals for God to watch over sons, daughters, and spouses.

  Torben just watched as Brendan made his wa
y down the hall to a far office. A large doorway devoid of doors led to a chamber where the desert had forced its way inside. A desk had been pushed towards the door by an avalanche of sand. Large bookshelves rose above it all, preserving only the upper shelves’ contents. A tilted portrait of Dutchman Springs’s mayor stared at Brendan, the woman’s pinched face appearing indignant at his intrusion.

  Brendan stooped to pick up a stapled pack of printouts.

  Global Earthquake Swarms, the title read. It was from a news website, according to the superscription. He flipped through the pages. It didn’t seem real. Earthquakes had struck everywhere. It was like Los Angeles, but magnified hundreds of times over, striking cities and rural locations, underwater and in the mountains, but multiple earthquakes, one on top of the other. Death tolls were estimated in the tens of millions, and all this from the first day or two. There were no attached reports after that. The cause was unknown.

  The gateways. Is it possible? Was this the result of one invention that bridged worlds? He felt like he was going to throw up. It was too much. He wanted to run away, to wake up, to fall into a bathtub of ice water to dispel this nightmare world around him.

  Torben was looking at him with mild curiosity. “Why are you so shocked?”

  Brendan fought to control his breathing. He set the papers back on the ground. “I’m shocked because little of the news of that day got to us before the internet and television went out. We only heard rumors and few facts.”

  “For all these years? Not once did you send out scouts? And how did you evade us for so long?”

  Careful. “There aren’t that many of us.”

  “You said you’re students. Where is this school?”

  Brendan shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell Torben about the gate under the water. What if this warlord was somehow responsible for the disaster that had struck this Earth? If this man had incredible strength here, how much more would he have if he came downstream? Torben might be like a god.