“My thung!” he sobbed, his tongue flopping out between his rapidly swelling lips. It was substantially fatter than it had been and covered in hundreds of tiny white blisters. “My thucking thung!”
Anna bit her lip. She looked partly apologetic, and partly like she really wanted to giggle. “Shit. I am so sorry,” she said, her nostrils flaring with the effort of not laughing. “Although, I have to say, it was kind of the butterflies’ fault.”
“Don’t listen to her, guys,” Randy told the small cloud of colorful insects that danced in the air around him. He pointed along the court, to where several orange-clad shapes were appearing through the smoke cloud, clubs, axes and other weapons raised. “Now go, my Rhopaloceran warriors. Fly like the wings of justice!”
The butterflies meandered gently toward the smoke. They were just about to vanish into the cloud when a jet of flame erupted from within it, instantly incinerating them.
“Oh, sweet mother of God,” Randy whispered, his eyes widening behind his goggles.
The first of the henchmen appeared through the smoke, clutching a deodorant can in one hand and a Zippo lighter in the other. He sprayed and flicked, propelling another burst of flame in the sidekicks’ direction.
Randy launched himself toward the henchman, ducking the flame and driving a shoulder into the guy’s stomach. They went down together with a thud, sending the deodorant can skidding across the floor before they were lost to the smoke.
“Well, well, look what we got here,” sneered another of the thugs-for-hire. Sam and Anna heard him, but couldn’t see him through the smoke.
“Lay a hand on me, and I’ll kill you,” Randy barked back. Sam and Anna heard that, too. There was a moment of silence. No, not quite silence. It was filled with the sound of something heavy hitting something soft. Randy’s voice, when it came, sounded strained. “OK, lay another hand on me, and I’ll kill you.”
There was a series of thuds and oofs that suggested the henchmen hadn’t taken the threat well.
Sam and Anna exchanged resigned looks.
“Aw, thuck it,” said Sam, still struggling with his swollen tongue and fish-lips. These had now been joined by an itchy red rash that spread up both sides of his neck and across his cheeks.
He grabbed for the closest weapon he could find. It turned out to be an egg whisk, so he grabbed for the second closest weapon he could find—a cast iron frying pan—and shuffled nervously into the smoke.
Anna strode past him, and for a moment he was almost shamed into hurrying up. Instead, he grabbed for her, catching her by the arm and slowing her down. He tried to put a finger to his lips to warn her to be quiet, but his lips were enormous and he was carrying a frying pan, so the gesture was confusing at best.
Pulling herself free, Anna pressed on, and Sam had no choice but to hurry out of the smoke after her, pan raised to head level, ready to strike. To his surprise, he found two of the henchmen lying unconscious on the floor, and a third on his knees with Randy standing behind him. Randy had one hand under the henchman’s chin, and the other on the top of his head. He glowered furiously at the three remaining men, his glare practically burning through the lenses of his goggles.
“Take another step and I snap his neck!” Randy warned.
Each of the three upright henchmen looked at the others a little awkwardly, then shrugged. “So? Go ahead,” said one. “He’s one of the Golden Skull’s boys. We ain’t got no loyalty to him.”
“We barely even know the bloke,” said another henchman.
“I’ll do it! I mean it! I’ll snap this guy’s neck like a twig!” Randy insisted.
“Don’t do it, Randy,” said Anna. “We don’t kill. That’s, like, the number one rule.”
“This subhuman scum doesn’t deserve to live. He killed my butterflies!” Randy snarled. “Are you saying you think a human life is more important than a butterfly life?”
“Well, yes. Obviously,” said Anna. “I mean, who doesn’t think that?” She looked to Sam for confirmation. “You think that, right?”
“Yeth,” Sam confirmed. He clutched the handle of his frying pan and eyed the three still-standing henchmen. “Look, guyth, we thould thtop fithghting and discuth thith like… thuck! My thucking thung!”
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” demanded one of the thugs.
“Ith wath her fault,” Sam explained.
“Everyone shut up!” roared Randy. “And say goodbye to this piece of criminal filth!”
“Randy, don’t!” Anna yelped, but it was too late. Randy pushed and pulled simultaneously, wrenching the henchman’s head around with all his might.
“Ow! Shit! What are you doing?” the henchman hissed. “Like, seriously, dude. That hurts. Stop it! Cut that shit out!”
Randy gritted his teeth and twisted. “Hnnng!”
“You’re pulling my hair! Ow! Ow! Jesus. OK, that’s it!”
Grabbing Randy’s arms, the henchman bent forward sharply. Randy’s cape flapped behind him as he was flipped over the villain’s head and landed flat on his back on the floor.
The henchman stood up, cracking his neck and gingerly rubbing the top of his head. He drove a kick into Randy’s ribs with jackhammer force.
“Ain’t so tough now, are you?” he spat
“Ha! That’s what you think. You just fell right into my trap,” Randy wheezed. “This is exactly what I wanted you to do.”
“Then you’re in luck,” said the henchman, driving another boot into his ribs. He patted another of the henchmen on his broad chest, before gesturing to Sam and Anna. “Now, let’s kill these fucks.”
Sam shot the villain closest to him an anxious grin, then swung with his frying pan. The henchman blocked the attack, closed the gap between them quickly, and brought up a fist.
A sound filled Sam’s head. It was somewhere between a crunch and a thwack, and seemed to come from somewhere inside his skull, rather than outside.
Pain flooded his body and clouded all his senses. His legs became soft and pliable like warm toffee. He looked for the frying pan, but it was no longer in his hands. Instead, all he found there was a smear of blood across his fingers. There were a growing number of red spots on the floor at his feet, too. He watched them appearing for a moment, as if by magic.
And then the floor rolled away as if someone had pulled it out from under him, and he sat down with a thud and a jolt of pain.
“Get… off,” hissed Anna, struggling in the grip of a dark-eyed henchman with copper-colored teeth. Her arms were pinned to her side, trapped by the villain’s bearhug. He sniffed her hair, most of which had shaken loose from the ponytail, and his expression became one of gleeful arousal.
Randy was still down, but trying to get up. Whenever he made it as far as his knees and elbows, the Golden Skull’s henchman drove another boot into his ribs, knocking him down again. Still, he persisted. The guy was a trier, if nothing else.
“Thtop. Pleathe,” Sam pleaded, gagging on his own blood. “Why are you doing thith?”
The henchman who had floored him sneered down. To Sam’s dismay, he realized the guy really did have a ‘Imma fuck your dead body,’ written on his face. This dismay was added to by the fact that it wasn’t tattooed, exactly, and more sort of carved into his forehead. Also, he’d missed the ‘a’ in ‘dead’ and used the wrong version of ‘your’.
Through his haze of pain, swelling, and hot, itchy rashes Sam briefly lamented the state of the education system today, before his eyes fell on the meat cleaver in the henchman’s hand. The blade was lightly pitted with spots of rust. It looked more heavy than sharp, and Sam couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or a bad one.
Bad, probably, given the way his day was going.
The henchman holding Anna let out a low, sickening laugh. Sam heard the crunch of a boot in Randy’s ribs, and a quiet, “I have you now, evildoer,” that was less of a growl and more of a whimper.
Sam’s eyes followed the cleaver as the henchman raised it. He thou
ght of his son, and something stirred at the back of his head.
And then Chuck was there, and the movement in Sam’s brain faltered as he watched the man in the suit demolish the henchmen with brutal, ruthless efficiency.
He was fast for his size. Graceful, too. He moved through the villains like a ballet dancer, albeit one who punctuated each plié and pirouette with a punch to the nearest throat, or a knee to the closest available balls.
Sam let himself sink back onto the floor. The blood from his nose ran back into his constricted throat, making him gag, so he turned his head to the side. The wooden floor was soothing and cool against the rash on his cheek.
He lay there for a while, listening to the thwacking, yelping, and the various other sounds of violence until they eventually fell silent.
“Thanks,” said Anna.
“No problem,” Chuck grunted.
“You idiot,” Randy seethed. His voice was slurred, and each word was accompanied by a tiny gasp of pain. “I had them right where I wanted them.”
“Sure you did,” said Chuck.
Sam’s eyes were closed, but he felt the shadow pass across him. With an effort bordering on Herculean, he managed to turn his head and squint up at the outline of Chuck that loomed above him, silhouetted by an overhead light.
“Well, this was disappointing,” Chuck sighed.
Sam tucked his chin into his chest. It was the closest he could get to a nod. “Told you,” he croaked.
“But with some training…”
Sam managed an approximation of a laugh. It hurt considerably in a number of places.
“It’s pointleth,” he said. “Jutht let uth go. Pleathe.”
Chuck turned his head away. For a while, he just stared along the basketball court at nothing in particular. Finally, he nodded.
“OK. Maybe this was a bad idea,” he admitted. With a sigh of resignation, he held a hand out to Sam. “Come on. I guess we should get you all out of here.”
Chapter Eight
Following some urgent medical attention, a good wash, and a terse apology, Sam and the others were led through a warren of mostly identical corridors, before emerging into what appeared to be an office reception area.
The reception was made up of a single desk, six plastic chairs, and a little coffee table covered with magazines that all looked too pristine to have ever been read. There was no one sitting behind the desk, but a sign on the wall announced the place as ‘Bland, Inc.’
“It’s a cover story,” Chuck said, catching Sam reading the sign. “Far as anyone knows, this place makes… Actually, I can’t remember what it’s supposed to make. Some kind of paper fastener. Nothing anyone would be interested in, anyway.”
“Right,” said Sam. Sure enough, he wasn’t interested in the slightest. He was intrigued as to how the room they’d been in could be in the Arctic one minute, then somewhere else the next, but they were so close to freedom now that he didn’t want to risk getting sucked back in, so he elected to leave it a mystery.
They stopped at the door. It was mostly glass, and Sam could see traffic moving on the street beyond. It was moving reasonably fast, rather than crawling at a near-standstill, so he guessed they had to be near the outskirts of the city.
Damn. The bus fare was going to kill him.
Zipping up his jacket, Sam slipped his hand into a pocket. There was a lump in his throat when he felt the hippo or elephant or whatever the hell it was. He’d phone Laura as soon as he was out of here, make sure Corey was OK. Hopefully, she’d let Sam see him.
“Remember what I told you,” said Chuck.
Anna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t say a word to anyone. We get it. We might not be a well-oiled fighting force, but one thing we do know how to do is keep a secret.”
She waved her red stiletto vaguely in Chuck’s direction. “And, you know, if the other one of these turns up… In fact, no. You have it,” she said, handing him the shoe. She gestured to his shirt collar. “It matches the blood stains.”
Chuck hooked the shoe onto a rack displaying various types of paper, then leaned forward and opened the door. The sound of Cityopolis rushed in to fill the reception area, and those familiar, everyday city sounds came as some comfort to Sam as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The others bundled out behind him. Sam turned to say a final goodbye to Chuck, but the door closed in his face, and a blind with ‘Closed’ marked on it was pulled down behind the glass.
“Right. Well… I guess that’s that,” said Sam. “This was…”
“Weird and awkward?” Anna guessed.
“Uh, yeah. Pretty much,” Sam agreed.
“Sorry about the whole fat tongue thing,” Anna said. “The rash is really fading now. This time tomorrow, it’ll all be cleared up.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Sam said. “Totally an accident. No one’s fault.”
“We had a chance to make a difference, and you two blew it!” Randy spat. He was still wearing his homemade outfit, but had pushed the goggles up onto his forehead. There were two red rings around his eyes marking where the lenses had been. “But it’s fine. I work better alone. So now I’ll melt into the shadows, becoming the dark fabric of the city itself.”
The other two watched as he stood there, looking a little awkward.
“Go for it,” said Anna.
Sam gave him a little wave. “See you around, Randy.”
“Look! Over there!” Randy cried, pointing past them. “Whoa! That’s so awesome! I’ve never seen one of those before!”
“Do you want us to turn around?” Anna asked him.
Randy shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “I mean, only if you want,” he said. “If you don’t want to see the amazing thing behind you, I don’t care. It’s totally up to you.”
Anna met Sam’s gaze and rolled her eyes. They both turned in the direction Randy had been pointing.
“Oh, hey, what could possibly be over in this direction?” Anna asked. “Sam, can you see anything?”
“No,” said Sam, not really getting into the spirit of it.
They turned back. Randy, to no one’s surprise, was gone.
“How does he do that?” Anna wondered, making a point of saying it quite loudly.
Sam, meanwhile, was looking along the street in both directions, searching for some sort of landmark that might tell him which part of the city they were in. There was nothing that set this street apart from any other, though.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Anna lifted her head and sniffed deeply. “Corner of Eighty-third and Ditko,” she declared.
Sam was impressed. “You can work that out from smell?”
“Totally,” said Anna. “Also, it’s on the street sign over there.”
“Oh. OK, yeah, that makes more sense,” Sam said. He smiled awkwardly while calculating how long it would take him to walk from Eighty-Third all the way home to Seventeenth. Too long. He’d have to set off now if he hoped to get there before it got dark.
He extended a hand in Anna’s direction. “Well, it’s been—”
“Do you want to get a drink?” Anna asked him. “Because I don’t know about you, but I could do with one. And by ‘one’ I mean ‘as many as it takes until I can’t see.’”
Sam looked along the street in the direction of home. To his surprise, he found himself considering it.
“I don’t have much money with me,” he said. “Maybe another time.”
“Screw that, I’ll cover the tab,” Anna told him. She maneuvered herself in front of him, and there was something pleading in her eyes. “Come on. I don’t like to drink alone. But I will if I have to, and that’ll just be a mess. Help a girl out here.”
Sam smiled unconvincingly. “OK. No, it’ll be… nice. But just one.”
“That’s a start,” said Anna, clapping a hand on his back. She jabbed a thumb behind them. “What about him?”
Sam closed his eyes for a second, then shrugged. “Randy? We’r
e going for a drink. You coming?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Randy stood up from behind a parked car, adjusted his cape, then drew himself up to his full height. “OK,” he growled. “I’m in.”
Sam leaned an elbow on the table. His finger swayed drunkenly as he pointed across the booth to where Randy sat. All three of them had consumed… Sam tried to count the empty glasses, but they kept moving, so he settled on ‘a lot of drinks,’ and left it at that.
“My point is,” he said, trying to recall what his point was. “My point is… What were we talking about?”
“Su Man Chu,” said Anna, knocking back another shot of clear-colored liquid. Her voice was a little slurred, although Sam thought that might well have been the fault of his ears. Only Randy looked fully sober, although the fact he hadn’t drunk any alcohol and had instead lapped at a single glass of water with his tongue for the past two hours probably helped a lot.
“Yes!” Sam announced, slapping a hand on the table. “Su Man Chu!”
“My old mentor,” said Randy, with a wistful sort of snarl.
“My point is, my point is… My point is—she’s racist. Her whole thing. It’s racist.”
“Was racist,” Anna corrected.
Sam raised one eyebrow and lowered the other at the same time. “She stopped being racist?”
“Mm. No,” said Anna, sipping a different drink from another glass. “Stopped being alive. She’s dead, remember? They’re all dead.”
“Shh,” said Sam, putting a finger to his lips. “We’re not supposed to talk about that.” He tried to tap himself on the nose, but missed.
Across the table, Randy’s face was a mask of dark fury. “You take that back,” he spat. “Su Man Chu wasn’t racist.”
“Come on, she wore a cymbal!” Sam argued.
“They were goddam heroes. They all wore symbols!” Randy said, jabbing at the butterfly emblem on his chest.
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