The Sidekicks Initiative

by Barry J. Hutchison

  Larry was sure there was an old WWII hand-grenade paperweight on one of the doctors’ desks, but even in the unlikely circumstances that it was live, there were too many of the monsters to blow up with a single eighty-year-old explosive.

  He snapped off another couple of shots. Ptchow-ptchew. Both bullets ricocheted away, and the same car as before lost its windshield and gained a new air vent in the door.

  “Wait!” yelped Glen, another guard. “That’s my car!”

  A voice crackled over Larry’s radio, letting him know for the fourth time that police backup was on the way, and was only a minute out.

  “It was a minute out five fucking minutes ago!” Larry spat back, but as he hadn’t pressed the button, nobody but Glen heard him.

  Part of the fence tore inward, squealing like the world’s bluntest fork on the world’s largest plate. The space where that part of the fence had been was filled by a Magma-Mutt head, its eyes blazing fire and hatred. Larry and Glen ducked lower behind the fountain they’d been using for cover, trying not to let the monster see them.

  Too late. With a furious roar, it forced itself forward, buckling that section of fence with its sheer strength and weight. The metal glowed red-hot where it touched the monster, and both Larry and Glen knew, in that moment, that their company-issued snub-nosed pistols were going to do them no good whatsoever, except in the increasingly likely event that they decided to kill themselves rather than face their fates.

  “How many of them do you make?” Larry asked.

  “I been counting,” said Glen. “I make eighteen.”

  Larry muttered something quite rude below his breath. “OK. Eighteen? Jesus. OK. I do have one bit of good news, though.”

  “What’s that?” Glen asked.

  “I can run a whole lot faster than you can.”

  Glen started to chuckle, then caught the deadly serious expression on Larry’s face.

  “You son of a bitch,” he hissed.

  “Survival of the fittest. And fastest,” Larry said.

  “You absolute son of a bitch! You’re just going to leave me?”

  Larry shook his head. “What? No! Of course not, Glen,” he said. “I’m just going to run as fast as I can, and if you decide to fall behind, then that’s on you.”

  “You son of a—”

  Their argument was cut short by the sudden and unexpected arrival of a Hot Wheels armored car, and the splattering of Magma-Mutt guts as two of the vehicle’s many caterpillar tracks plowed through several of them, tearing them to pieces.

  It wasn’t really a Hot Wheels car, of course, but it had come from the same school of design. It straddled the line between ‘impossibly sleek’ and ‘implausibly clunky’, with a rounded nose, a spoiler the size of a hang-glider, and so many exhausts its back end could pass for a pipe organ.

  Its rear caterpillar tracks spun, raising the tank’s nose into the air, then dropping it down on a Magma-Mutt that had moved to attack. The mutt exploded like a balloon filled with shaving foam, spraying soggy bits in all directions.

  Larry watched on in amazement, his hand still gripping his gun. Behind him, Glen quietly backed away, neatly demonstrating that, while he may not have been the faster of the two, he was almost certainly the wiser.

  A hatch on the roof of the tank opened. A woman with flame-red hair and a green mask sprang up like a Jack in the Box. Thrusting her arms above her head, she cheered: “Wooooh! Now that is a fucking Batmobile!”

  She yelped in panic and ducked as another of the Magma-Mutts bounded onto the vehicle with one twitch of its hind legs. A heavyset man in a dark suit and sunglasses rose up, a shotgun in his hands. He fired twice into the monster’s open mouth, and its head became nothing but stone chips.

  “Who the hell are these guys?” Larry wondered.

  It took him a moment to realize Glen was nowhere to be seen. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, then a flurry of movement from over by the tank-thing caught his attention.

  The woman in the green suit had clambered out and was now standing on the ground beside the vehicle, one arm leaning on a caterpillar track.

  A tall, skinny man dressed all in red jumped down beside her, a small cape fluttering briefly as he fell. He landed in what Larry felt was an overly-dramatic way, and which must surely have been murder on his knees.

  Another Magma-Mutt approached. The gunman in the hatch fired a couple of warning shots at it, and it drew back.

  A fourth figure appeared. He clambered awkwardly out of the hatch, took a few tentative steps toward the point where the top of the tank became the side, then carefully sat and dangled his legs over the side, before cautiously sliding to the ground.

  Larry barely noticed the fourth person’s clumsy movements, transfixed, as he was, by the costume the guy wore.

  It was mostly blue spandex, and was either a couple of sizes too small, or had recently shrunk in the wash. The pants stopped several inches above his ankles, leaving a gap of bare skin between where the leggings ended and the bright red boots began.

  There was a similar gap around his midsection, and while Larry knew spandex was designed to be clingy, he didn’t think it was ever intended to be quite that clingy. It accentuated the beginnings of the guy’s middle-aged paunch, and cut into him in a range of unflattering ways. The red and yellow ‘KR’ emblem on his chest mercifully concealed the lines of his unimpressive chest, just as a red hood concealed the top sixty percent of his face. Despite the lower half of his face being uncovered, it was almost exactly the same shade of red as the top part.

  “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” he said.

  “It looks great!” said the woman in green. “Well, I mean, no, not great, exactly. It’s a long way from great, but—”

  “Guys! We have company,” growled the man in red, staring directly at Larry. “Superhero poses. Go!”

  The man in red lowered himself into a half-squat, holding his hands out like a martial artist preparing to strike.

  The woman in green looked unsure at first, then lowered herself into a pose that was similar in style, if not in enthusiasm.

  “Oh, come on, is this reall…?” the guy in the blue spandex muttered. He sighed. “Fine, fine, OK,” then turned side-on and lowered himself onto one knee. Clearly unsure of what to do with this hands, he tried a few different alternatives, then settled for holding them together, with the forefingers stretched out like a gun.

  “What are you meant to be? Charlie’s Angels?” asked the woman.

  “Do it properly,” growled the man in red.

  “I am… what do you mean ‘do it properly’? I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing!”

  “Fine. Then can this be it? Are we done? My legs are already killing me here,” said the woman.

  “Butterfly King welcomes the pain,” the red-clad man snarled. He lowered himself deeper into his squat and let out just a hint of a high-pitched eep. “Oh… yeah.”

  Up in the tank, the man with the shotgun fired again. “Do you think we might get a move on?” he barked.

  Sam stood up, adjusted his ill-fitting pants, then looked down at them in dismay. “Great. Now they’ve gone all baggy at the knees,” he said, before looking up at Chuck. This made his hood go squint so he could only see out through one eyehole. He adjusted it as he spoke. “You OK with the Magma-Mutts?”

  Chuck blasted another of the monsters that had tried clambering up onto the tank behind him. Its head, neck, and part of its chest exploded.

  “Yeah. I got ‘em. Go do what we’re here for.”

  Sam nodded. “Right. Yeah. Right. Uh… let’s go.”

  He led Anna and Randy through the wrecked fence, being careful not to get caught by any of the red-hot parts. The guard, Larry, had his gun lowered, but the way his grip tightened on it suggested he might yet start firing.

  “Have no fear, uh, good citizen,” Sam said, deepening his voice. “We’re here to help. I’m…” He swore creatively inside his head. “…Kid Random.
”

  “Kid Random?” said Larry. He pushed back his guard’s cap with the barrel of his gun and looked Sam up and down. “Why Kid Random. Aren’t you, like, forty?”

  “Forty? No, I’m not forty!” Sam spluttered. He regained his composure again. “I mean, that’s not important right now.”

  “Allergy Woman,” said Anna, giving the guard a half-hearted wave.

  “Girl,” Randy corrected.

  “Woman.”

  “It’s Girl. Allergy Girl,” Randy insisted.

  Anna kept smiling at the guard as she thumped Randy hard on the hip. He gave a little grunt, then bit his lip for a moment. Behind them, Chuck opened fire with his shotgun.

  “Butterfly King didn’t even feel that punch,” Randy whispered.

  “Bullshit,” Anna retorted.

  Larry frowned. “What? Butterfly King?”

  “Please. No autographs,” said Randy. “Now’s not the time.”

  Sam gave it a second for everyone to shut up, then continued. “We think Savior is coming here. You know, the guy off the TV?”

  “He’s coming here?” Larry spluttered. “Oh, God. Oh shit!”

  “Don’t worry, citizen, we’ll protect you,” Sam assured him. “That’s why we’re here. But we need access to the asylum. Can you help us with that?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah! I can get you inside, no problem,” said Larry. He scanned the skies. “You mean it? You can really keep me safe?”

  Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “You have my word,” he said, then Larry screamed as a Magma-Mutt pounced on him, and his guts exploded out through his back.

  “Jesus Christ!” Anna yelped.

  Sam stared in horror, his hand still raised where it had been resting on Larry’s shoulder. For what felt like quite a long while, the only sound was that of tearing flesh and spurting blood, then two shotgun blasts rang out, and the Magma-Mutt fell on top of the mush that bad been Larry.

  “Sorry,” called Chuck. “Missed that one.”

  “It’s fine,” said Anna. “I’m sure no one noticed.”

  “How are we supposed to get inside now?” Sam groaned.

  Randy raised his cape so it was covering half of his face. “Leave it to me,” he said, in a dramatic whisper. Holding Sam’s gaze, be began to back away mysteriously.

  “Uh, it’s that way,” said Sam, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

  Randy continued creeping backward, but turned in a wide arc so he was now backing in the direction of the asylum.

  Sam and Anna exchanged looks of exasperation.

  “Yeah, tell you what, we’ll just meet you there,” said Anna. They both marched past Randy, and he quickly turned in the right direction as he hurried to catch them up.

  The front door was made of heavy wood, with even heavier iron straps and rivets that helped it fit neatly into the overall Gothic feel of the building. The only obvious anomaly was the shiny black glass screen fixed to the wall beside it.

  “Biometric security,” Randy growled. “Bypassing it won’t be easy. Unless… wait. Did anyone bring that guard’s thumb?”

  “Of course we didn’t bring his thumb!” Anna hissed. “Why would we bring his thumb?”

  “For the biometric security,” said Randy, like this should really have been obvious. “It’s fine, doesn’t matter. I can deal with it.”

  He dropped to his haunches and breathed on the pad. “Bingo,” he said. He held a hand out to Anna, like a surgeon reaching for a tool. “Sticky tape.”

  Anna frowned. “What?”

  “Sticky tape,” Randy repeated. “Quickly.”

  “I don’t have any sticky tape,” Anna said.

  “How can you be sure? You didn’t even check,” Randy growled, turning to look at her.

  “I don’t need to check. I know with one hundred percent certainty that I’m not carrying any sticky tape.”

  Randy tutted. “Fine. We’ll just have to cut this thumb off.” He held a hand out to Anna. “Scissors.”

  “I’m also not carrying scissors,” Anna said.

  “Have we checked if the door is even…?” Sam began, trying the handle. “It’s open,” he said. “They left it unlocked. Jesus, and they wonder why everyone keeps escaping.”

  The door creaked inward, revealing a dark and oppressive entrance hall with a high ceiling, an abundance of shadow, and several grotesque gargoyles leering down from on high. A reception desk stood at the far end, bathed in a beam of light from one of the barred windows high up on the front wall. A mug of coffee sat on it, steaming gently, but there was nothing else to indicate the room had ever been occupied.

  Sam tentatively led the others inside. Anna stuck close behind him, while Randy attempted—with limited success—to melt into one of the many available shadows.

  “Hello?” Sam called.

  Hello-hello-hello, said a low, whispering echo.

  “Anyone here?”

  Anyone here-here-here?

  Fighting the urge to run screaming from the place, Sam shuffled on across the faded carpet. Its design was an endless spiral of twisting shapes in various shades of green. Had the inmates not been crazy when they arrived here, the carpet could well have been the thing that pushed them over the edge.

  “Are we too late?” Anna whispered.

  Too late-late-late.

  Sam shook his head. “If Savior had already been here, the place wouldn’t still be standing.”

  Be standing-standing-standing.

  Anna tutted. “That is really fucking annoying.”

  …

  All three sets of eyes crept to the ceiling, as if they might see the echo trapped there somewhere.

  “Hello?” Sam called.

  Hello—

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

  —yourself!

  The echo became a hyena-like giggle that reverberated around the room. Shapes detached themselves from the shadows and emerged from behind pillars. Some whispered and mumbled, talking to themselves more than anyone else. Others sniggered, spat, and hissed. A few growled and grunted like animals.

  One squelched, but the less said about him, the better.

  “It’s just like that phrase,” Randy growled. “The inmates have taken over the Cityopolis Asylum!”

  Anna nodded slowly. “I’m actually going to give you that one,” she said. “It was close enough.”

  “Well, well, well, who do we have here?” brayed a voice from the darkness, gleefully enunciating every perfect syllable.

  A tall man in a velvet jacket and a grinning mask sprang up onto the reception desk. He clutched a hand to his chest and held the other up to the window, basking in the glow of this naturally created spotlight.

  His head spun on his shoulders. When it stopped, the face on the mask was contorted with sadness.

  “Forsooth! You are not here to stop the show, are you?” he asked. His voice became a dramatic stage whisper. “Because that simply would not do at all. It must go on, you know? The show must always go on!”

  “God, who’s this asshole?” Anna asked.

  The Tragedy mask spun, becoming the grinning Comedy version again.

  “You wish to know who I am, dear girl? Behold, my name in lights!” the man on the desk announced. He thrust a hand up, indicating the wall above his head. “Opening Knight!”

  Sam, Anna, and Randy regarded the wall in silence for a moment.

  “You, uh, you know there’s nothing there, right?” said Anna.

  Opening Knight looked up. “Yes, there is,” he insisted. “It’s all lit up. See?”

  He reached a finger out to touch something, then quickly pulled it back. “Ouch! Those bulbs are hot!” He spread his fingers wide and waved his hands in front of his face. His voice became an awestruck whisper. “Opening Knight!”

  “Yep, he’s totally bananas,” Anna muttered. “We’re in the right place.”

  His mask spun again, becoming the crying face. He pointed dramatically to the sidekicks. “Now, which of
you wishes to audition for the role of my proscenium-arch-nemesis?”

  Sam glanced at Anna and Randy, then at the circle of superpowered lunatics around them. “Your what?”

  “Proscenium-arch-nemesis,” said Opening Knight, with a smidgeon less conviction. “It’s a theatre term, dear boy. ‘Proscenium arch.’ It’s the frame through which events on stage are viewed by the attendant audience.”

  Sam nodded. Randy lurked. Anna scowled. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

  Opening Knight placed the back of a hand to his forehead, recoiling in horror at her words. Anna jumped in before he could start overacting again.

  “Look, we don’t have time for this,” Sam said. “You guys are in trouble.”

  “Because we shook off our shackles?” sneered Opening Knight. “Because we imprisoned our wretched imprisoners, forcing them to suffer the same indignities that we ourselves were made to—”

  He choked as his tongue swelled to three times its natural size, his eyes bulging as he clutched at his rapidly-bloating throat.

  Anna lowered her hands, then nodded to Sam, indicating he should take over. “Continue.”

  Sam drew himself up to his full height, which really only made his costume look even more ludicrous. Looking around, he saw faces he knew from back in the day—the Smirker, Coldfingers, Johnny Racist—and several others he didn’t recognize at all.

  Most of them glowered hatred at him. A few dribbled. Another kept thumping the heel of his hand against his forehead and, unless Sam was very much mistaken, shitting himself. Sam groaned inwardly, but did his best not to show his concerns.

  “Someone’s coming here to kill you all,” Sam told them. “Sorry to be so blunt, but he could be here any minute, so there isn’t much time.”

  There was some general murmuring from the inmates. Opening Knight fell off the desk, still clutching his throat. Anna gave a dismissive wave of a hand and he gasped with relief from his spot on the floor.

  “Who?” grunted a heavyset man with a badly scarred face. He’d torn the sleeves off his bright-green prison scrubs to reveal one arm made of smooth, polished wood and another that looked as if it had been hewn from a lump of granite.