Ha!Ha!Ha!

by Steve Beaulieu

  Rose reached over and patted him gently on the shoulder. It was meant to be a comforting gesture of support, but Simon knew better. He knew she had no concern for anyone other than herself. He was fully aware of her self-serving ambitions. He was nothing more than a stepping stone, another tool for her to use. He cut his eyes to her and watched as she smiled. She thought only of herself. The anger swelled again in the pit of his stomach. She had to be eliminated.

  Now was the time.

  Simon motioned with his hand. Rose noticed his quick gesture. A young man appeared at the top of the stadium and began to descend the steps. He was dressed in a blue shirt and faded jeans. He wore a green cap on his head and in his arms he carried a dozen red roses. He was nervous as he passed the rows of seats filled with the city’s most notorious criminals. They laughed and sneered, making derogatory comments as he reached the field and hurried to where Simon and Rose stood.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Rose asked. “Who is he?” The young man stopped just short of reaching the podium. She eyed the bright red bouquet cradled in his arms and smiled, not because of the flowers, but because she noticed how they trembled. She loved the fear her presence caused.

  “Thessse flowersss are for you,” Simon said.

  Rose’s face was still, devoid of any visible reaction until her mouth finally twisted to one side before running into a smile. She put her hand on her chest and batted her eyelids. The young deliveryman climbed the steps and walked over to where Rose waited. The crowd stood and cheered. Rose swung around and waved to them enthusiastically. She relished in the limelight. This was her moment, and she basked in the glory of it all.

  She turned and took the roses from the young man. He released his nervous hold on them and backed up quickly. Simon reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “Ssstay here,” he hissed. “I need you to sssee thisss.”

  Rose walked back and forth in front of the podium, waving her hand in true pageant style. A glamorous grin spread across her face each time she leaned in to inhale the sweet aroma of the crimson bouquet. The cheers roared from the stands and washed over her. Power—true power and ultimate prestige—was at last hers. The deliveryman attempted to pull away, but stopped when he felt Simon’s grip tighten on his arm.

  “No, wait,” said Simon. “It’sss about to happen. Trussst me, you don’t want to misssss thisss!”

  Simon and the deliveryman watched Rose make her walk of triumph one more time, but something was different. It was a subtle change, a slight difference in they way her arm moved as she waved. It seemed slower, labored. And when she turned to look back at them, her smile was gone as was the gleam of elation and victory in her eyes. They had been replaced by a sudden expression of panic. She dropped the flowers at her feet and stumbled back a few steps before falling down.

  The crowd went silent, save for the collective gasp. Simon held on tightly to the arm of the young man struggling to pull away. “Let me go!” he shouted. “I did what you asked. I brought the flowers and gave them to her.” He was frantic, his voice high with fear. “Please don’t—”

  His words stopped when he felt the heat spread through his chest. His arms and legs began to tremble and his head swam with dizziness. He looked at Rose who struggled and gasped, clutching at her throat as she fought for air. Simon released his hold on the deliveryman’s arm and let him collapse on the floor at his feet.

  The mourners began to move, some rushing toward him, while others started to climb the steps to exit the stadium. Simon stood perfectly still and waited. One by one, they started to fall, their shouts and cries turning into the gasping, gurgling sounds of people drowning in their own saliva.

  Simon jumped when he felt the hand grab his ankle. He looked down and saw Rose’s red-gloved hand pawing at his feet. He laughed and kicked it away. Rose rolled over onto her back. She never took her eyes off Simon. He slid his hands into the pockets of his white jacket and stepped over next to where she lay helpless, fighting for her life.

  “My dear Rosssse,” he spoke softly to her then looked up and surveyed the dying villains’ littering the stadium grounds. He puffed out his chest with a great sense of pride. “All of you honessstly thought I’d jussst fade away and allow sssomeone elssse to take over.” Simon threw his head back and laughed. “None of you, not even him,” he pointed at the framed photo of the Sinister Scientist, “ever knew who the real power wasss.”

  Rose gasped and pounded her fists against the floor in a final attempt to hang on to life. Simon bent down and watched closely as her breathing slowed until her heaving chest finally stilled. He let his eyes drift to hers. He smiled when he saw the wide pupils of death staring blankly up at him. The Rose was no more. “Goodbye,” was all he said as he reached down and rested his hand over her eyes. He gently ran his palm down her face and closed her eyelids for the last time.

  Simon left the podium and made his way over to the urn. He tapped the side with his finger. “Thanksss for everything,” he said to the ashes inside. “You were a great teacher, but sssometimesss the ssstudent outgrowsss his massster.” He looked at the picture sitting next to the urn, smiled, then hit it with his fist, breaking the glass and sending the photo falling to the ground.

  He turned and started to head toward the exit. He carefully maneuvered the sea of dead bodies, all the time making a silent roll call of the former Villains that once terrorized this city. All their power, he thought as he stepped around the corpses of the many fallen. All that strength and combined might and yet they were brought down by a tiny red rose.

  He stopped and bent down next to the body of a large, muscular man dressed entirely in black. His head was covered in a dark hood masking his dark-skinned face. In life, he’d been known as Dr. Nocturnal, Doc Noc for short. He was feared for his power to invade and control the nightmares of his innocent victims. Now, he was dead. Simon reached over and took the single red boutonniere pinned to his pitch-black shirt. He’d given it to him. He’d given them all one when they arrived for the memorial. Idiots!

  Simon stood and pinned the boutonniere to his jacket. The aroma was sweet, and he delighted in the scent that filled his nose. He did not fear the toxic poison infused in the petals of this deadly flower. He’d taken the only antidote. He alone was immune to the fragrant death hanging in the air all around him. He adjusted the bud pinned to his chest and climbed the stadium stairs to the exit. When he reached the last step, he turned and made one last survey.

  Victory was his. They were all gone. There would be no one to oppose him now. He’d be the ultimate Villain, the only criminal to challenge the Heroes of this great city. And the final part of his plan would prove to be the most critical. He rubbed the boutonniere again. The Heroes would blame her for all of this. The mighty Rose’s floral signature was all over this massacre.

  She’d been the last to arrive, the last one the Heroes saw enter. Even the good guys knew of her ambitions. The blame would fall squarely at her feet, and since she was dead—since they were all dead—there’d be no one to dispute that terrible assumption. The city would feel free and safe from crime. But that feeling of security would be short-lived. Soon, a new Villain would emerge. A new sinister threat deadlier than anything they’d ever known would rise and strike fear into the hearts of every citizen. And the city will know that threat by its true name: Simon.

  A Word from Greg Wilkey

  I'm an author and professional public school educator. I'm the creator and writer of two supernatural thrillers for young adults: The Life and Undeath of Mortimer Drake vampire novels and The Neither Nor Series starring my young hero, Edgar Flax. I’m excited to share that I’ve signed a TV series development deal with Council Tree Productions for my Mortimer Drake novels. I developed a love of stories and adventure at an early age and I've always loved to read and write. Storytelling is just what I do. I graduated from college with a degree in foreign language education and began a career in teaching world languages. I spent 15 years as a classroom teac
her of Spanish until moving into school administration. I am currently an elementary school assistant principal. It's a job I absolutely love. Kids and teachers are my favorite people! I live, work, and write in my lovely city of Chattanooga, TN.

  GHOSTS OF THE FLAMES

  BY HALL AND BEAULIEU

  GHOSTS OF THE FLAMES

  BY HALL AND BEAULIEU

  I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS. Flying men, aliens who infect your dreams like a virus, a living furnace who belches out magma, an invisible woman who can tear a man’s brain out before he even realizes she’s nearby—those are all undeniably real. But for some reason, ghosts just always felt too far fetched. Something had to be off limits, otherwise what was the point in carrying on? If every nightmare man ever dreamed up walked the earth, why bother trying to make your way in the world? Why not just eat the barrel of a gun and pull the trigger? It seemed to work for my father, anyway. Mom always said he was in hell. I don’t know about that, but he sure wasn’t here suffering with the rest of us. Gordon said there was something noble in my dad’s death, by seizing control of his own cause of death he gave a big middle finger to the screwed up state of the world around us. Gordon’s an idiot.

  Gordon’s dad works—well, worked—at a grocery store and never missed a little league game. The store was destroyed in a freak inland tsunami when the war between the superheroes and the supervillains spilled over into rural Indiana. Tsunatra, the villain who led the attack was rumored to have been singing the Sinatra song “P.S. I Love You” as he summoned the wave and unleashed it against the heroes. Seriously, no lie—you can’t make this stuff up. Seems like an odd choice of a song, if you ask me.

  Tragic as it may be, the loss of our fathers is one of the things that binds me and Gordon together. As for why we let Becca tag along and take a third of our profits? I’m not entirely sure. We met her not very long after Gordon and I realized a super-war created a super amount of collateral damage, and within that collateral damage was a whole lot of valuable stuff waiting to be scavenged. We were picking through the remains of a shopping mall, when all of a sudden she was just…there. Gordon was so surprised he almost accidentally shot her. We tried to intimidate her, to scare her off, but every time we turned around, there she was. Eventually, we just stopped trying and she just kind of melted into the team.

  She was freaking weird at first. She didn’t say a word, ever. It took a long time before she did and at times, I wished she’d have stayed silent. Chick has some dark thoughts, that’s for sure. Gordon says she’s secretly a freak, but I see loss in her eyes. Not the loss of a parent like us, but like a parent who lost something that can never be returned. I’ve never asked her about it. Never will, either. Some things are too tragic to think about. Makes me wonder why she didn’t take after my old man and just end it all. Our team wouldn’t be the same without her though. Truthfully, I like her more than I like Gordon. Did I mention he’s an idiot?

  We travel a lot. Now that the war’s into its fourth year, we’ve got more destroyed areas to scavenge than we can ever possibly get to. Gordon’s got a dream to get us a boat so we can go and start scavenging Europe, but with so much of America destroyed in the latest villain offensive, we’ve got more than we can handle here. Gordon’s driving and Becca’s asleep. I’m pretending to sleep so Gordon won’t talk to me, but as we cross into what used to be Fulton County, Georgia, I can’t pretend anymore. The whole place looks like obsidian, burned so hot it’s all soot and black glass. We’d heard that Living Furnace sacrificed himself to win the battle for the heroes but it was hard to believe that a flying, metal tub of lava was actually capable of being killed. I guess now we knew the truth. The devastation stretched on for hundreds of miles in every direction. I had to slide my goggles over my eyes to keep the ash out as we made our way into Atlanta.

  Every once in a while, I saw specks of green mixed in with the blackened landscape. Biophreak had been in charge of the villain troops here. We’d learned early on to never touch any area with his signature green residue left on it. Gordon’s dog was with us when we started. Poor mutt was the one that discovered just how toxic Biophreak was. One little paw in the wrong spot and the dog imploded, acid eating him from the inside out. He had tread upon the devil’s land and paid the ultimate price. Gordon had said, “better him than me” when it happened. I’m still not sure I agree.

  “Wake Becca up,” Gordon said, “We’re almost there.”

  “Aw, let her sleep. It’s the only time she doesn’t look angry.”

  “This was her idea,” Gordon said. “Tell sleeping beauty I need directions.”

  Our open topped van bounced and creaked as he maneuvered down the ruined highway toward a high-rise apartment building. Though covered in soot and missing several walls, the building was still in pretty decent shape. We always had good luck with these kinds of places. High in their ivory towers, the wealthy stored up their treasures, safe and secure in the belief that their spot in the sky kept them out of reach from common thugs like us. But no one was immune to the war.

  Moving toward the back of the van, I paused for a moment before waking Becca up. She was a sad woman, just in general, but not when she was sleeping. I was convinced that she never dreamed, because hers was the most perfect and peaceful face when she slept. Sometimes, I doubted my theory about her losing kids in the war because she looked so at peace while resting. Once she was awake, though, I didn’t doubt. She wore a never-ending scowl that seemed to be grafted onto her face.

  I nudged the cot with my foot. “Becca, we’re almost there. Go tell Gordon where to go.”

  She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and then, yep, there was the scowl. That’s all she got, about six seconds of peace before the grim reality of death and destruction settled upon her soul once again. In those six seconds, she was actually pretty good looking.

  She stood, gripping the side of the van as she surveyed the blackened remains of downtown, Atlanta. Unmoved by the horrors her eyes had seen, she didn't even flinch at the sight of it.

  “Who won?” she asked, not even a hint of emotion in her voice.

  I shrugged. The war had gotten so ugly I didn’t really think there was a proper way to answer that question anymore.

  “Nobody,” I said.

  Gordon looked back at us.

  “Sure wasn’t us,” he said. “This area’s so devastated, we’ll be lucky if we break even on this trip.”

  Becca scoffed. She sat back down on her cot and began pulling on her boots.

  “That’s the thing about supers. Gods and devils are at war, and us regular humans are just bugs down here, waiting to get stepped on.”

  Her scowl somehow intensified, something I hadn’t even thought possible.

  “We were never gonna win, no matter which side we root for.”

  It was grim, but not wrong. Still, I felt a heaviness upon me that hadn’t been there before she spoke. We travelled the rest of the way in silence. I strapped on my tool belt, then grabbed a pry bar. Gordon called me the engineer of the team. Truth was, I was just smart enough to know how to use all the tools and he wasn’t.

  “Which one is it, Bec?”

  She made her way to the front of the van and point out the window. “Over there.”

  “What’s so special about that,” he asked.

  “Just always wanted to see the inside, I guess.”

  The van came to a stop and I climbed out. My instinct was to offer Becca my hand to help her down, but I’d made that mistake once already. The black eye she gave me told me she was neither interested nor reliant upon help from anyone. Ever since, she got her own self up and down from the van.

  Looking up at the building we were about to enter, I immediately started to feel my stomach knot up. It wasn’t possible to know the structural integrity of the building, and as the so called engineer, it was my job to enter first and go up all stairs first. The only comfort I took was knowing that if a building ever collapsed underneath me, it would fa
ll directly on Gordon.

  “Time to get rich, boys,” Gordon said as he approached the building.

  I pulled my flashlight from my belt and stepped into the lobby of the building. I coughed. The air inside was thick and waves of heat passed over me. Being in a structure hadn’t saved any of these poor people. There were no souls present. Anyone touched by the magma from Living Furnace didn’t just die, they were burned out of existence. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. No charred corpses, no teeth, no bones. Just soot and emptiness. Lucky for us, his magma didn’t seem to have quite the same effect on inanimate objects, and while melted and charred, I still spotted a few things worth salvaging right away.

  “Do you hear that?” Becca asked as she stepped up beside me.

  I hated her for asking the question. Of course I heard it. I always heard it at the site of a Living Furnace battle, but never quite like this. Never anywhere near this loud.

  “It’s just the wind,” Gordon said.

  He didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Of course what we were hearing wasn’t ghosts, but it was something. Whispers, usually just barely audible, right in that sweet spot between being quiet enough to convince yourself you weren’t hearing it and loud enough that you knew you were. But here, they were all around us, a chorus of death.

  Becca shot Gordon a dirty look, then returned her gaze to me.

  “You hear it.”

  She wasn’t asking anymore.

  “It might just be…”

  Before I could finish, the whispers moved; away from us and up the stairs. The exact direction we were headed next. I could feel her staring at me, and against my better judgment I met her gaze. I hated what I saw there, and hated even more that I found some small part of myself agreeing with it. I looked away quickly, silently cursing myself for looking at her in the first place.