The Heroes Reborn event series consists of six short thrillers based on the fascinating characters and rich mythology of NBC’s world-wide hit TV series “Heroes”, and the highly anticipated “Heroes Reborn”. The new season picks up five years after the finale of the original series and finds those with special powers in a precarious and dangerous world where they are feared, persecuted and attacked.
Collection One contains the first three novellas of Heroes Reborn.
HEROES
REBORN
Event Series
Collection One
Book 1: David Bishop — Brave New World
Book 2: Timothy Zahn — A Matter of Trust
Book 3: Stephen Blackmoore — Dirty Deeds
BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Copyright © 2016 Universal Studios Licensing LLC. Heroes Reborn: Event Series is a trademark and copyright of Universal Television. Licensed by Universal Studios Licensing LLC 2016. All Rights Reserved
Published by Bastei LLC, Santa Monica, USA
Book 1 written by David Bishop
Book 2 written by Timothy Zahn
Book 3 written by Stephen Blackmoore
Edited by Allan Guthrie
Cover photography/images: © 2016 NBCUniversal Media, LLC.
Cover design: Cameron Cornelius
E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-96002-012-7
www.bastei.us
HEROES
REBORN
Event Series
Book 1: Brave New World
Are we defined by that which makes us great — our ability to think, to hope, to love? Or are we doomed to answer to our weaknesses — our tendency to fear, to torment, to hate? In the end, perhaps it is both. For what is mankind if not a host of contradictions?
— extract from ESCALATING EVOLUTION by Mohinder Suresh
(unpublished)
ODESSA, TEXAS — TWELVE MONTHS AGO
It was a beautiful summer day as the monarch butterfly fluttered across the park, its orange and black wings a majestic sight in the sunshine. It flew just above the lush grass, flitting here and there before coming to rest on a park bench. The butterfly paused to bend and flex its wings, soaking up the mid-morning warmth.
Someone else was on the bench, close to where the butterfly had landed. Noah Bennet looked every inch the company man in his grey suit and tie, wearing an old-fashioned pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He had an apple in one hand, uncertain whether to start eating. People had been gathering for hours. The summit was due to start at eleven. Once it was underway, he’d get few chances to eat for a while.
Bennet sunk his teeth into the apple while checking his watch. 10:33 — not long now. A shadow fell across him, prompting Bennet to look up. A tall, dark-skinned man loomed over him. Known simply as “the Haitian” within Primatech, many feared his rare ability. Bennet considered Rene an ally, a trusted friend within the company. But that didn’t stop him from demanding answers as soon as Rene joined him on the bench.
“Is she here?”
Rene feigned hurt at his brusqueness. “What, no ‘hello’, no ‘how have you been’? We’ve been friends for too long, Noah.”
Bennet had little time for niceties. “Sorry, I’m just —”
“She’s on her way. But she wanted me to talk to you first. To prepare you.”
“For what?”
“This rift between you and Claire — it’s not healthy,” Rene replied. Father and daughter had not spoken in years, their relationship like a wound that never seemed to heal. Bennet knew the Haitian was holding something back about Claire, but didn’t push it — yet. Instead he gestured toward the nearby Primatech facility.
“Why do you think I helped put this summit together? People have come here from all over the world —”
“Sure,” Rene cut in, “to decide how people like me are supposed to live our lives. Where we can work, who we can marry.”
“We all just want what’s best,” Bennet insisted, aware how weak that sounded.
Rene shook his head. “History is full of people who thought they knew what was best for others …” He rose from the bench, adjusting his jacket.
Bennet knew his friend was right, but he still had high hopes. The summit was a fresh start for all of humanity — evolved or not. But it also had a bleaker potential, should those involved fail to grasp this opportunity to embrace the future. They had to make the summit work, for the sake of all those like Claire. Thinking about her brought Bennet back to Rene’s unexplained remark. “What is it that she wanted you to prepare me for?”
The Haitian opened his mouth to reply, but again avoided giving a direct answer. “Like I said, she’ll be here.” He strolled off, heading away from Primatech, where a temporary stadium capable of holding thousands had been erected.
“Aren’t you going in?” Bennet called after him.
“Never been much of a joiner.”
Bennet smiled at that before taking a fresh bite of apple. He got up and strode toward Primatech headquarters, leaving his half-eaten snack on the bench.
*
The summit had attracted dignitaries and news media from around the world. Three days of discussions about evolved humans had also proven to be a magnet for spectators and protestors alike, forcing Primatech to double and then redouble its security detail. The whole event had blossomed in scale beyond all expectations, turning into a gathering unlike anything Odessa had ever seen.
Most people were kept outside the perimeter — especially any protestors — but those with powers and their families were allowed into the company grounds. Even with entry restricted, a temporary grandstand was still needed to accommodate everyone. Bennet moved through the throng, marvelling at how many had made the journey to be part of this unique moment. It was Woodstock for Evos.
A troop of dancers was performing for the crowd, shape-shifting as they twirled and spun, a rhythmic display of awe-inspiring abilities. Bennet admired their talents until his attention was attracted by a teenage girl dressed as a cheerleader. For a moment, until reality kicked in, he thought she was Claire. Nearly a decade had passed since his daughter last wore that uniform, cheering for other people’s achievements from the side-lines. She was a grown woman now.
Bennet passed a father buying popcorn. Behind him, a giggling five-year-old boy was floating up into the air unaided. Bennet was about to call out a warning, but then realized that the boy was tethered by a cord. The father nonchalantly pulled his son back down to earth. Turning aside, Bennet almost bumped into someone invisible when a hipster with a goatee materialized out of thin air.
Ahead of Bennet a couple ambled by arm in arm, their young son skipping in front of them, a firecracker of excitement. Bennet watched the father, who was beaming with pride. Fifty years ago, the fact that this couple was interracial would have been remarkable. Now it was probably the most ordinary thing about them. Bennet pressed on, passing a row of TV reporters talking to cameras about the imminent summit, their different accents and languages proof that the whole world was watching.
“The eyes of the world have descended right here on little Odessa, Texas —”
“— headquarters of Primatech, the global leader in Evo research.”
“— as thousands arrive to lay the groundwork for a new and lasting peace between human and Evo —”
“— a new dawn, a new beginning, and — one can only hope — a brave new world.”
As Bennet cleared the media zone, a massive shadow fell across the compound. The air turned cold, almost as if an eclipse was blocking out the sun. Like everyone around him, Bennet looked up, searching for the cause. This was no naturally occurring phenomenon. It had to be the work of —
A sudden, blinding white flash exploded out of nowhere, followed by another and another. Bennet only had time for a single thought: the explosions were totally silent. Then all was oblivion.
*
When Bennet came to, all he could hear was a muted hum — like a distant doorbell, ringing nonstop. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils, threatening to choke him. He opened his eyes and saw a world cracked apart, flakes of ash falling from the sky like grey snow. Bennet pulled himself up to a sitting position on the ground, wincing at the sudden pain the movement caused. Everything was a blur — glasses, where were his glasses?
He reached out, feeling among the rubble and dust until his fingers closed round the familiar horn-rimmed frames. Clutching them, he rose groggily to his knees, then up to his feet. Finally, he put on his glasses. One lens was cracked, but that couldn’t disguise the apocalyptic chaos around him. It looked like a war zone, like bombs had gone off everywhere. He grimaced. That’s exactly what had happened, but who was responsible?
Bennet turned in a slow circle, bearing witness to the pitiless devastation surrounding him. Scattered everywhere were the bodies of those laid low by the blast. Some looked unconscious, but with others it was obvious that they would never wake again. Blood stained the rubble crimson in far too many places. As the persistent ringing in his ears eased, Bennet could hear a growing chorus of pain and anguish from those still alive. So much suffering, so many people had lost someone they loved in the blink of —
Bennet’s heart lurched. There, on the ground — the body of a cheerleader. No, not a body: a corpse. Bennet knew it wasn’t his daughter, but she was still someone’s child. The shock of seeing that poor girl snapped his thoughts into focus. He had to find his own child. He had to know where she was. He had to know if she was still alive.
“Claire!” Nobody replied. “Claire!!!”
SAINT-FELICIEN, QUEBEC — NINE MONTHS AGO
The man was running for his life. He raced along the road, breathless and desperate in the darkness. He could hear a utility truck behind him, powerful hunting lights mounted on top of it, their beams trained on him. He could hear the shouts of his pursuers, calling to each other in French.
As he ran, the man’s head jerked from side to side, looking for anyone who might help him. But they were at the edge of town, heading into darkness, with only trees on either side. The streetlights were getting further apart. Soon it would be just scrubland.
The truck was catching up to him fast. He couldn’t stay on the road. He would have to risk going into the woods and hope to lose his pursuers. Hope was all he had left.
The roar of a second vehicle joining the first made up his mind. He broke left and ran into the trees, weaving an erratic path between them, feet pounding the uneven ground. Bursting into a clearing, he stopped to get his bearings. But it was no use. He was lost.
The fugitive bent forward, hands on his hips — panting, gasping for air. His hair was carefully groomed most days and, with his sculpted goatee, usually gave him the look of a hipster — but not here, not now. Instead his body was covered head to foot in white talc, and a pair of tighty-whitey underpants was his only protection from the cold evening air. This was no midnight run to the coffee shop.
The roar of approaching engines meant the hunters had found a path through the woods. Shouted voices echoed in the darkness: “Par ici! Ici!” This way, they were calling. Here! Here! Summoning his strength, the man forced himself to move. He had to get away from them. He had to try. But no matter where he ran, escape seemed impossible. The search beams of the twin trucks stalking him were everywhere, angry French voices shouting over the roar of the engines. It was no good.
Then the clouds overhead parted for a moment and moonlight glinted off a wide, shallow pond up ahead. He dashed forward and dove into the dank water. It was ice cold, but that didn’t matter. He scrubbed at his body, intent on washing off the talc. Suddenly, a voice close by was shouting: “Ici! Sous l’arbre!”
Here. Under the trees. They’d found him.
He was scrambling across the pond when both trucks roared up to the water’s edge. Glancing back, he could see men in hunting gear leaping from both vehicles, armed with rifles, some with dogs. One of them was carrying a big cargo net. They would throw it over him, trap him underneath it like a wild animal. He was cornered. Helpless.
The hunted man saw faces in the searchlights. There was no pity here. No mercy.
He turned, running toward the far side of the pond — and disappeared!
The hunters gasped, spluttering curses at this impossibility.
Water was still splashing up from invisible legs.
But then their quarry got clear of the pond.
All trace of him vanished in the night.
YANQUING, CHINA — FOUR MONTHS AGO
Everything was blue and white and bright. The harsh winter sun gleamed on a landscape of ice stretching as far as the eye could see. The frozen lake looked smooth from a distance, but the surface was uneven and treacherous for anyone on foot. Wave crests had turned to ice, white hazards that hampered anyone trying to cross this wasteland. So clear and blue was the sky, it was hard to distinguish where it met the horizon.
Across the middle of this frozen wasteland lurched a single, solitary figure. His pale blue prison uniform marked him as a fugitive, while his shock of black hair was a stark contrast to the surrounding blue and white landscape. His progress was slow across the frozen lake. Exhaustion played a part in that, as well as malnutrition from a harsh prison diet.
But the major cause of his fatigue was a fifty-pound circle of rusted metal. It was a disc usually found on a weightlifting barbell, but someone had run a chain through the hole in its center. The other end of the chain was welded to a crude metal shackle clamped tight round the fugitive’s right wrist. He dragged the weight behind him as he staggered forward, step after belligerent step. The edges of the shackle had rubbed against his wrist until it was raw and bloody, harsh metal slicing into the skin and flesh with each step he took. Finally, unable to carry on, the fugitive stopped.
His breath fogged the air, white steam rising into the clear blue sky. How many miles had he trudged? How much further until he found sanctuary, someone who could remove this accursed millstone from his body? He sniffed the air, hoping for some scent that might offer a clue. But all he could smell was his own sweat and despair.
As his breathing settled from a rasp to a less strenuous effort, a sound reached him. Mechanical. Urgent. Getting nearer. The fugitive knew that noise: snowmobiles. They were coming for him. They were close. He looked round, searching for cover. But there was no hiding place, not for miles. Only two possible escapes were left to him, and both involved the crude blade shoved into his belt.
He had crafted it from a piece of sheared-off metal he found in the prison yard, binding bits of broken wood around it with scraps of cloth to create a handle. He could use the blade to cut his own throat and end this torment. Or he could use it to cut something else and set himself free. Ignoring the metal disc at his feet, he crouched down, face staring up into the sky. But when he snapped back upwards, his feet remained stuck on the icy surface, the accursed weight holding him down, keeping him prisoner.
The fugitive turned to face the onrushing noise. Two military snowmobiles and an armored vehicle with snow tracks were speeding across the white expanse, headed straight for him. Even from this distance, he could make out their green camouflage and the red star emblem. They would be on him in less than a minute. They would take him back to that hellhole.
He pulled the blade free from his belt, lifting it up in front of his face. He could see his exhausted features reflected in the metal, weary from having been a prison lifer. He had not asked to be like this, to be a freak, an outcast. How long could he go on fighting? But he had no time for self-pity now. The fugitive moved the blade’s edge down to his right forearm, pressing against the skin. If he was going to do this, it meant hacking through bone. If he was going to do this, the pain would be excruciating. If he was going to do this, it had to be now. Because if he wanted to live, there was no other option …
*
The soldiers gunned their machines forward, accelerating across the frozen lake. Up ahead, the fugitive had stopped, as if giving up on his doomed escape attempt. But as they grew closer, a horrific scream sliced through the air-the sound of a wounded animal, so loud it could be heard over their engines, an anguished cry of loss and suffering. Ahead of them, something fell away from the solitary figure. Something red.
*
Free at last, the fugitive crouched down on blood-spattered ice as the soldiers stopped behind him. Before they got within range, he hurled himself into the sky! His body rocketed toward the heavens, moving faster and faster, a shriek of triumph and pain rising with him. Within moments, he smashed through the sound barrier. A circle of vapor billowed in the blue sky as he flew away, headed east — away from China, away from his captors. Away to find a new life for himself in a brave new world.
US-CANADIAN BORDER — SEVEN WEEKS AGO
Tommy Clark was doing his best to keep it together, but his best wasn’t winning. It didn’t help that Tommy wasn’t his real name, no matter what it said in his passport. The photo — thin faced, wide-eyed, blessed with ears that stuck out too much — was him, alright. The stated age of sixteen was correct, too. But everything else in his passport was a lie, and it was stressing him out. This whole trip was stressing him out.
Then there was his mom, Anne. Driving here had taken hours, and she’d spent every minute making him rehearse their story, over and over. Now that there were only four cars between them and the Canadian border checkpoint, Tommy’s mind had gone blank.
“Let’s go through it again. Who are we visiting?”
“Cousins.” Tommy wracked his brain for their names. “Ned and Tammy Cooper.”
Anne drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. On edge, as usual. “Where?”
“Bram … ford?”
“Brampton!” She slammed a fist on the dash. Tommy watched her struggling not to yell at him. “Come on, Kevin, you’ve got to get the details right.”
He held his passport open at the photo page. “This says ‘Tommy’.”
Anne peered at it. “Right, you’re right. Tommy.”
They weren’t ready, not even close — and certainly not for this. Rain beat down on the windscreen, making it hard to see the way ahead. Tommy bit his bottom lip. Maybe he could persuade his mom to turn back. It was worth a try, anyway. “‘Hero_Truther’ says that in other countries they shoot people like me in the streets.”
“It’s Canada, not North Korea. You’ll be safe. Canadians are nice.”
Tommy grimaced. “That’s what you said about people in Denver.”
She ignored his comment, easing off the brake to roll forward as their queue edged closer to the checkpoint. There were four lines waiting to get through, but only two lanes open in the opposite direction. Seemed everybody wanted to visit Canada today.
Tommy could feel panic rising inside him, like a fist trying to fight its way up to his mouth. They wouldn’t have to run if it wasn’t for him. Stupidest. Power. Ever. He swallowed hard, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans. “This is all my fault.”
“No, it’s not. We have a chance at a new life,” his mom insisted. She reached out with her right hand to touch the side of his face, as if hoping to soothe his fears away. “If we can get to Saskatchewan —” She stopped, staring ahead. “What’s happening up there?”
Tommy leaned forward, squinting to see through the rain. Armed guards were moving up and down the queues, glaring into the vehicles. One woman was standing beside her car near the front of the next queue over, mouth wide open as a border guard with latex gloves prepared a DNA swab.
“Oh, no,” Tommy whispered. “They’re swabbing.”
Suddenly the woman bolted, abandoning her car and fleeing the surprised guard. She ran toward the border, but it was hopeless, the last act of a desperate person. Four guards came running over from the checkpoint, all of them armed. The woman only got a few yards before she was shot in the back with an orange dart. She crumpled to the wet road, her body twitching and convulsing as if she was having a fit. The guards surrounded her, weapons raised, ready to shoot her again — but she stayed down.
Tommy turned to his mom, terrified. “What do we do? What do we do?”
His mom was already putting the car in reverse.
Tommy twisted round, searching for a way out. There were at least half a dozen cars behind them, the nearest one close to their bumper. They were stuck. Tommy heard his mother gasp, and faced front again. Two guards were marching toward them, faces grim and purposeful. Tommy sank down into his seat. This was it. This was the moment that the world found out who he was and what he was, what he could do —
His mom shoved the car back into drive and hit the gas. They slammed straight into the car ahead, shunting it several feet forward. That gave her enough room to swing left, escaping the queue. Tires squealed in protest as they veered round on the road. Tommy clung on for dear life as they made a wild U-turn. His box of Ninth Wonder comics spilled across the back seat.
Once they were facing south, his mom floored it, accelerating away from the guards, away from the checkpoint. Up ahead of them, a green and white RETURN TO U.S.A. sign directed them to bear left. Tommy risked a look back at the Canadian border. So much for a new life.
*
Special Agent Cole Cutler was making a routine visit to the border crossing when the Evo woman bolted. He corrected himself — Evolved Human was the preferred terminology at the Agency, though everybody still called them Evos. Made no difference to him. Finding and bringing them in, that was his job — plain and simple.
He watched guards bring down the fleeing woman with brisk efficiency. Border crossings were only one hotspot among many, but it was good to see the system working so well. Cutler pulled some pistachios from a coat pocket and popped one in his mouth.
Moments later, one of the queuing cars jumped out of line. The driver was in such a hurry that they clipped another vehicle before accelerating away. Cutler suspected there was an Evolved Human inside, but decided against ordering a full-scale pursuit. He preferred to be sure. Besides, the Evolved Humans might run, but they couldn’t hide forever.
Cutler savored the salty tang of pistachio before spitting out fragments of shell, his remorseless gaze following the car as it sped into the distance. Catch you later.
Before June thirteenth, Odessa was a thriving city in central Texas, a bright and sunny place full of prosperous businesses, busy high schools, and happy families going about their normal lives. But a cowardly act of Evo terrorism reduced the Primatech building and the area immediately around it to a desolate wasteland, killing 2,343 people. Even today — one year on from that atrocity — it’s said that more than a thousand bodies are still entombed beneath the rubble. The rest of the city lives on, but its people have been left forever scarred by the terrible events of that day.
In this special report, we are looking back at a year of mourning and anguish — for some, a year of persecution; for others, a year of justice. No matter your political or spiritual beliefs, the Odessa tragedy has forced us all to look at ourselves, to question our shared humanity. We have been asking, what makes us human? What binds us together, and what tears us apart? This magazine’s investigative team has spent the past three months asking a further question: why Odessa? We believe we’ve found the answer.
“Evolved Humans” — or Evos, as they’re often called — have been living among us for decades, staying in the shadows, hiding their abilities. But that all changed in 2010 when a young woman called Claire Bennet outed her kind on live television in New York’s Central Park. Following that extraordinary moment, Primatech became the company most associated with Evos. Once steeped in secrecy, Primatech emerged to consult with governments around the world, training law enforcement agencies and helping to ease relations between human and Evos. That led to the company hosting a global summit on evolved humans, and the tragedy that followed.
On June thirteenth of last year, the company opened the doors to its Odessa HQ for what was to be a three-day summit. Some saw it as a symbolic gesture, but people gathered from around the world, hoping to build a better future — a future in which humans and Evos could live together in peace. That peace would prove short-lived.
— extract from THE ODESSA FILES, Enquiry magazine,
June 2015 edition
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
The woman ran as if it was a matter of life and death. Joggers were common enough in this suburb after dark, but they didn’t have her murderous hate in their eyes. They certainly didn’t have shotguns slung over their backs like her, or pistols in their hands.
Joanne raced into a dead-end alley, her face full of the focused determination of a sprinter. She cut sideways to a fence and was over it in moments, slamming down hard on the other side. Pausing to catch her breath, she scanned the street ahead of her.
Someone else was out running tonight but, like Joanne, he was no jogger. For a start, he was wearing a mechanic’s jumpsuit instead of athletic gear, and heavy work boots instead of running shoes. The crude Mohawk cut into his reddish hair gave him the look of a redneck, not a road racer. Sprinting as fast as he could, the man kept looking back over his shoulders, terror etched into his face. He was running scared. Literally.
Joanne stepped out of the fence’s shadow so the streetlights caught her dark skin as he glanced back. She wanted him to see her coming. She wanted him to know terror.
Brandishing her gun, Joanne set off in pursuit of her target, a smile on her face.
*
Luke parked his station wagon across from a church. He watched as a few people hurried into the building, none of them arriving together, all looking round before they ventured in through a side door. Furtive, ashamed of why they were there.
Catching his own expression in the wing mirror, Luke realized it was much the same. Careworn creases were starting to collect at the corners of his brown eyes. He looked away, unable to meet his own gaze anymore. Not after all that had happened.
Luke got out of the station wagon and dug a scrap of paper from his pocket. One word was scrawled across it: COCKROACH. After a final look round to see if anyone was watching, he headed across the street.
*
Missing double math had been no sacrifice, but the trek from Carbondale had taken forever. Even when Tommy got to Chicago, he needed to change buses twice to reach the church. Tommy knew they couldn’t exactly advertise, but did it have to be all the way out here? He gave a silent prayer of thanks for smartphone maps.
Stop putting it off, Tommy told himself — just go in. You came this far, man up and do this. But his feet refused to move, and his hands were trembling. It took another person’s arrival to shake Tommy from his thoughts. The church exterior wasn’t well lit, but that didn’t prevent Tommy from recognizing the man who made his life miserable each and every week in gym class.
“Coach Lewis?”
The newcomer stopped, startled at hearing his own name. “Ah, jeez. You gotta be kidding me.” Coach Lewis glared at Tommy before stalking toward the church.
Tommy shifted his backpack from one shoulder to the other and sighed. He never would have come if he’d known Coach was going to be here.
*
Caspar Abraham sat at a bus stop just up the road from the church. His appearance was quite incongruous, considering it was well after dark in this down-at-heel suburb. A light grey suit enveloped his generous frame, and a bowtie nestled beneath his greying goatee. He had a fresh red carnation in his jacket buttonhole and was sporting a brown trilby hat. Retro horn-rimmed glasses helped mask the fact that one of his eyes had an involuntary sideways twitch. Throw in the battered briefcase held tight on his lap, and he looked like a travelling salesman who had somehow wandered here from the 1950s.
Despite all of that, nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention. The young man who had gotten off the bus less than a minute before nodded to him, but that was typical. Caspar seemed to blend into the background, leaving little trace of his presence even as people walked right by him. It suited his purposes, and it never failed to make him smile.
Caspar watched the nervous young man hesitating outside the church. Finally, the teenager plucked up the courage to go in through the side entrance. Caspar remained at the bus stop, keeping his silent vigil.
*
Tommy approached a doorway in the church basement. He could still turn round and go home, it wasn’t too —
An angry old man stepped out to confront him. “Password.”
Startled, Tommy struggled to remember the word he had found online. “Cockroach?” The old guy glowered at him a moment before moving aside.
Tommy went into the meeting room, but what he found there didn’t fill him with confidence. The walls and floor were various shades of green. That and the bleak overhead lighting gave the room a queasy, claustrophobic feel. A table against one wall was stacked with paper cups, and a filter coffeemaker was giving off an acrid smell. Eight folding chairs faced each other in a circle, but most people in the dingy room were gathered round a wall-mounted TV in one corner. Welcome to Evos Anonymous.
Tommy moved closer to the others, wanting to see what had them clustered round the TV. It didn’t make for happy viewing. On screen were grainy images from the Odessa attack. Most of the footage came from cell phones, filmed by those who had survived June thirteenth. Tommy had seen it all before, far too many times: people running, sobbing. Smoke, chaos. And bodies. So many bodies.
“Within hours, an Evo-Supremacist named Mohinder Suresh had claimed full responsibility for the attacks,” an authoritative voiceover announced. The Odessa film was replaced by a photo of an Indian man, his face calm with a certain professional detachment.
Coach Lewis shut off the TV with an angry sneer. “Lies, all of it.”
People starting taking their seats. Tommy picked the chair two places down from Coach Lewis, not wanting a face full of gym teacher. He slipped his backpack underneath the hard plastic chair and sat down. Between Tommy and the coach was a man in his thirties, hunched forward, hands clenched together as if praying or deep in thought. He had brown hair and a close-cropped beard. Looked sad, like he’d rather be somewhere else, but then wouldn’t they all? Tommy glanced round at the others, wondering what their powers were. Nobody offered to introduce themselves, so Tommy gave them nicknames in his head.
Past Coach Lewis was a lady in a flowery dress, a brown jacket, and brown boots. She reminded Tommy a little of his mom, but older and even more worn down. Next to her was the angry old man who’d been guarding the door. He glared at everyone with suspicion, which didn’t make Tommy feel any more welcome, since they were sitting opposite each other. Beside the angry old man was an aging biker woman with a wild haircut and a face that had seen too many miles, then a Chinese guy with only one hand. His right arm ended in an ugly stump near where the wrist should have been. He didn’t look happy about it — or anything else, come to that.
The last person, seated just to Tommy’s right, was a soccer-mom type with a designer jacket and handbag. One man didn’t sit down, a hipster dude with a goatee, checked shirt, and beanie hat. Instead he prowled the outside of the circle, nursing a cup of coffee, looking like he was ready to bolt for the door at any moment.
Biker Woman was first to break the silence. “This is pathetic. Nine of us? How the hell are we supposed to fight back if we can’t even organize?”
Fight back? That was news to Tommy. He thought this was an anonymous support group for people with powers. What had he gotten himself into here?
“We gotta get creative,” Soccer Mom insisted. “There’s a guy in Los Angeles fighting back. Calls himself ‘El Vengador’.”
Coach Lewis snorted. “Seriously, the dude in the Mexican wrestler costume? That’s a joke, right?”
“Least he’s doing something.”
Dress Lady leaned forward. “I hear he’s got a whole underground railroad out there. Fake IDs, fake blood samples. A way to disappear —”
Beside her, Angry Old Man dismissed that with a sneer. “One guy! So what? Pretty soon they’ll have drones coming after us!”
Biker Woman smirked. “Let ’em try.” She flexed a hand in the air, making it spark and crackle with electricity. Tommy couldn’t help envying her power.
Chinese Guy held up his stump. “Where I’m from, they shoot people like us, dump the bodies in a ditch. At least this is America. You still have rights.”
Soccer Mom shook her head. “You reading the same papers I am?”
“June thirteenth changed everything,” Dress Lady said. “We’re third-class citizens now. The public’s scared to death of us.”
Tommy could sense his gym teacher bristling through all of this. Sure enough, Coach Lewis couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Most of these incidents have been isolated. Tulsa, Cedar Rapids — vigilantes, a few bad apples, that’s all.”
“If the problem was just vigilantes,” Angry Old Man snapped, “the government wouldn’t be forcing us to register every time we move.”
Hipster Dude slammed down his coffee on a folding table, anger bringing out the French in his accent. “You people don’t get it. It’s not the government or vigilantes we should be worried about. The ones really hurting us are in the shadows. They read our emails, track our cell phones — they know every click on our computers. There’s something else going on. They’re everywhere!”
A long silence followed as he turned away from them, rant over. Tommy could feel his heart sinking. Things were even worse than he’d thought. Terrific.
“So what are we supposed to do with that?” Coach Lewis hissed. “Chase ghosts?”
Dress Lady had a suggestion. “My daughter and me, we heard about a place in North Saskatchewan where Evos can walk around in the open.”
“My mom and I tried to get there, but they were swabbing people at the border.” Everyone turned to look at Tommy, waiting for him to continue. He’d spent so long keeping secrets, not talking to anyone but his mom about this. Now he was in a room full of people like him. They all knew how it felt to be different, to be an outsider. If he couldn’t talk here, where else could he go? Tommy swallowed hard before continuing.
“We’re wanted in three states because I can’t really control my … power. We move a lot. Mom sleeps with a gun under her pillow, when she sleeps at all.” Words were tumbling out of him now. “We use fake IDs most of the time. I’m calling myself Tommy now.”
“No names,” Angry Old Man snarled.
Tommy stopped a moment, stung by the rebuke, but he had to finish this. “I came here because I thought someone could give me a few tips, maybe help me out a little?” He looked round the circle, desperate for someone, anyone, to respond. But all he got was silence. Nobody would meet his gaze, not even Coach Lewis, who knew him.
It was Hipster Dude who finally spoke up. “Came to the wrong place, my friend.”
As the others resumed arguing, Tommy felt a vibration in his pocket. Pulling out his cell, he swiped the screen. Rent check on the counter. Let landlord in.
Crap. Unless he got home in time, his mom would figure out he’d gone AWOL. “Sorry, I gotta —” Tommy snatched at his backpack under the chair and half its contents spilled out: school books, pencils, papers. Blushing crimson, he rammed his stuff back into the bag before scurrying away through the double doors.
*
Tommy burst out of the church. His pace quickened when he saw a bus idling at the stop, ready to leave at any moment. Some old man in a suit was already there, maybe he —
Tommy ran straight into the delivery guy, knocking him and his bicycle over. Cartons of Chinese food went flying, noodles spilling across the pavement.
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy stammered, all too aware of the waiting bus. “Really sorry.” The engine began to rev as the vehicle prepared to leave. Tommy sprinted for the bus, banging on the side as it started pulling away. To his relief, the bus slowed down and opened its doors. He threw himself inside and clattered up the steps, gasping for breath.
*
Caspar watched the bus depart, a quiet smile of satisfaction on his pudgy features. But dark muttering from the other direction soon demanded his attention. The delivery guy was picking lo mein out of his slacker hairstyle, grumbling about stupid brats who didn’t look where they were going. Caspar’s eyes narrowed.
*
In the basement, any semblance of meaningful debate had degenerated into shouting.
“Suresh? That terrorist! Hell, he’s the reason we’re in this basement!”
“You can’t have a revolution without casualties! Resistance is our only answer!”
“Exactly. We have to stop acting like victims. We’re the ones with powers!”
“Face it, people, Suresh was right. We are the future of the human race.”
Luke laughed out loud at that last comment. The others stopped to look at him.
“The future? That’s a good one,” he said. “My wife and I brought our nine-year-old son Dennis to Odessa on June thirteenth to watch history being made. Sun was out, summer heat just rising. I’m watching my boy play outside on a sunny day, feeling free for the first time in his life.” Luke paused. Tears were running down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away. “And I’m thinking about how he’s gonna be able to live a life without hate, without persecution. Just like any normal kid.”
The pretty woman on his right leaned over to touch his arm, to comfort him.
Luke bent forward, staring at the shabby floor. His hands squeezed into fists, knuckles whitening. “And then you people — you freaks — you ruined it for everyone.”
Silence. His accusation soured the air, hardening the faces of those gathered. The old guy who’d been at the door spoke first. “Who the hell are you?”
Before Luke could reply, the doors behind him flew open. A newcomer burst in, mechanic’s overalls drenched in sweat. “It’s a trap! They found us!”
Joanne stalked in and shot the mechanic through the chest, his blood spattering those nearest. Luke rose from his chair to stand beside her, pulling out a concealed weapon, an eerie calm on his face. The couple opened fire, executing those nearest to them with brutal, merciless efficiency.
Luke took aim at Coach Lewis, but the muscle-bound gym teacher slammed his hands together, creating a concussion wave that threw Luke and Joanne back toward the double doors. Coach Lewis pulled his hands apart, and a hot ball of living flame grew in the space between them, swirling and crackling with malevolent energy. Luke grabbed a fire extinguisher from a bracket on the wall and sprayed the contents at Coach Lewis. Having doused the fireball, he executed the coach with a shot to the head.
Luke heard gunfire over his shoulder and saw Joanne shooting at thin air. But her bullets still found a target, blood spraying from where they hit. The Canadian hipster materialized as he fell to the floor, dying or already dead. Joanne nodded to Luke, then her eyes widened in surprise. He spun round to find the pretty woman who’d tried to comfort him now transforming into an ugly mass of craggy vines. One vine sprouted across the room, reaching for a window. Luke unfolded a portable hatchet from a sheath hidden behind his back. He swung the blade down into the nearest vine, hacking straight through the limb. The dismemberment shocked the woman back into human form. She writhed on the floor, blood spurting from her severed arm. Luke put his gun to her ear.
“You were talking about El Vengador. Where do I find him?”
Her face was pain and anguish and terror. “I don’t know. I swear.” Her denial sounded credible, but another vine grabbed a coffee urn, launching it at his head. Joanne deflected the urn with a chair. Luke pulled the trigger and all the vines fell to the floor.
Then there was silence. After a minute of mayhem and bloodshed, the sudden quiet was unnerving. Luke wrinkled his nose at the stench of gunpowder. He looked over at Joanne. “What took you so long?”
She shrugged, swiping blood from one of her shoes. Luke spied a white rectangle of paper on the floor, underneath the chair where the kid had been. He picked it up, turning the card over. There were ten squares on it, with holes punched through nine of them. Someone had drawn a red smiley face in the final space.
“What’s that?” Joanne asked.
“One of them got away. He dropped this.”
She took the card and smiled. “‘Moe’s Ice Cream Parlor, Carbondale, Illinois.’ Hmm, one more and we get a free ice cream.”
Blood from the man Luke had extinguished was flowing across the floor toward them. Luke pulled matches from a pocket and lit one. “This is for Dennis.” He dropped his match into the blood. It caught fire like gasoline as Luke and Joanne marched out.
SAN PEDRO HARBOR, CALIFORNIA
Charlie could see fog rolling in across the docks from his vantage point in the warehouse, but most of his energy was focused on not drowning. Two armed thugs had wrapped heavy chains around his ankles, tied rope around his wrists, and were using a pulley to dunk him in and out of a large tank of rusty water. They dropped him feet first into the liquid for several seconds before slowly, laboriously lifting him out again. Charlie choked, gasping for air.
“Give up the Evos and we cut you down,” one thug snarled.
“I told you,” Charlie spluttered between breaths, “I don’t know anything.”
“Come on,” the other thug urged. “Where does the railroad lead?”
“They just paid me to drive the truck, that’s all. I swear.” Charlie saw his captors exchange a look. Maybe they were finally starting to believe him.
“Alright. We’re done here,” the second thug announced.
The duo let go of the rope. Charlie plunged toward the water, but this time there was no way for his captors to pull him back out. He screamed and got a mouthful of water as he sank to the bottom of the tank.
Bubbles rose around him, his frantic efforts to shake loose the chains or escape the ropes worse than useless. He was going to drown here, inside a forgotten warehouse on an abandoned pier, and all because he agreed to help some —
A muffled scream reverberated through the tank, then another.
Charlie looked up at the surface, hoping against hope for a miracle — and then it happened! A muscular arm plunged into the water, grabbed hold of the chains, and lifted him out of the tank.
He tumbled to the warehouse floor like a wet fish, coughing water and bile. As he recovered, Charlie dared to look round. The thugs’ broken bodies were close by, but there was somebody else standing closer, casting a mighty shadow over all of them.
Charlie rolled over to see his savior. He was tall, with a muscular frame clad in dark body armor and chiselled features hidden by a wrestling mask. Strong hands reached down, freeing Charlie from his chains.
“Thank you, thank you!” Struggling to his feet, Charlie stumbled out of the warehouse. He expected his savior to follow, but instead the powerful figure stayed with the thugs. Charlie stopped by the doorway to watch.
One thug was reaching for his discarded gun. A heavy boot smashed down on the weapon, crushing it underfoot. “Tell your bosses I know where they live.”
The thug managed a croak. “Who … who are you?”
“I’m El Vengador.”
We pride ourselves in providing students with an outstanding academic and athletic experience. The faculty and staff work collaboratively to provide an education that will prepare students for continued success throughout life. We truly believe this is the best high school in southern Illinois, and one of the best in the entire state. That’s why our motto is “Dedicated to Excellence”.
— text from the Pinehearst High School homepage
CARBONDALE, ILLINOIS
It was dawn by the time Tommy got back from Chicago. His trek home had taken even longer, made worse by the lack of answers or hope at the meeting. Plus now he had the problem of facing Coach Lewis at school, both of them knowing the other’s secret. Like gym class wasn’t bad enough already.
Tommy snuck in through his bedroom window. As he put his backpack down, he heard a noise in the hall. He threw himself into bed, grabbing a comic from the floor. Moments later, his mom burst in, a 9mm Glock in one hand. But by the time she’d turned on the light, Tommy was reading the latest issue of Ninth Wonders.
“Dammit, Kevin! I thought you were a —”
“It’s Tommy,” he reminded her for the millionth time. His mom let go of the trigger, her fingers white from gripping it so hard. “I know you’re stressed out, Mom, but maybe don’t bring the gun to your interview.”
She smiled at the mention of her positive job prospect. Moving so often and using fake IDs meant getting paid under the counter most of the time, working two jobs to pay for things they used to afford on one salary. But an old friend had gotten her an interview and was helping smooth over the gaps in her resume.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” she said. “Neonatal nurse, just like the old days. So I need you up in twenty. No, make it ten.”
A wry smile crossed Tommy’s face as his mom started to leave the room. He was already dressed, so that should speed things up. But something was nagging at him. “That text you sent about the landlord. Sorry I didn’t —”
“The what?” His mom paused in the hall, distracted.
“”