The Sidekicks Initiative Page 17

  “You OK there, Randy?” Sam asked.

  “Buh!” Randy exclaimed.

  His hands slapped at his face until they found his goggles. He maneuvered them back onto his leather flying helmet with quite a lot of difficulty, then blinked for such a long period of time that everyone started to wonder if he’d fallen asleep again.

  “Fine!” he declared in a voice so loud it echoed around the dining room. He immediately winced, pulling his head into his neck and closing his eyes again. “Buh!” he cried again.

  “Yep. You definitely broke him,” said Sam.

  Randy stumbled upright, knocking over his glass and staggering out of his seat. His face was contorted in a grimace of pain, and the way his upper body was stooped suggested his head had become a good fifty pounds heavier.

  “Must… go,” he wheezed, shambling toward the door. “Must commune with the butterflies…”

  They all watched him stagger out into the corridor. Anna took a slow sip of her drink. “So, is that a euphemism, do we think?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we have to get rid of that guy.”

  Sam shrugged. “Honestly? It’s not him I’m worried about.”

  Anna looked offended. “You’re worried about me? I can take care of myself.”

  “No! Not, you,” said Sam. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Nazi.”

  “Oh. OK. Yeah, should’ve realized,” said Anna. “You really don’t like the guy, do you?”

  “He’s a mass-murdering Nazi supervillain who tortured children,” Sam hissed.

  “One child. That we know of,” said Anna. She winced. “That sounded like a stronger defense in my head.”

  “Yes. One child. Me!” said Sam. “So, given all that? No, I can’t say I’m his biggest fan.”

  Chuck clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and nodded slowly. “I get it, Sam. I do. I had more than a few doubts about him, too. But, well…”

  He hesitated. “Mari. Is John in his room?”

  Mari’s screen flickered to black, just for a moment. “John is in the inspiration room,” she said.

  “OK. OK, good.” Chuck knocked back his drink and stood up. “Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you both something.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sam stood by one of several bookcases, his eyes drifting down the shelves of neatly arranged notebooks. Every book had a label on the spine. A different name was written on each one in a studious, block capitalized handwriting Sam recognized.

  “OK, first up, how come the ex-Nazi’s got a bigger room than we have?” Anna asked. She’d glugged a double into her glass before they’d left the dining room, and was now teasing out the final few drops for as long as she could. “And second, what’s with all the notebooks?”

  “He was here first,” Chuck said. “And he had more baggage than you guys. Both figuratively and literally.”

  He took a notebook from one of the bookcases, apparently at random. After quickly flicking through it, he passed it to Sam. “Here.”

  “What is it?” asked Sam, not yet accepting the book.

  “Just take the damn thing and see for yourself,” Chuck urged.

  Sam resisted for a few seconds, then sighed and took the book. He flicked to the first page. It contained a name—Martin Carter—and some basic stats, including age, gender, address and date of birth. There was a passport photo, too, neatly taped in place above the writing.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “You saw his notebook, right?” Chuck asked. “His list of names?”

  Sam nodded and flicked to the next page. It was a double spread, with several other names written in, all joined together with ruler-straight lines. It was a family tree, he realized.

  “There’s a book for every one of those names,” Chuck said. “He found out everything he could about the people he killed. He felt that, since he’d taken their lives, he should do something to mark them. I guess he didn’t want to forget them.”

  “Well, that’s fucking creepy,” Anna muttered.

  “I don’t mean in a serial killer kind of way,” Chuck said. “I mean, like, a shrine to them, or some shit.”

  “Still sounds kind of serial killery,” Anna pointed out.

  Chuck sighed. “Maybe I’m not explaining it right. It made sense when he explained it. Weird, obviously, but it made sense.”

  Sam flicked to another page. More pictures were taped to this one. They were lower quality, like they’d been printed on an inkjet. In one of them, the guy had his face painted like a cat. There was no explanation given.

  Anna picked up another of the books and opened it. “Angela Crossley,” she read. She squinted at the photograph taped to the page. “Ooh. Nice hat.”

  She showed the page to Sam. The photo at the bottom was black and white, not a passport picture. Sam had to agree that it was indeed a nice hat.

  Anna studied the book again. “Cause of death, devoured by wolves,” she said. “Jesus. What happened to your guy?”

  Sam frowned and flicked back to the front page of his book. “Speared up the anus,” he read.

  “Fuck!” Anna exclaimed. “With what?”

  “Don’t know. Doesn’t say.”

  Anna drained the last of her drink. “Poor Martin,” she said, replacing her own book and reaching for another. After reading the name, she went straight for the death details. “Geoff Evans. Prolonged crucifixion.” She lowered the book. “Prolonged crucifixion. Not just crucifixion. Prolonged.”

  “Dawn Ward was crucified, too,” Sam said, consulting another book. “Hers wasn’t prolonged, though.”

  “Well, that seems unfair,” Anna remarked. “What did poor Geoff Evans do to deserve having his drawn-out?”

  They worked their way through almost a full shelf between them, checking causes of death in each book with increasing fascinated eagerness.

  Claudiu Oana was consumed by fire. Allison Aul drowned in toxic waste. Chris Green, Andrew Nicholls, and Julian Cheal all suffocated in the empty vacuum of outer space. Roy, Paul, Christopher, and Robbie Smith were all vaporized. It wasn’t clear if they all went together, or individually.

  Shirley Taylor was crushed by a tank. Slowly.

  “Shit. Listen to this one,” said Anna. She cleared her throat. “Wally Will. Choked to death on own genitalia.”

  “Jesus,” Sam muttered. His brow furrowed. “Wait. Wally Will. Why do I know that name?”

  “Captain Handstand,” said Chuck. “North Dakota Defenders.”

  Sam clicked his fingers. “That’s it. Captain Handstand. He applied for Justice Platoon membership once, I think.”

  “Did they let him in?” Anna asked.

  “He could do handstands,” said Sam. “Of course they didn’t let him in.”

  Sam slid the book he was holding back into position and resisted the urge to pick up another. Anna was right, the whole idea was creepy.

  And yet… it was something. Weird, definitely. Misjudged? Maybe. But something.

  “Doesn’t change anything, though,” he said, to himself as much as to Chuck.

  “No. Doesn’t change what he did,” Chuck agreed.

  He gestured to a chalkboard that hung from the wall above the room’s single folding bed. There were a couple of dozen white lines drawn on there in groups of five - four horizontal, then one diagonally through the others.

  “What’s this?” Sam asked. “Is he counting the days he’s been here?”

  Chuck shook his head. “He’s counting the lives he’s saved. These are all since we broke his programming. He doesn’t keep any details, just marks it on the board. I guess he’s trying to shift the balance.”

  Sam looked from the twenty-odd marks on the board to the rows and rows of notebooks. “That’s going to take some shifting,” he said.

  “Jackie Skidmore. Head swapped with own dog,” Anna read. “Jesus, these things are addictive.”

  “He knows he’ll never tip the scales. Don’t matter how many live
s he saves,” said Chuck. “But he’s trying. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  Sam felt like the alcohol was taking hold. The room spun around him, all those names and lines swirling in a blur around his head. His blood felt hot. It flushed upward into his brain, making his skull feel heavy and full.

  “I’m, uh, I’m going to go to my room,” he said, suddenly finding himself short of air. “I need to… I’m going to lie down.”

  Anna slid the book she was holding back into its space on the shelf. “You OK?” she asked. “Should I…? Want me to come with you?”

  “Uh, no. Not right now,” said Sam. He tried to flash her a smile, but the sight of those books and those names twisted his stomach and turned the grin into a grimace. “I’ll… I have to go.”

  Sam lay in the dark, curled up on his side, one arm buried under his pillow, the other covering his head.

  Kapitän Nazi was a bad guy. He was arguably the worst guy, in fact, genetically engineered by Adolf Hitler to be the ultimate weapon of war.

  But if that was right—if he was a weapon—then could he really be blamed for the things he’d done? If the hammer-wielding thug had managed to hit Sam earlier, it wouldn’t have been the hammer’s fault.

  “It’s not the same,” Sam whispered, admonishing himself. “He’s a monster. He’ll always be a monster.”

  The bed creaked as he flopped over onto his back. He’d closed the door, but a thin line of light seeped in below it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him to at least make out where the ceiling was. He stared up at its gray fuzziness, seeing some of the faces from those notebooks in the patterns of the darkness.

  He closed his eyes, blocking them out.

  An image of the giant gang member leered at him from the void. Sam saw the shiv in his hand and felt his heart race.

  Jesus. What had they been thinking? They could’ve gotten themselves killed.

  “Madness,” he whispered into the darkness.

  And yet, they’d survived. Not only survived, they’d won. Somewhere, an old woman still had her purse because of them. Maybe even still had her life. There was no saying what they’d have done to her. Chuck was right—today, they’d been heroes.

  He snuggled deeper into the thin mattress, trying to get comfortable. His mind wandered to later in the day, and to what had happened with Anna. Or what had almost happened, at least. That had been unexpected.

  Now that he was out of Nazi’s room and no longer in danger of a full-blown panic attack, Sam was beginning to regret not letting Anna accompany him back here.

  Sleep came upon him slowly, lasted a short time, then ended abruptly.

  “Sam!”

  “Wurgh?” Sam opened his eyes to find Randy’s face mere inches from his own. He tried to pull back, but the pillow behind him stopped him from going anywhere. Randy’s beard parted to reveal an expectant grin when he realized Sam was awake.

  “Ready for some hardcore action, old chum?” Randy whispered.

  Sam blinked. “What?” He gripped the edge of his duvet and pulled it up to his chin. “What do you mean? What is this?”

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Randy warned, his face darkening. “This has got to be between me and you. And Allergy Girl, if she wants to get in on it.”

  His breath was hot on Sam’s face. When Randy spoke, Sam could feel his beard brush lightly across his chin. Anna’s room was just a little along the corridor. Maybe, if he shouted loudly enough…

  “Look, Randy,” he croaked. “I’m flattered. Seriously. I’m just… It’s just… I’m not…”

  “I’ve found him,” Randy said.

  Sam’s words caught in his throat. He frowned. “Found who?”

  “The Beef Chief. I’ve had butterflies scouring the city for him, and they just hit the jackpot. He’s hiding in an old abandoned meat shop across town.”

  “What’s a meat shop?” Sam whispered. “You mean a deli? Or a butcher’s store?”

  “I mean a meat shop,” Randy insisted. “A shop that sells meat.”

  “So… like a deli or a butcher’s store,” said Sam. He tried to sit up, but Randy was still too close. “Could you…?”

  “Huh? Oh. OK.”

  Randy jumped up and retreated into the shadows at the corner of the room. Despite his best efforts, he was still clearly visible. Sam could see he was wearing his bright red supersuit with the cape attached.

  “What time is it?” Sam asked, swinging his legs out of bed.

  “It’s Supervillain Ass-Kicking Time!” Randy announced.

  Sam sighed. “OK. Cool. And what’s that in regular time?”

  “Three-twenty-seven AM.”

  “Jesus.” Sam yawned and rubbed his face, trying to wipe away his exhaustion. “Did you tell Chuck?”

  “No! Didn’t you hear what I said?” Randy growled. “We can’t tell Chuck. He won’t let us go. He wants to nanny us. Keep us from getting ourselves killed!”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Sam asked. “It sounds like a good thing.”

  “Not if it means innocent people dying in our place,” Randy spat. “You know what makes us heroes, Sam?”

  “Superpowers?” Sam guessed.

  “No…”

  “The suits? A cool hero name?”

  “Obviously, all that stuff’s important,” Randy reluctantly conceded. “But what really makes us heroes is that we always do the right thing, no matter the cost.”

  Sam didn’t think he did always do the right thing, no matter the cost. He wasn’t even sure he mostly did the right thing, no matter the cost. At best, he occasionally did the right thing, and usually bemoaned the cost afterward to anyone who’d listen.

  “I don’t know, Randy. That Beef Chief guy looks pretty serious. He killed those people. Chuck’s right, he’s out of our league. For now, I mean. Maybe in a couple of weeks…”

  “And what if he kills more people before then?” Randy snarled. “More innocent men and women. More kids. What then, Sam?”

  Sam groaned. “We could tell the police. Maybe Chuck could help them out. Hell—and I don’t believe I’m saying this—maybe Kapitän Nazi could do something. He’s on some big, I don’t know, redemption kick. Maybe he can do it.”

  “Listen to yourself, Sam,” Randy spat. There was a thwack as he slapped Sam hard across the face.

  “Jesus! That hurt! What the hell, man?” Sam protested.

  “The guy’s a murderer!” seethed Randy.

  “Wait… which one are we talking about?” Sam asked.

  Randy slapped him again.

  “Ow! Quit doing that!”

  “Both of them,” Randy said. “You don’t fight darkness with darkness, Sam. You fight it with light.”

  He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and kneaded them, as if giving him a massage. “And we are the light that fights the darkness, Sam. Me. You. Allergy Girl. In that order. With a big gap between us all. It’s like me, then big gap you, then big gap... You get what I’m saying.”

  Randy ran his tongue across his lips, his eyes narrowing. “I forgot my point.”

  “We’re the light that fights the darkness,” Sam said.

  Randy’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s beautiful,” he gasped, like he was hearing it for the first time. “And you’re goddamn right we are. So, you in?”

  Sam ran his hands through his hair. The idea of going to face a murderous supervillain in the middle of the night was not one that appealed. It probably had done once, but that was a long time ago when he’d been young, excitable, and eager to please.

  Now, just the idea of leaving his warm bed to go outside in the cold and dark actively repelled him. Never mind the supervillain, what if it was raining? Were the supersuits waterproof? Did they have a hood rolled up in the collar? He doubted it.

  Clambering about on rooftops in the daytime was one thing, but it was something else entirely to do it in the middle of the night.

  Still, Randy had a point. What if the Beef Chie
f killed someone else tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the day after that? Every minute he was still out there was another minute that the people of Cityopolis weren’t safe.

  And what if next time it was someone Sam knew? One of the people from work? Or Laura?

  Or Corey?

  Sam stood up. “I cannot believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “But fine. Let’s go and see if Anna’s awake.”

  “I fucking hate you guys.”

  Anna plodded along the corridor behind Sam, rubbing her bleary eyes on the forest green sleeves of her costume. Her hair was like an animal’s nest that had been messed up by another much larger animal in order to send the first animal a message.

  “I mean… it’s the middle of the night. You do know that, yes?”

  At the front of the line, Randy stopped and raised a fist.

  “Stop!” he growled.

  “You don’t have to say it, Randy. That’s the whole point of using hand gestures,” Sam whispered.

  Randy pointed to his eyes with two fingers, then to the corner ahead of them. “I’m going to take a look over there.”

  “Again, you don’t…” Sam sighed. “Fine. Go take a look.”

  Anna rubbed her eyes more vigorously, made a sound like a sexually frustrated elk, then finished with a sigh. “God, my head hurts. What time is it?”

  “Justice time,” Randy growled back as he tiptoed to the corner.

  “Which is…?”

  “About four AM,” Sam told her.

  “Urgh! I fucking hate you guys.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah. I kind of hate us, too, so I understand where you’re coming from.”

  They watched Randy slide along the corridor wall with his back to it, edging closer to the corner.

  “This is suicide,” Sam muttered. “I mean… what are we even doing? We’re not ready to fight the Beef Chief. Are we?”

  “Christ, no,” said Anna. “But we won’t have to.”

  Sam turned to her. “What makes you say that? You think he’ll give himself up?”

  “No. We won’t find him.”

  “But Randy said…”

  Sam’s voice trailed off.

  “Exactly,” said Anna. “A butterfly sent him a message into his mind that told him where to find the guy. What do you think the chances are of us getting to where we’re going and finding out it isn’t a secret lair at all, just a regular meat shop?”