Superhero Me!: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Mortality Bites Book 3) Page 4

  Two words: collateral damage.

  A girl dressed up like Jessica Jones was standing next to The Three Bares statue, screaming at some kid in an orange jumpsuit. He glowed gold as he hovered in the air, and he wore a black belt, a monkey’s tail and the Daoist symbol for “turtle” on his left breast.

  “Goku?” Andrew said with absent-minded awe.

  “Of course,” I said, slapping my forehead. “From Dragon Ball Z.”

  That was all I managed to get out before Jessica Jones picked up some poor workman’s maintenance truck—the man paused in his lawn mowing to watch—and threw it at Goku.

  Comet Boy slapped the flying truck with the back of his hand and sent it hurtling right at us.

  I tackled Cassy and Andrew, narrowly pushing them out of the way. The three of us tumbled into the snowbank, the truck only just missing us as it crashed on the ground and skidded by.

  “Phew,” I said.

  “Oh. My. God,” Andrew huffed out, then looked at me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  Cassy, on the other hand, was less than grateful. “You shouldn’t have,” she muttered, and looking into her ocean blue and gray eyes, I saw she meant it.

  Shouldn’t have what? Risked my life to save them? Or saved them at all? I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t have time to think about that now.

  “The engineering building. You guys run in there—now!”

  “What about you?” Andrew asked.

  Looking at the Jessica Jones look-alike across the field, I shrugged and said, “I gotta go see about a girl.”

  ↔

  I waited to make sure that Cassy and Andrew were safely inside before standing up, dusting off the snow on my oh-so-well-fitted outfit and casually making my way toward the quad and the two battling superheroes.

  They were staring at each other, Comet Boy hovering like a golden ornament on a Christmas tree. Up close, I saw the girl was wearing black jeans, a black scarf and a black jacket. At this distance, she was less Jessica Jones and more super-strong goth girl (not that there was much of a distinction).

  She pointed at the hovering kid. “I’m sick of you following me.”

  “And I’m sick of you walking away every time we have a fight.”

  Seriously, I thought, a lover’s quarrel?

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but this is none of your business.”

  Thinking out loud—again!

  “Look,” I said, my hands out in a I mean you no harm kind of way. I looked around and saw that most people had ducked for cover. A lot of faces were looking at us from windows or behind trees, but there was no one out in the open. As for the groundskeeper, he had run away the second his truck went flying. “Your fight is none of my business, but the truck you tossed up in the air nearly splattered me and two of my friends across the pavement. That kind of is my business.”

  “She’s always throwing shit when she’s angry,” Comet Boy said.

  “Then don’t make her angry,” I said, looking up at him.

  “Thank you!” she cried out.

  “And you—don’t throw trucks. And what’s more—” I started, but a guy wearing what looked like a rhino costume bulldozed over the girl.

  “Never fear,” Rhino Boy said, “I will take down this campus terror!”

  “Hey, that’s my girlfriend!” Comet Boy said, immediately diving into Rhino Boy, hitting him so hard that a boy-sized crater was all that remained.

  Comet Boy was worse for wear. Apparently, glowing or not, diving into asphalt hurt.

  And just when I thought the worst was over, Comet Boy got to his feet, staggering in disorientation, when all kinds of hell erupted.

  Well, not hell exactly … more like all kinds of superpowers collided.

  Superheroes Never Think About Repair Costs

  Sometimes I wish I had a propensity for exaggeration. Hyperbole, tall tales, a based-on-a-true-story way about me. But I don’t, and I guess that’s what makes my stories so unbelievable. I tell them as I see them.

  And what I saw was at least twenty-one kids with superpowers duking it out.

  There was a wide range of superpowers, most inspired by the mad rush of superhero movies we’ve had over the last few years. Guys with hammers, girls with swords. They were mostly fighting as individuals, but a few of them had teamed up like some sort of weird Justice (or anti-justice) League.

  Three girls with impossibly huge eyes flew around in unison (I’m guessing Powerpuff Girls fans) as they attacked a kid with blond bangs riding a green and orange tiger.

  There was even a scrawny kid with no clothes on except tight purple, ripped jeans. He was green and screaming, “Chad smash!” It was almost comical to see him prancing around—until, that was, he grabbed a lamp post, ripped it out of the ground and used it as a fly swatter to take down the three Powerpuff-esque girls.

  It was chaos. They were fighting each other like creatures possessed. Frequently one of them would say something like, “Don’t hurt my school!” while throwing a piece of said school at another super-powered student.

  And what became quickly apparent was that they were defending McGill’s campus with McGill’s campus, and none of them seemed to understand that all the damage would cease as soon as they did.

  And the worst part: if they didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be any campus left to defend.

  So how do you stop a league of superheroes hell-bent on fighting each other to defend their school?

  Give then a common enemy.

  ↔

  I ducked into the arts building and found the closest bathroom to change in (I would’ve looked for a phone booth, but in this day and age, those weren’t really available).

  Before going in, I made sure no one saw me. That was an easy feat, given what was going on outside. A part of me wanted to thank them for the distraction, but the more sensible part of me chimed in that I wouldn’t need a distraction in the first place if it wasn’t for them.

  Pulling out my cherub’s mask from my back pocket, I put it on as I took off my winter coat and snow pants. It was going to be cold, but given how much running I was planning on doing, I suspected I’d be glad for the lack of clothing.

  Once that was done, I hid my stuff as best as I could. The bathroom was an old building, so there weren’t many options besides an old cubby-hole designed to hide pipes and whatnot, which was where I put my stuff. I’d have to get back to it before any maintenance staff needed to get in, but at least it was out of sight for regular peeps who needed the loo.

  Once that was done, it was time to do a little bit of destruction myself.

  ↔

  Leaving from a side entrance, I made my way over to the groundskeeper’s truck and found exactly what I was looking for: a tile spade. With that in hand, I went to locate a crater with just the right kind of piping for a delicate operation like this one.

  Montreal gets as much snow as Siberia, and because the city is guaranteed to get freezing weather conditions, all the piping is beneath the frost line—about six feet under. So to get to any of it, I’d need a hole roughly that deep. Luckily for me, the fight had provided me with plenty of holes to choose from.

  Right in the center of the quad were crossroads, and all the fighting had busted up the meeting point of those roads. Several pipes had been unearthed—which was exactly what I was looking for. Dodging Rhino Boy and another kid who I was pretty sure was doing his own take on Afro Samurai, I dived into the pit. Tapping the tile spade against the ceramic and metal pipes, I listened for a muted thud. When I found it, I drove the narrow end of the shovel hard into the pipe.

  I didn’t have super strength, so I had to hit it hard a couple times until I got the desired result … a geyser of warm water that shot up into the sky. The heat hit the cool Montreal air with a whoosh, creating a volcano of water and steam.

  It looked much worse than it was, which was exactly what I was going for.

  Twenty-one superheroes stopped fighting an
d looked at me. We stood in a peaceful stance (well, peaceful if you ignored the rush of water and steam) for about three seconds before Comet Boy pointed at me and yelled, “Get her!”

  … End of Part 1

  Prologue

  Everyone dreams of glory: belting out that perfect ballad, scoring the winning goal, money and splendor, fame and heroism. It’s human nature to covet grandeur in the safe and private confines of our mind.

  And when the mood of fantasy and fancy takes us, we also dream of powers beyond what a normal human is capable of. For who among us has not dreamt of flying, super strength, or perhaps the martial prowess of ninja, samurai, spies, or all three?

  In other words, we all dream of being spectacular, powerful … super.

  We dream of the high adventure allowed by unearned powers suddenly and inexplicitly granted. That is the stuff of many a harmless daydream. Dreams of being the superhero of our own story, the vigilante who saves the day, the white knight who wins the hand of the prince or princess.

  These dreams are private, rarely shared, but they are there and serve as one of many threads that bind us together and define us as human.

  We all dream of being superheroes, and Lindsey, Gerry and Jenny are no exception.

  Lindsey wants to be a reporter, and after watching the Netflix series Jessica Jones, thinks to herself, “How cool would it be to be just like that badass detective?”

  She looks over at her boyfriend, Anton, who is watching Dragon Ball Z for the umpteenth time on his laptop and she so desperately wants to kamehameha the laptop out the window.

  Gerry is reading up on grimoires and spells and all kinds of ancient magic. He loves the stuff, and wants to ask the południca who runs the 24 hour depanneur on Pine Street if she knows any magic herself.

  Jenny is alone her room, trying to work up the courage to tell the boys next door to shut their damn stereo off. But she can’t muster the bravery and, putting on the noise-cancelling earphones her mom bought her, surfs YouTube. A ThunderCats video appears in her feed. Clicking on it, she giggles to herself. “I remember this cartoon. What was the name of the female lead? Oh yeah—Cheetara. She was badass. She wouldn’t have any trouble telling those boys to shut up.”

  And so, they—and many others—dream. Superheroes and superpowers. Unearned abilities. High adventure. Something, anything to free them from the day-to-day.

  But alas, superheroes don’t exist, and superpowers are something only Others have—and those powers come at a high cost.

  So Lindsey, Gerry and Jenny go to sleep expecting to wake up the next morning exactly as they have always been: normal kids, sans superpowers.

  That was the night before. The next morning brings with it something very different, for before any of them can step out of bed, they all realize that they are no longer normal.

  Not anymore.

  Flexing muscles she didn’t know she had, Jenny growls like a cheetah …

  Lindsey jumps out of bed and cracks her concrete ceiling …

  And as for Gerry … Gerry can control time itself.

  Who said dreams can’t come true?

  Run, Lola … Ahh, I Mean … Run, Kat, Run

  Ever been rushed by a bunch (power?) of superheroes? I have, and this was after I had to overcome my belief that superheroes weren’t real. The twenty-plus superheroes all charged me, temporarily forgetting that only moments ago, they were at each other’s throats.

  Luckily, I had anticipated this. I rolled out of the way and made my way off campus and toward the city of Montreal.

  It was nearly impossible to outrun people with super strength and speed—that was, when they knew their limitations. But I could tell from the uncoordinated way they battled each other and their haphazard attempts to hurt one another that these guys were new to the whole superpowers thing.

  I remembered being a newly made vampire. Simple tasks like holding a glass or lifting a bag were troublesome, and usually resulted in the glass shattering or the bag flying into the air.

  So when the heroes charged at me, I tumbled away at the last second, causing them to shoot past me and crash into whatever happened to be in front of them. I ran toward stones, blocks, walls and heavy oak trees, some of which vaporized in my wake.

  I could practically smell the ozone.

  And the slower heroes who shot energy balls or threw stuff at me would always miss. They often hit the others, which ultimately helped me escape.

  All of that is what brought me, still alive, to the James McGill statue about a hundred feet from the exit. But the statue wasn’t very big and, small as I was, didn’t offer much cover. I needed a miracle to escape and, well, miracles were in short supply these days.

  But not friggin’ gorgeous girls with silver hair and eyes that could melt you in place. Just as three of the superheroes were lining up their energy balls and flying hammers and whatever the hell else superheroes shoot innocent vigilantes with, Cassy jumped between James McGill and me—and the superheroes—with her arms spread like a human shield or something.

  The three superheroes stopped at once, just staring down at her as she glared at them defiantly. “This isn’t how this works,” she growled. “Superheroes protect each other—not chase after girls like greyhounds after a rabbit.”

  I stirred from behind the statue and the three superheroes’ eyes darted toward me. Cassy, still in her protective stance, looked over her shoulder at me and yelled, “RUN!”

  ↔

  She didn’t need to tell me twice. I ran out of McGill’s main gate and down two blocks to a shopping mall called the Eaton Center. It was my best bet for losing them. Taking only a second to look back, I realized I’d only managed to make it this far without being splattered because Cassy was doing her best to block their path. Superheroes or not, they didn’t want to hurt Cassy.

  Most of them ran around her, a few stopped to talk—possibly flirt with her—but whatever their response to Cassy’s human shieldieness, she had bought me enough time to make it this far.

  Still, there were a bunch of them after me as I ducked into the Eaton Center.

  ↔

  Another cool feature of Montreal is what you can’t see from the street. Because it’s so cold for so much of the year, you can get from one end of the city to the other completely underground. I’m not talking subways, although those exist. I’m talking basement levels to the businesses and shopping centers that have underground exits and entrances into each other.

  I made my way to the Eaton’s Center basement. I had somehow managed to lose most of the twenty-one. Only three seemed to be hot on my scent—a young lady who looked a lot like Cheetara from ThunderCats and two guys wearing identical red spandex, each with a lightning bolt on his chest.

  The two red spandex guys were so unsure of their footing that they slipped and slid on the shopping center’s polished floors. Still, they were so fast that every time I tripped them up, they found their footing and were on me in a flash.

  I needed to change tactics, but first I had to get those three off my tail. First, a distraction.

  Up in the men’s section, I grabbed several leather belts, and as I ran, laced two of them together until they formed a chain. Then, using an old trick I learned from a rancher in Montana, I snared the two boys together, temporarily hobbling them.

  Cheetah Girl—who was still entering the shop—jumped at me, just as I knew she would. I tumbled backward into a clothing rack and wrapped the third belt around her neck and the base of the rack.

  The snares wouldn’t last for long. Nearby, the two boys were already breaking free (and probably would have already if they weren’t fumbling with their own supersonic fingers). I had bought myself a few seconds to lay the next trap.

  Running into the perfume department, I grabbed every bottle I could find and smashed them on the ground. Chanel, Obsession for men and women, Bright Crystal Absolu, Victoria's Secret Bombshell, Lancôme Trésor Midnight Rose and Dior Poison Girl. They all permeated the
air, thus throwing Cheetah Lady off my scent.

  The two girls at the counter ran out as soon as they saw a weirdo in a kilt and cherub mask. And when the two mall security guards ran in a few seconds later, I only needed to show them my dirk and they turned on their heels and ran out.

  That done, I moved a massive poster of Charlize Theron looking all sultry and seductive as she advertised J’Adore by Dior so I could hide while still having a good view of the room. I waited for the two super-fast kids to make their way into the perfume department.

  Ever see that scene in Jurassic Park when the Tyrannosaurus rex’s approach is announced by the ripples in a glass of water? Well, the two super-fast kids weren’t prehistoric dinosaurs with massive heads and teeny tiny arms, but their arrival was announced nonetheless.

  Not in water, but in the pool of perfume I had created. It started with tiny little ripples, but because the guys were lightweight and so incredibly fast, their vibrations shocked the ground so that the tiny ripples turned into little droplets that jumped out of the pool. The closer they got, the more the puddle of perfume looked like a thousand ball bearings dancing on a canvas of linoleum.

  As soon as I was certain the two of them were close, I came out from around Charlize Theron. “Yoohoo! Looking for me?”

  The two of them shot at me. I needed to time this perfectly if I was going to get away, so before the word “me” left my lips, I leapt onto the counters and up, grabbing one of the sprinklers jutting from the ceiling.

  My timing was perfect. My plan, not so much.