Six Superhero Stories by Robert T. Jeschonek

Author:Robert T. Jeschonek [Jeschonek, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pie Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

*****

The douche never stops posturing, so it takes a while to tell him the story. But he's interested, I can see it in his eyes. He's drooling like Pavlov's dog.

He'll give us what we want. Later, if we live through this, it will suck to be us, because he'll milk it for all it's worth...but here and now, he'll take us where we want to go.

The morgue, in other words.

"So I was right all along about the Protectorate. And you were wrong." That's what he says as he leads us downstairs. "I love it."

"Congratulations." I'm staying close to Hericane, keeping my eyes peeled. I know how I'd react to what we're about to see.

She just walks along with a blank expression on her face, unreadable. If there's any turbulence going on inside, she doesn't show it.

"I always knew those so-called heroes were dirty pieces of shit," says Tank when we get to the bottom and start down a dark hallway.

I know we're at his mercy, but enough's enough. "You do realize one of us is a hero, right?"

Tank stops and looks back at Hericane like he forgot she was there. "Well, present company excluded, of course."

I get up in his face and lock eyes with him. His breath smells like putrid bacon. "And you do remember what it is we're about do, right?" I push a little closer; I need him to get the message. "Maybe you could show a little sensitivity for once in your life?"

His eyes drift, and I start to think I'm gonna have to paint him a picture. Then he focuses back in on me with a tough glare, and I think he doesn't have any sensitivity to begin with.

But he surprises me. "Sorry." He leans around me and looks at Hericane with an actual sincere expression on his greasy face. "Sorry." Then he whips around and marches off down the hallway. "This way, please."

I shrug at Hericane and follow him. An apology from the douche. Will wonders never cease?

He stops at a door midway down the hall and pushes it open. Surprise again, he actually holds it for us as we walk through.

"Charlie?" He wanders off across the room and disappears through a doorway.

Leaving us to look around.

I've been here many times in my career, but this time is different. Everything is very familiar to me--the silver tables draped with sheets, the trays of equipment, the power tools. The wall of cold storage drawers, each big enough to hold a lifeless human body.

But the feeling is all wrong--darkly personal instead of all business. Painful instead of clinical.

It reminds me of the one time, seven years ago, when I was down here for Jimmy and the boys. The one time they had to drag me kicking and screaming out the door, knocking shit over right and left.

Here we are again. Only she's taking it a lot better than I did.

At least on the outside.

Still, something needs to be said before this goes any further. "Hey." I turn and meet her gaze.

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