Hostile Takeover (10 page)

Seeing the confusion on the guard's face, Topper couldn't resist. He raised the empty bottle high above his head. He turned from side to side, as if to acknowledge an imaginary crowd of spectators that packed imaginary stadium seating. Then he looked back at the security guard and said, "When you write this up in your report be sure to use the word, 'Extraordinary!'" He spiked the empty bottle of booze on the hard marble floor and it shattered.

The guard's face moved from shock to anger.

"MUAHahahahah!" Topper laughed and ran for the door, the security guard lumbering in hot pursuit.

As he cleared the door, Topper was screaming, "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" and laughing hysterically. Just another day on the job for Stevie.

The wheels of his chair crunched the flecks of salt spread across the stone of Excelsior Plaza. As his arms shoved the wheels downward, he could see his breath in the air. It was well before dawn, and the only noises were the humming of the lights and the roar of the gas jet that fed the eternal flame. He rolled to a halt in front of the stature. It was supposed to be Excelsior overcoming the Cromoglodon. Didn't look a thing like either of them.

The official story was that this is where the world's mightiest superhero had died while defeating the world's most powerful villain. That God so loved the world... Jesus, thought Gus, you’d think after thousands of years, they'd get a new story. He guessed the old one was still working.

But Gus didn't believe the story. He knew the truth. Excelsior was a strong horse, but not the kind that came from behind. He had seen him the few times he’d gotten his ass beat down. More than once he had given the 'World's Mightiest Hero' a pep talk to get him up off his melancholy ass. That was what his job had become. Well, most of it anyway. He didn't like to think about the other part of his job.

Gus turned his head and spit over the arm of his wheelchair. His shoulders ached. It was like they had kept him in that hospital just to suck all the strength out of him. He could still get angry, though. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Gus could run on anger. And boy didn't this statue get him hot.

Sure Excelsior had been here. So had a large building. Windsor Tower. Excelsior had knocked down the damn building fighting with an idiot in a purple leotard. At least that was the story they'd fed the press. But Gus knew different. Excelsior had wrapped up Lifto the Magnificent easy; he took the building down to screw with Windsor. Ah, maybe it had been an accident. Excelsior had been there to bust up Windsor's office. It got out of hand and the whole tower came down.

And that had been a mistake. As it turned out, Windsor was one evil bastard. Gus wasn't quite sure how, but he knew that somehow all of this was Edwin's fault. That Windsor was one of those rare Teflon bastards who managed to turn every twist to his advantage. Would have made a hell of an officer, thought Gus, with a sergeant's grudge beating in his frail, papery heart.

It wasn't long before they started showing up. Everybody who owed Gus a favor. Some that Excelsior had saved. Some who had been a part of the team, but had retired. And all of them knew that the official story didn't make any sense. It sure hadn't taken Gus long to poke holes in it. Why hadn’t anybody else seen through it? Half the world wasn't trying, the other half didn't care. Gus was just an anomaly. Like a two-headed cow or a three-eyed fish, Gus was a mutant, the guy who still gave a damn.

It hadn't been hard. A guy who used to work telemetry had given him Excelsior's last known position. It had been right on this very spot. And the transponder had cried out for nearly three weeks after he had disappeared. They could have looked for him, Smiles and all the other bastards who pulled his strings. The ones behind the flags and the badges and the seals. Why didn't they? There was only one answer. They didn't want Excelsior back.

There were, in Gus's experience, two ways to deal with everything. You do it out in the open, high noon, full daylight, man-to-man and settle it once and for all. Or you sneak around and jump a man from behind, or worse, overcome him with rules and paperwork. The death of fine print and a thousand paper-cuts. The “Them.” The “They.” The invisible few who ruled the world, they preferred to play the game in the shadows. No matter what side they were on, they didn't like to play fair. They weren't heroes. These were the men who had pulled Gus' strings too.

But no more. Now Gus didn't work for anybody. What was the worst they could he do to them? He knew he was going to hell. Valhalla was reserved for those who died in battle. Now Gus was in a wheelchair. There are no glorious last charges from wheelchairs.

"Couldn't you just find somebody with superpowers to dig him up?"

"No," says Gus. "No, Goddamn it, we have to do this. This is on us! Start digging."

The compressor started up and a jackhammer roared to life.

"I'm not sure about this," said the foreman. "This is a national monument. I mean, we could get into a lot of trouble. Why don't we go tell the authorities and have them dig him up."

"Hell, son, you think they want him back? You think they want heroes? They don't want heroes. They want people they can use, people they can control. They don't want people who will do the right thing. Who will see it through, no matter what the cost. They want people who will turn a blind eye to all the nasty things they do. Strong men with weak consciences.

"Oh, sure, they call those shadow men heroes. They give 'em medals and parades and cheer for them, but we all know the score. Deep down, those men are puppets. They're just giving medals to themselves.

"That's Excelsior down there, I'd bet my boot leather on it. And They're gonna leave him rot down there for all time. Heroes just aren't convenient anymore. So you—hell all of you—this is your chance. Your chance to prove where you stand."

It was not as the sleep of ordinary men; its dreams were memory.

He remembered being young. His name, innocently enough, was Billy. And more than anything in the world, he had wanted a Schwinn Excelsior. The Excelsior was not an angular, computer-designed bicycle, but an object birthed by the caress of a draftsman's hand. Wrapped in chrome, the Schwinn Excelsior seemed to defy you to find a straight line on it. To Billy, it looked like it was flying even when it was standing still. A few years later, when he hit puberty, he would discover the real reason those curves appealed to him. The thing was sexy.

But there wasn't a lot of extra money floating around Rice County, Kansas in 1940. There was just farm work, and plenty of it. The locals counted it a boon when any boy was born, provided he grew up straight and true.

When Billy wasn't exhausted, he would sneak away from the farm and pick up what jobs he could. $89.95 seemed a long way away when he started, but little by little, he had filled up the Webb's coffee tin that he used as a bank.

If he'd been a little bit lazier, he would have given up on the bike. He would have lost his innocence and blown it on girls or demon rum or any of the other vices that were so ably advertised from pulpits across Kansas. But he was raised from good strong stock, and hard work was bred in his bones.

Every night he would count his treasure like some fabled miser of yore. And by his last nightly count he was five dollars and thirty-eight cents short. And it was the harvest. While that meant extra, groaning hours at home, it also meant that everybody was looking for help. If he could break away, it should be easy for a strong boy to earn that money in no time at all.

He thought he was keeping all of this as a great secret from his parents. But they knew. And when a lull came in the threshing, they let the boy go, turning a blind eye as he rushed to "visit a friend." He ran as fast as his feet would carry him. All the while, thinking, "This would be easier with a bike.” Everything would be better when he had that bike.

As fate would have it, the next farm over belonged to Ol' Man Wilkins.

Hard workin' people respected those that were frugal. Even those who drove a hard bargain were fine, but Wilkins, he went too far. And what's worse, he wore it as a badge of pride. So when he saw young Billy running all over town taking every job he could find—a boy possessed by the lust for a bicycle that looked like a dream and went like the wind—Ol' Man Wilkins' smelled sweat that his cunning could turn into money.

When he asked Billy if he wanted to make a dollar an hour, Billy didn't even ask what the job was before he said yes.

The job was hay. One hundred bales moved to the top of the barn. Technically it was a job for two people, but why would Wilkins pay for two, when he could get it done by one, and for half the price? When he showed Billy the full hayrick in his yard, Wilkins sucked his teeth and said, "This here hay needs to be up there, and before it rains. Gets wet, it'll rot."

Billy nodded. Why was the old man telling him this? He knew all about hay. Hadn't he grown up in the most boring, hay-infested place on Earth. If the old man would be quiet, he'd just get it done and get his bike.

"And I won't have you putting wet hay into my barn. You check each one. If Johnson cheated me, well that's on him. But you put hay in my barn that sets itself afire, I'll take it out of your hide!" he said as he brandished his cane.

Billy was sure the mean old man was as good as his word. He just wondered how the old cripple would catch him with his withered old leg. He also wondered why the old man thought that his old barn was worth saving. Wouldn't even need a tornado to knock it down, looked like the merest breath o' wind would take the weathered planks right off it. It was old and twisted, seeming to lean a little to one side, just like the mean old man himself.

"Now get to it, youngster. And you best get these in before it rains, I ain't payin' you for no wet bales."

If Billy hadn't been so pure of heart, he might have used Wilkins' position of weakness against him and negotiated for more money. It was a hot day. It would storm in the afternoon. And if not today, then tomorrow for sure. And who else could Wilkins' have found to help him? A mean old man, living all alone and doing nobody no kindness.

But all Billy could think of was sweet, windswept chrome. He nodded to Wilkins and set his hand to the hay.

"You can use that pulley if'n you can work it without hanging ye'self."

"I'll be jest fine, Mr. Wilkins."

But halfway through the rick, Billy began to have his doubts. The hay wasn't much good. It wasn't too wet. It was too dry. Which accounted for the stringy animals penned up in the barn. Poor creatures, half-starved by a man who was too much of a skinflint to buy good food.

It hurt Billy's heart when the cow looked at him with her infinitely soft eyes. Those eyes could absorb the suffering of the world, thought Billy. Billy didn't have a kind thought for Wilkins’ goat. That old goat looked too much like its owner. It was probably his son before the mean ol' man locked him in the barn.

Maybe it was all a kind of sad circle, thought Billy. Bad hay for the cow. Sour milk for the farmer. Sour disposition for the rest of the world. Rings of sour spreading out from that mean, mean old man. Out and out and out. All the evils in the world coming right from the evil hay he was loading into the barn.

To be sure, those 70 lbs. bales were too heavy for a 12-year-old boy. Even though Billy was strong for his age, and used to hard labor, the work was crushing. When he stopped for water, old man Willis yelled at him from the top window of the farmhouse,

"Ain't payin for no breaks! You think I'm made of money, boy?"

Made of bitter straw and sour milk. Billy dunked his head in the trough and considered his problem.

There was still a lot of hay left on the rick. And the day wasn't getting any longer. He tested his right hand. Even through the glove it felt like the wire had cut through his palm. And every time he clenched it he could feel the bones grind together. Otherwise, he wasn't so awfully tired.

Billy knew his system wasn't very good. It was a really a two man job, but to make the best of it, he had taken the hayloft ladder and propped it up against the front of the barn. It was just tall enough so he could manhandle a bale of hay up to the loft with one hand and slide it in. Then back for another bale. When the bales crowded the entrance, he would stack them proper. It worked, but it was slow.

A cool breeze picked up from the south as if trying to seduce him into inaction. Why not, just set a while in the cool? Maybe have a glass of lemonade. But that same breeze meant that the storm was coming. He'd hate to wait another week for the bike. And if he didn't get it soon, he might be shut out by the snows. The almanac calling for a hard winter and an early one at that.

Then Billy had an idea. For a strong man, it would have only been a half-bad idea. But for a boy of 120 pounds, faced with 70 pound bales of hay it was ridiculous—Billy decided he would throw the bales into the loft.

But Billy didn't know he couldn't do it. After all, nothing great is accomplished by those who acknowledge limits. So he picked up a bale and gave it a heave. It went up like a shot, displacing the ladder and almost knocking a hole in the side of the barn.

Billy looked around to see if anyone else had seen what had just happened. But only the goat commented, with an anticlimactic “Baaaa."

So he tried again. When he threw this bale, his feet slipped a little in the dirt of the barnyard. The bale soared high, impossibly high in the air and then came down with crash of rattling boards. Billy let out a shriek of joy and spun around in triumph. He couldn't understand how or why, but mostly, he couldn't wait to do it again. He grabbed another bale.

Crash. Crash. Crash. Three more bales were up. And the strangest thing was that with each bale it became easier. That wasn't supposed to happen. What was going on anyway? The wind came up from the west. The sweat on Billy's brow felt good as the cool wind of a coming storm wicked it away. Still he worked, throwing bale after bale into the loft. Each one was somehow lighter than the last.

Then he started throwing them in one-handed! He laughed, feeling something every adolescent wants, but rarely gets—a sense of power. He raced through the last of the bales. And then he heard Ol' Man Wilkins shriek, "What in God's name is going on! Whut'd you do with all my hay? You cain't have put it all away."

"Your hay is in the barn, ya old coot." Billy just couldn't restrain himself. Couldn't contain himself. He had POWER and he was going to use it.

Wilkins looked up in disbelief. All the hay, everywhichaway in the loft.

"Wuh, wuh, wuh, well, you gotta stack that."

"I know. If you weren't yelling at me, I'd be done already." This was for effect. The old man wasn't yelling anymore. At best, he was whispering in anger. He couldn't understand what had happened. And like most folks, he was just simply afraid of what he couldn't understand.

"Oh, wait. There's one more bale." Billy grabbed with his right hand, and, with his gaze never leaving Ol' Man Wilkins watery and confused eyes, he tossed it over his shoulder and into the barn. The crash of the bale tumbling into the hay loft could have been Wilkins’ jaw hitting the ground. But then what would that make the creaking noise that followed?

In slow motion, with an awful sound shredding timbers and shearing nails, the barn toppled over. It held there, like a parallelogram barn on a parallelogram farm, for just a moment. The cow lowed fear. Then, with a horrendous crash and roll of dust, the barn collapsed.

The jail was cold. Since they brought him in, the only time that Billy had actually seen another person was when the deputy had nervously thrown a blanket into the cell. The man hadn't even opened the cell door. He had just crammed it through the slot and all but run away.

Billy could hear people talking about him outside. They sounded scared. Why were they scared? And where were his parents? Billy wasn't exactly the best student in school, but he was pretty sure they weren't allowed to throw you in jail without calling your parents. Something about it in the Constitution, he'd thought.

He'd pay for the barn. He had money. Maybe not enough for a whole barn, but for part of it at least. Was it all his fault? Other people had seen that barn. That barn weren't no damn good. Wasn't his fault Wilkins was too cheap to fix it. The way Billy looked at it, nothing about Wilkins weren't his fault at all. And being locked up in that cell just wasn't right at all.

Then why did he feel so scared?

"I tell ya, the devil's in that boy!" Out in the lobby, Wilkins was red in the face and rarin’ for justice. Or, at least, his idea of justice.

"Ed, I know you're upset about your barn," Said Tinsley Willis, town sheriff, "but would you mind keeping your voice down? I'm pretty sure that boy can hear you."

"He don't need no jail cell, he needs a priest, or a noose around his neck."

"That's enough," the sheriff said in that quiet way that indicated to most folks with sense that he was done kidding around. He saw Wilkins draw in breath to speak and realized that Wilkins just didn't have no sense. "You say another word about hurting that boy, or possession by demons, and I'll lock you up in the cell next to him."

"You wouldn't dare. Why, I knew you when you were just a..."

The sheriff tuned him out. Some days the star on his chest hung heavier than others, that was for sure. Still, it was a quiet town, smack in the middle of nowhere, and that suited Tinsley right down to the ground. It was just that, out here, surrounded by the open sky and rows and rows and rows and rows of corn, people tended to go a little simple. Small things got blown all out of proportion. And Ed Wilkins was Exhibit A. No family, no real business of his own in the world. It was like he had decided his hobby was going to be holding a grudge.

The sheriff looked to his deputy, "Have you called his parents?"

"Yes, sir," answered the Deputy with a quiver in his voice. The sheriff shook his head a little. His deputy was simple, too. No doubt he was 'fraid of dee-monic possession. Was it something in the corn? Was it going to get to him next?

"You're not going in there, are you?" Wilkins asked. The Sheriff stood with the door knob in his hand. He looked at Wilkins like that was the dumbest question he had ever heard. It wasn't, but it was close enough.

"Ed, I'm going to talk to that boy. And unless he sprouts horns, I'm going to let him go when his parents get here. I can't charge him with anything. So—"

"Can't charge him with anything? Trespassing! Vandalism! Uh, uh, assault! He killed my cow!"

"Trespassing? He was workin' on your farm! You're just lucky he wasn't hurt when that barn fell over. And I'm sure Bill Sr. will have a few words with you about that point."

"Sheriff, that boy's got the devil in him. And I'm gonna tell everybody. We're gonna purge this community! We're gonna make it right with the Lord! Hallelujah, we're gonna make it right!"

There was a crash from inside the cells. When they got through the door, Billy’s cell was empty. And half a wall was missing. The Sheriff saw Billy in the distance, running down Main Street.

Wilkins started right in. The Sheriff just turned his head and spit on his own floor. "Aw, hell."

In the kitchen of their weather beaten, clapboard farmhouse, Nancy watched her husband, Earl, hang up the phone. It was rare thing to get calls way out on the farm. Folks usually just came by for a visit. It was even rarer for the phone to ring during supper. Who called during supper? Wasn't everybody eating?

When her husband sat back down at the table, he looked at the meatloaf as if he didn't recognize it.

"Is it Billy?"

"Yes'm. Get dressed, Momma, we're going in to town."

"What happened?"

"Deputy said the boy was in some kind of trouble. Didn't think it was Billy's fault, but was sortin' it out all the same."

"Is he hurt?"

"Didn't sound so."

"You didn't ask?"