Hero Worship

Woodbury, Minnesota

For Steve Mitchell, who has made me a better writer

and—more importantly—a better person.

Copyright Information

Hero Worshi
p
© 2014 by Christopher E. Long.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738740355

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
Cover illustration by Aaron Goodman
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Acknowledgments

First off, with Scott Treimel, I've got the best agent on the planet. Then there's John M. Cusick, who helped shape
Hero Worship
with his guidance. I want to thank Mike and Lisa Kane for always being willing to read my work. And to everyone at Flux—Brian Farrey-Latz, Sandy Sullivan, and Mallory Hayes—you have made this process enjoyable for this rookie Young Adult writer.

Mom and Dad, you get your own paragraph—that's how important you are. Thanks for believing in me when I didn't believe in myself.

There are folks who helped me find my way with my comic book career who are equally responsible for this novel. Danny Miki encouraged me in the very beginning, and both Ted Adams and Jeff Mariotte gave me my first big break as a comic book writer. Working with Jim Valentino was a boot camp for what works and what doesn't work in the comic book medium. Axel Alonso gave me my shot at the majors. And Shannon Eric Denton has made sure I get published more than anyone else.

To my wife Jamie and son Jackson, there probably are words I could use to convey how important you are to me, but I'm just not that great a writer.

ONE

The sports car takes the corner clocking 60 mph, the back tires squealing and kicking up black smoke. The vehicle fishtails, and the rear bumper slams into a traffic-light post. But the tires never stop spinning, clawing onward like a hunted animal frantically trying to escape death. Then the car lurches forward through the afternoon traffic, zigging and zagging past delivery vans and taxis, barreling through a red light. It clips a city bus and swerves hard left, drifting across the blacktop toward the entrance to the city park.

Sitting on a park bench, a half-eaten hot dog raised to my mouth, I watch as the car crashes through the cast-iron gate and careens into the park. Joggers and roller­bladers scramble out of the way as it races down the pebble-covered path, spitting up tiny white rocks like the wake behind a speedboat.

“Are you guys seeing this?” I ask.

Kent is eating his hot dog like a python devouring a small animal. He looks up, just now becoming aware of the commotion. Kent looks like one of those obese people who've lost a lot of weight, which is good—but now have a thick layer of loose, floppy skin, which is bad.

“What's the freaking hurry?” he says, watching the erratic car.

On the other side of me, Yvonne shades her eyes to see the unfolding events. “Is someone chasing him?” she asks.

Shaking my head, I say, “Not that I can—”

A sonic boom rips through the air, shattering the windows of nearby storefronts and vehicles. Yvonne groans as she's knocked against the back of the bench, and Kent's baggy skin flaps like a flag in the wind. Cupping my hands over my ears, I grimace from the piercing shockwave.

A red blur shoots across the park and comes to a sudden stop directly in front of the speeding car. Even from a distance, I know who it is—the fastest thing on two legs.

“Hey, it's Streak!” I shout, immediately wishing I didn't sound so excited.

Yvonne dusts herself off. “Yippee, Marvin.”

“I've never seen a member of the Core in person before,” I say, angling to get a better view.

I possess an extensive collection of Core memorabilia, and there's one Streak item I'm particularly proud of. It's a commemorative action figure with multiple points of articulation and a base that prominently displays the Core insignia. Very rare and hard to come by.

Trust me here. Seeing Streak in action is way better!

Streak stands still as a statue as the car heads right for him. His recognizable red costume almost looks crimson, like blood. The glare from the sun makes it impossible from my angle to see who's behind the wheel of the car, but whoever it is pushes down on the accelerator, squeezing every drop out of the engine as 3,000 pounds of metal hurtles right at Streak. The car moves closer, closing the distance, until—

In the time it takes to blink, Streak is gone. The car, missing its intended target, speeds over an embankment and launches into the air. It lands with a crash, and sparks fly as the undercarriage scrapes across the concrete walkway. Momentarily losing control, the vehicle bounds toward the hot-dog stand where, just moments before, my friends and I purchased our lunch. A look of terror spreads across the vendor's face as he comes face-to-face with the car's grille.

Streak appears out of nowhere, grabs the vendor, and flings him into the air, out of harm's way. Right as the car strikes the cart, Streak is gone. The hot-dog vendor lands on the ground, skidding to a stop right at my feet. The speeding car runs into a large tree, abruptly ending the high-speed getaway. Smoke rises out of the crumpled metal.

“The cops won't be far behind,” Yvonne mutters, slipping on a pair of sunglasses.

Stunned, the hot-dog vendor looks up at me, confusion stamped on his face.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

The man pushes himself up, but immediately drops back on the ground and howls in agony. “My arm!” he screams. The bone in his right arm is broken and sticking through the skin.

Kneeling down next to him, I say, “Yvonne, give him a hit.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, bending down and placing a hand on the man's forehead. “I usually charge for this, but, under the circumstances, this one's on the house.” Her eyes roll back in their sockets, revealing solid white orbs.

“ARGH! Argh … argh,” the man moans. His facial features soften, and his frantic breathing slows considerably as he inhales deeply. Yvonne's eyes roll back down and she blinks a couple of times, rubbing the side of her head. The hot-dog vendor's eyes are glassy and unfocused. He gives us a crooked smile.

A red blur zips over to the wrecked car, and Streak peers inside the window. He turns around and stares in our direction. Before I have time to process whether or not he's looking at us, Streak appears right in front of me, stirring up leaves and a cloud of dust. He glances down at the hot-dog vendor. “Is he okay?” he asks.

I can only imagine how stupid I look with this cheesy grin on my face, but I don't really care. I'm completely geeked out and beside myself. He's so close, I could reach out and touch him. I actually consider doing this, but let's face it, that would be creepy.

“His arm's busted,” Yvonne says.

The wounded man smiles at Streak and says, “I'm good. Gooooood. Goods.”

Streak turns to me. “This man is on drugs.”

The vendor lifts his broken arm, which is dripping blood from the gash, and points at Yvonne. “She toucheded me. Shhhhe'sss one of yous.” He notices the bone protruding through the skin on his arm. “Oh, man, thisss ain't good.”

“Is that so?” Streak asks. But before Yvonne can answer, he does a double take at Kent. “What the—”

The entire left side of Kent's face looks like melted wax. A large slab of flesh hangs from his head. “Kent, your face,” I whisper.

He feels his face and chuckles, saying, “Sorry.” He cups the hanging flesh and molds it back into shape.

“Who are you?” Streak demands.

Kent, Yvonne, and I all look at each other, waiting for someone to say something, anything.

“You kids are dirty,” Streak says.

“Kids?” Yvonne says. “I'm eighteen.”

Streak zips over and grabs her arm so hard that she yelps. “In that case, you'll be tried under the Clean Powers Act as an adult,” he says. His mouth opens as if he's going to say something more, but he only croaks. His eyes flutter repeatedly and he releases his grip on Yvonne, staggering back on wobbly legs before collapsing on the ground.

Yvonne's eyes go from solid white to normal. “Let's go,” she says, hurrying off into the park. Kent follows behind her, doing his best to hold his face together.

Streak lies on the ground in a heap. His chest rises and falls.

“Streak's a hero,” the hot-dog vendor says.

I struggle to find the words, but give up and turn to run after my friends. Yvonne and Kent make their way toward the subway. Pedestrians gawk at Kent's melting face as he passes. He flips the hood of his jacket over his head to conceal his disfigurement.

Catching up with Yvonne, I say, “Why'd you zap him?”

“Marvin, I didn't see you coming up with anything.”

“But he's Streak. A member of the Core. You can't zap him.”

“He said we were dirty.”

“We are dirty,” I say.

She gives me a patronizing look, like a mother would a child. “Well, yeah, but he doesn't know that for sure. He jumped to a conclusion, and based on what? How we look?”

“Hey you two, if you don't mind,” Kent says, his flesh squishing through his fingers as he cups his face. “I'm turning into pudding here. Chop-chop.”

The three of us hurry to the subway platform and manage to get onto the train just as the doors close. Luckily for us, everybody who rides the subways in Loganstin City takes great pains to avoid looking at the other passengers. If we're lucky, we'll get to our stop before Kent melts into a puddle in his seat.