Enemies Like These (The Enemies Trilogy Book 1)

By P.K. Gardner

Jumping off a building is a hell of a way to find out you can fly. When Alex Manners doesn’t hit the ground, he learns he’s a superhero. But he’s not very good at it. He’s being stalked, his memory is full of holes, and someone’s been leaving him pictures of a dead friend. The harder he looks, the more he finds that the city’s network of superheroes isn’t to be trusted.

And that his robot-wielding arch nemesis may be the only friend he has.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.K. Gardner
• Release date: Feb 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311766540

P.K. Gardner

P.K. Gardner is not a zombie.

Book preview

Good Guy #50

The gawkers are out in full force.

The hostage situation is an escalation of a bank robbery that broke just after rush hour. The well-dressed commuters walking up the Northern Spoke’s sidewalk would rather see it live than catch a much-safer version on the news.

A single uniformed cop is attempting and failing to establish a perimeter. He’s just a kid, my age maybe, the sort who started on the force after high school and will work the streets until he retires or gets shot.

The District throws an apocalypse every other month. Betting money says he gets shot.

Probably not today though. The bank robbery’s tame by the District’s usual standards. It’s just the hostages who are a complication.

There’s this thing about people in peril that attracts superheroes.

Like me.

I land beside the cop and win the crowd’s immediate attention due to the fact that I’m dressed like an idiot and they have camera phones. You realize you’re all at risk of taking a stray bullet, I announce.

The crowd can take a hint. Very few people enjoy getting shot. Just Indestructoman, and he complains bitterly about the bullet holes in his costume. The rookie cop throws me a look that’s two parts gratitude, one part apprehension. Official word from the police department is that costumed heroes are unlicensed vigilantes. This kid is still new enough not to know that rule gets broken a lot. He fingers his gun. I try to smile.

His trigger finger tenses.

The on-scene detective, on the other hand, claps me on the back and drags me behind the rookie’s feeble barrier tape. He’s a well-dressed, solidly built black guy with about five inches and forty pounds on me. It’s everything I can do to stop myself from hovering a few inches from the ground to meet his eyes.

I’ve seen his face on TV before, in the wake of various supervillain-related disasters, but this is the first time we’ve met in person. I’m guessing he’s heard of me.

"Thank God, we got a super. This perp’s a fucking lunatic. We had him on the phone for all of thirty seconds. Hasn’t got a damn thing on his list of demands. Doesn’t want release or a getaway or anything. Says he’ll be done in a few, leave him be, he’s just robbing a bank because he’s poor. Jesus Christ almighty."

Seems like a pretty standard reason for bank robbing, but I’m not a trained law enforcement professional. I scratch the back of my neck, thick black leather gloves soft against my close-cropped hair. Have to break that habit. It would be just my luck to knock off the mask because I have an itch. I wonder if the detective expects me to get to work or if I need permission first. He’s not going to arrest me, but the fact that he can looms over us. While I hesitate, he takes out his phone, punches in a number and puts it on speaker.

Look, the voice on the other end answers before the first ring has even finished, already told you I’ll be out of your hair as soon as this idiot stops pissing himself and remembers the codes for the safe. Has the entire world always been this goddamn slow? I don’t want anything from you, so stop—

This is Detective Lombardozzi calling to let you know Good Guy is on the scene. Surrender now or I’m turning the show over to him and washing my hands of this whole damn mess.

That sounds like a threat. Must have confused me with X. Most fights against Good Guy are non-fatal. Matter of principle. The line crackles with static and then that same voice, pitched a little too high and a lot too fast, says, "Could you send someone else? Maybe the idiot in the baseball jersey? Or the chick with the legs! She’s totally my favorite."

Lombardozzi’s eyes flicker to me, appraising. I’m still pretty new on the scene, and if I’m honest, Dodger—the idiot in the baseball jersey—is probably the guy you want at a hostage situation. My skill set isn’t exactly tuned for delicate operations.

The crook on the phone is still rambling. Got this far under the radar by not picking up a name. I can’t have my first proper knock-down with some pompous asshole who goes around calling himself Good Guy. God, name like that, he probably doesn’t even get laid.

Insulting, but mostly true. Good Guy isn’t a name I picked out for myself. No one would call themselves something like Good Guy. My first time in costume, X mistook me for someone with nefarious intent and dangled me by my ankles from a rooftop while I screamed, I’m one of the good guys!

The press heard, I’m Good Guy.

Not my proudest moment.

X was the only one who took my protests in stride. Only X taking things in stride meant he shrugged and said, I’m sick of you wannabe heroes anyway. Better safe than sorry.

Then he dropped me off a roof.

Four stories falling before I remembered how to fly. One day, I’ll get to the point where it’s instinct.

Does this guy even pause to breathe? Lombardozzi groans, cupping a hand over the receiver. He rolls his eyes but there’s a tightness in his stance.

Wait...

The cops think this guy is dangerous. Really dangerous. I should have picked up on that considering he has hostages. The last thing this city needs right now is a massacre. We have to rebuild post-apocalypse every other month and morale’s bad enough.

Saying I wind up with Good Guy as a nemesis, what happens? The bank robber’s still ranting. The press starts calling me Bad Guy. I’m not going through my career as Bad Guy.

But you are a bad guy, I snap.

Here we go, Lombardozzi mutters.

"Hey, I’m on speakerphone! That’s rude. Instead of annoyed, he sounds delighted. I would expect better from a hero, especially one so proper as Good Guy. Then again, half you superheroes have that tragic orphan past. Probably no mother to explain the rules—there we go. About damn time. Sorry, Good Guy, Detective Lobotomy, places to be."

The line goes dead.

Detective Lobotomy? Lombardozzi glares at his phone and throws up his hands. That’s it. I’m done with supers. The shield is not worth the headache. I want a liaison.

I would really prefer not to be lumped into the same category as supervillains.

He’s probably got the vault open, I hedge.

Which means my hostage situation will suddenly involve bullets when he decides to make a break for it. Lombardozzi eyes me critically. My SWAT crew’s in transit. You guys are all bulletproof, right?

I’m not, and getting shot hurts. It’s slightly less fatal for me, but I’m no Indestructoman. Dig one bullet out of your arm and you try your best never to have it happen again. Self-surgery leaves a hell of a scar. I’ll see what I can do.

When I’m about a foot from the door, it opens and a crush of people spill into the street. The name-tags tell me that some of them are employees, which makes the rest of them customers. The hostages.

I don’t actually like hostages much on the whole. The brave ones have a tendency to die and the others get in the way.

Something blurs in the corner of my eye. I whirl and reach for it, but it’s moving fast and momentum is not my friend. It goes from the teller to the door in the time it takes to blink. I don’t manage to get a grip on the figure but I do inadvertently clothesline him. It sends me spinning and the speedster pitching forward onto the sidewalk. He bounces back to his feet in an instant and squares to face me, eyes appraising. So you’re Good Guy, then? That’s very… wholesome. You look like a newsie.

The speeder’s a skinny guy wearing what looks like a spandex running suit straight out of the Olympics. It’s not black, but it’s a close-enough green that it might be confused. The mask is actually a pair of old lab goggles. The kind that freshmen chemists buy before their first lab. I can see his breath hanging like smoke though the chill of the air. His entire body vibrates with excess energy. It manifests in how he fiddles with the straps of a duffel bag stuffed full of what I have to assume is either cash or diamonds.

For whatever reason, most supervillains go for the diamonds.

I’m not letting you get away.

So I robbed the bank a little. He hikes the duffle bag up on his shoulder. There’s still a panic around the scene, hostages everywhere, but I’m a little surprised no one has taken a shot at him. Why do you care?

I don’t actually care that much. Banks are insured. By the sheer volume of flailing limbs the hostages are waving about, it doesn’t seem like anyone got hurt. You took hostages. I can’t let you go.

He snorts. You know what, Good Guy? Catch me. I dare you.

Then he’s off, weaving through the crowd of gawkers at top speed, which if I had to guess is a damn sight faster than the speed of sound. Behind me, Detective Lombardozzi is cursing into his radio. "Perp’s a fucking speedster. Get me a time frame. Visuals if possible. I need a trail, people. Keep the search contained. Report every speedster sighting in the city."

It’s easier for me to fly when I have a nice tall building to jump off first. The ground rushing up is a hell of an incentive for keeping in the air. Starting from the ground, it always takes me a moment to pinpoint that power, that sinking in my stomach. By the time I’ve found it again, the speedster’s not even in sight. I take off anyway and spend a few hours soaring through the city. There’s not much happening, most of the petty criminals in for the night. Then I do notice a few pre-teens bullying some kid.

Not okay.

I land behind one of the taller boys and tap him on the shoulder.

The kid shrieks and books it in the opposite direction, his friends following only a second later.

Sometimes being a superhero is awesome.

The little guy takes my hand and lets me pull him off the ground. He launches himself at me and wraps his arms around my waist. I pat his head awkwardly. It’s all okay, buddy. Promise.

He insists on holding my hand as I walk him home.

When I finally turn away from the house, I find Dodger watching me from atop a power line. His faded baseball jersey is unbuttoned, the scripted Dodgers cut in half and exposing a smooth white full-body suit that encases everything from head to toe. He’s got three black spots over the spandex on his face. I’m not sure if the psychic’s third eye is a metaphor or literal.

Why are you in this part of the city? Dodger demands, voice muffled.

I glance up to him. Looking for the speedster.

The speedster’s long gone, Dodger says. Go home.

I don’t land next to him because I’m still not sure if electricity is one of the forces I’m immune to. I got over the testing-my-limits phase months ago. "What are you doing here?"

I live nearby. Anything that happens, I’ve got it covered. His body shifts in my direction, which is as close to eye contact as I get. Go home, Alex. Have a glass of warm milk and turn on the television. It’s past your bedtime.

Dodger always makes it a point to greet me by name when there’s no one else around. He’s the most powerful psychic around, and it only makes sense that he’d pry loose a few identities. The name thing is a bizarre form of affection. I mostly find it creepy.

Besides, I’m twenty-one, a couple months into my senior year at college. I’ve been at this since I was nineteen in some capacity or another. You’d think I would have earned some respect.

Oh well. At least the other supers don’t drop me off buildings for fun anymore.

And I know from experience that when a psychic tells you something, you listen. Dodger probably saved me from an early death by tetanus when he took one look at my costume and told me to invest in sturdy boots.

Dodger nods as I swoop off, headed back for my apartment.

The window’s open. Always leave it like that when I head out. When apartment hunting, I’d figured that being on the top floor in a building that hadn’t bothered with elevators meant no one would notice a super soaring in.

The old rabbit ears on the television take a bit of finagling but I get them in tune in time to catch the end of the late-night news. The runner at the bottom identifies the man on screen as Davey Carlson, Hostage. I recognize his face vaguely from this afternoon. "He did have one thing to say though. After he opened the vault, he said, Tell those clowns my name is Malevolence."

The screen cuts back to the anchor, corners of her mouth tugging up beneath the somber expression. There you have it, First Metropolitan robbed for sixty thousand dollars this afternoon by a masked speedster identified as Malevolence. Despite the presence on scene of Good Guy, Malevolence escaped. The incident has tentatively been linked to an attempted robbery at the university bursar’s office last month.

That crime didn’t get a lot of press. Bursars and financial aid offices are always getting knocked over by collegiate would-be villains. More than a few of the angrier teenage heroes got their start the same way. But there’s a pattern of escalation, which means…

A glance at the answer-phone confirms five messages. All of them from my mom, who’s still kind of freaked at the thought of me living in a city that routinely gets stomped by horrible monsters. And that’s not even taking into consideration what happened to Brooks a few years back. I flop back on the couch and tug off my mask. Fantastic.

I call her. It’s one in the morning, but Mom won’t be asleep yet. She never is after a news report like this.

The conversation is mercifully short. Mom’s one of those old-school types who still rises at the crack of dawn. She just needs a few assurances. Yes, I’m all right. I was in the library, nowhere near the Capital District. No, I’m not getting a cell phone. No, I’ve never hung around with anyone who gallivants around town in a mask.

When I hang up, I’m bone-tired, but I can’t help thinking about the speedster. Malevolence is a better name than Bad Guy for sure, but it’s a mouthful. Brooks would have loved it, but Brooksie always had a soft spot for the villains. Said they had more fun than us heroes. When’s the last time you heard a hero laugh? If you can fly or something cool like that, you’d think you might spend just a little time enjoying it.

I pull on a blanket and glare at my busted space heater. Maybe I’ll laugh in the summer.

Good Guy #51

The time to leave for class comes a damn sight earlier than it should. I miss so much because of my extracurriculars that I make sure to haul myself to lecture if all my limbs are attached. My usual attire is a sweatshirt and jeans with holes torn through them. Good Guy wears suspenders over a long-sleeved, three-button cotton shirt and slightly baggy but neat brown slacks. Also, combat boots.

Alex Manners definitely doesn’t do combat boots. You’d be lucky to see him out of flip flops no matter how low the temperature dips.

I tug up the straps on my backpack and push the massive pair of glasses up my nose. I’ve got to wear contacts when I’m Good Guy, but I’m too lazy to bother in everyday life. Besides, eyes tend to glaze right over the dorky bespectacled history major when they consider suspects for possible superheroes.

Hey there, Alex. Elle Nieves grins as she locks the door on the apartment next to mine. How goes the crime fighting?

Okay, so the secret identity is safe from everyone but Elle. In my defense, she ran across me the same day I got a massive dose of truth serum blasted into my face. I told her absolutely everything.

She thought I was joking.

Because who would look at someone like me and think superhero? Elle’s under the impression I’m a delusional shut-in. Considering I make most of my exits from the apartment window, the only time she ever sees me leave is when I’m heading to campus.

I can almost hear Brooks laughing.

Same old, same old, I say. Bank robbery. Very messy.

I heard someone got away with it. Malevolence? Sounds like he’s a bad one.

You’re judging a book by its cover. For all you know, Good Guy’s a real prick.

And someone calling himself Malevolence is secretly a saint?

Touché. At least he bought a thesaurus before picking the name.

Elle punches me in the shoulder. The flinch is easy enough to pass off as pain. You know you’re ridiculous, right?

I am the least ridiculous person you’ll talk to this morning. You work for a shrink.

Elle’s a receptionist at a psychiatrist’s office. To my knowledge, the office has never had any supervillains or heroes come through as patients. Which is great because someone would probably try to kidnap her to get to me.

Or something. It’s not like I have a lot of friends to choose from.

They’re not all crazy, you know. No matter what you think, she snaps and by then the trek down the stairs is over. You can make fun of me all you want when and if you snag a job with that history degree of yours. Until then, forget it.

She’s gone without even a backwards glance.

I trudge to the bus