Walk A Mile (The Enemies Trilogy Book 2)

By P.K. Gardner

When a botched assassination attempt leaves Alex Manners stuck in the body of his arch-frenemy, he’s forced to strike a truce until they find a fix to the problem. But the swap has unearthed latent memories, uncovering a villain who’s been stalking Alex for years. Alex’s only defense is the anonymity lent by a different face.

If Alex wants his body back, he’ll have to contend with a time-travelling pyrokinetic, a psychic orchestrating experiments on superheroes and a pair of vigilantes cutting a bloody swatch through the city. More importantly, he’ll have to confront the ever-looming specter of the Forgettable Man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.K. Gardner
• Release date: Dec 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310906183

P.K. Gardner

P.K. Gardner is not a zombie.

Book preview

Good Guy #285

Present day

Ajax Gadzinski glares at me over his milkshake. At age eleven, he’s still recognizable but has grown up from the toddler I’d met at his father’s funeral.

"So you’re what? Going to fix me," Ajax asks, sarcasm dripping off every word.

That’s not entirely off base. A few weeks back, I’d received a call from Big Brothers about the chance to mentor an at-risk youth. As I’d never applied for the position, I nearly hung up. Then I heard the name Ajax Gadzinski. Not a lot of Gadzinskis in the city. The only one I know is the son of Indestructoman, a dead superhero.

You’re not broken, I tell him.

Right, he mutters. He still hasn’t had a sip of his drink. Guess that just makes me a freak.

The older woman manning the counter of the coffee shop keeps side-eying us, like she’s waiting for one of us to erupt. I offer her a tight smile and take a fortifying sip of my coffee, the caffeine giving me a much-needed jolt of courage. You haven’t seen freak until you’ve seen me, I tell Ajax.

My mom killed my dad, Ajax says, voice flat. How much worse can it get?

Ajax had been six years old when he found the bodies. After he unnerved his first three foster families with an endless series of morbid questions, Dodger, the District’s resident psychic, erased the memory.

But that didn’t stop Ajax from using Google to find out what happened to his parents.

You could be dead, too, I say.

Ajax snorts. You’re the worst at this.

Even though I’m a superhero, I’m not equipped to handle this. Ajax’s mother smothered a supposedly indestructible superhero and capped off her own evening with a bottle of sleeping pills.

"Look, when I was just out of high school, I watched my best friend die in front of me. It sucked, but it got better eventually. Live in the District long enough and everyone loses someone. This city gets demolished six times a year. You don’t have a patent on angst."

I’m eleven. I don’t know half those words.

I take another sip of my coffee. You should read more.

You’re not like the other ones. Ajax scowls at his milkshake. They tried to be nice. It was fake. I hated it.

Yeah, me too, kid. You think maybe us freaks need to stick together? I give him a conspiratorial wink and pull up the right leg of my pants to reveal my prosthesis. It was a gift from my nemesis Malevolence. And by nemesis, I mean something closer to ‘frenemy.’ We’re up to version five or six on the prosthesis because Mal keeps tweaking them. The number would be far higher if I let Mal trick it out, but in my experience things break if you add too many moving parts. If the prosthesis breaks, I don’t walk. I like walking.

Ajax scrambles off his chair to get a closer look. Holy crap, you’re a cyborg.

Not quite. I’m an amputee. This is a prosthesis. I’ve yet to upgrade to the model with the jet thrusters.

Somehow those never seemed necessary considering I can fly.

How’d it happen? Ajax asks, reaching out a hand to prod at the metal.

Pirate initiation ceremony, I answer, deadpan.

Ajax glares up at me. Pirates don’t wear glasses.

I touch my oversized frames. Superheroes don’t wear glasses either. Alex Manners, on the other hand…

At least my panic attacks have subsided over the past few years. I’ve got Mal to thank for that. He’d programmed half a dozen robots to follow me around, shooting low jolts of electricity when I was least likely to notice. Exposure therapy.

I need better friends, but that’s a completely different story.

Tell me what really happened, Ajax demands.

A supervillain attack blew up my apartment building. Got my leg caught under rubble. They couldn’t get me out so they cut it off.

Not exactly true but close enough to pass for civilian conversation. The real story involves Professor Deadly, Malevolence and a fellow calling himself Shadow. I don’t remember a lot of the details, which would be troubling if not for the copious amounts of shock involved in losing a limb.

A supervillain?

Yeah. Professor Deadly. She was a bit before your time. She’s not around anymore.

I can say that with confidence considering I’d seen Shadow chop her in half.

The mention of Professor Deadly sets Ajax off. He chatters about his favorite heroes and villains, because every kid in the District seems enthralled with that stuff. He’s from the city proper so of course he likes Dodger. He’s also a fan of X, who is a gun-toting borderline vigilante. No one over the age of six likes Good Guy best. I’m the big purple dinosaur of superheroes. I try not to let it get to me because being a superhero still qualifies as cool.

At least the kid’s stopped treating me like the enemy. The milkshake disappears as he lets me tease him out of his shell. By the end of our meeting, he’s talking about a girl who’s been picking on him at recess and how much he hates his history lessons. When I walk him to his foster family’s modest townhouse, he stops and turns back, shoulders rounded, hands shoved in his pockets. I’m going to see you again, right? The last two decided they didn’t like me.

The kid’s father, Indestructoman, was by far the best liked of the supers in the city. Mostly by virtue of being the only one who wasn’t a douchebag. His kid is a bit harder, but with that kind of trauma in his past it’s to be expected. Besides, ten to one Dodger chased off the first two candidates, not Ajax’s attitude.

Yeah, I say. Same time next week. Promise.

His foster mother ushers him inside, mouthing thank you. Her hair falls limply from a haphazard ponytail, dark circles etched under her eyes. I salute her before heading back down the steps.

I’m not even a block away before an arm loops over my shoulder. I cannot believe you pulled that shit with the leg.

The tension leaks out of my shoulders when I realize who it is. I can’t believe you’re stalking me again.

Malcolm Quick lets go of my arm and spins out in front of me, backpedaling so he can look me in the eyes. Mal’s an inch shorter than me, black dye covering what I suspect, but have never confirmed, is violently red hair. His nose has been broken a few dozen times and his build might generously be called scrawny. Mal’s also a certifiable genius and a speedster who can break the sound barrier on his own two feet. That would be awesome except for the fact that he’s also a supervillain.

Stalking’s not the point, Mal says, grinning. The point is you used your severed leg to charm a preteen into liking you. I thought you were broken up about this shit. Seeing a psychiatrist and everything. The depths of your brain are fucking weird, dude, and I love it. He stumbles on a piece of busted sidewalk, but recovers quickly. Was that the Indestructospawn?

What?

Ajax Gadzinski is Indestructoman’s love child, right? There is no way you get through Big Brothers’ screening process unless Dodger is involved. And no way Dodger gets involved unless there’s some tie to the supers. Unless you idiots are recruiting children, I’m guessing this is a posthumous favor.

I poke him square in the chest. No kidnapping.

"But Mom," Mal whines.

I’m serious. I punch him in the shoulder at about half my usual strength. He’s off limits. I’ll let X kill you.

I can take X, Mal says, puffing out his chest.

I raise an eyebrow. X is a damn good shot. Before his life as a superhero, X did black ops in the marine corps. For all I know he doesn’t even have a superpower. He’s just more durable and more deadly than the rest of us.

Mal deflates. Fine, I can outrun X.

I’ll give you that one. You want to tell me why you’re stalking me?

He spins back around and falls into step beside me, bumping shoulders on the way. With anyone else, the constant contact would have me flinching away, but we spent two weeks about a year ago literally glued together. I got over it. Oh, you know, passing through, thought it was better than watching a shit baseball game.

So you’re just here because you’re bored?

Hey now, practicing valuable stalking skills, remember?

Of course.

Also, there’s someone else stalking you. Mal and I are in the Capital District, heading southeast toward my apartment. In terms of stalking, this is the part of the city best suited for it. An abundance of people are on the streets, and there are plenty of tall glass buildings with lots of windows. Any more and you’ll have to start calling us groupies.

At any given time, I’ve come to accept that at least one other super is on my tail. Mostly, it’s Mal, but Dodger hasn’t trusted me since I tried to take a piece out of his kid sister, Worst Nightmare, to prove a point. I’m stunned Dodger even let me near Ajax, but at this point I’m one of the better-adjusted superheroes.

You’d think I’d be off Dodger’s shit list by now, I grumble.

It’s not Dodger, Mal says. You remember the dude in black who axed Professor Deadly a few years back?

Considering he axed my leg maybe a minute later, yes. I stumble on the pavement even though the ground’s even. Mal pretends not to notice. I might have a dim recollection. Called himself Shadow.

Simmer down, peg-leg. I thought you should know, it’s either him or someone dressed exactly like him. Which granted, might be a coincidence considering the complete lack of originality of an all-black suit. Either way, he’s your problem now. I’d ask if you wanted to grab a beer or something, but you’re always depressingly sober and I’ve got some stuff to finish up. He slaps my back. Enjoy your new stalker. I’ll see you tomorrow.

I hesitate, looking up to the skyline, half expecting to see a black-clad figure watching me from the rooftops. Then the last part of what Mal said registers and I shout, Hold on a second! What happens tomorrow?

My words echo against the buildings, but Mal’s a mile or more away by now.

Great, I mumble. Odds are Good Guy and Malevolence will be trying to kill each other tomorrow. Better call in sick to work.

Good Guy #286

I wake up at three in the morning to my toaster trying to strangle me. The thick black extension cord is wrapped around my neck, squeezing as the red glow from the coils burns like the depths of hell itself.

The fact that it’s not the strangest way I’ve woken up this year says far too much about my life. Fortunately, it’s only a toaster this time instead of a velociraptor. When I flop sideways off the couch, I pull out the plug and the toaster goes back to just being a toaster. My prosthesis is a few paces away, so I fly there rather than wasting the motion on crawling.

I’d be singing Mal’s praises for such a simple-to-use interface if I wasn’t busy cursing Malevolence. Ours is a complicated, forbidden love.

Scratch that. X and SuckerPunch have a complicated, forbidden love. Mal is basically my slightly evil brat kid brother. I’m allowed to kick his ass when he needs it.

Keeping a wary eye on my kitchen full of possibly homicidal appliances, I pull on my costume, flexing my fists into the gloves. Before I can jump out my window, my television switches itself on. A face swims into view. Goggles obscure anything identifying about his features, but I know it’s Malevolence. I stop moving.

Hello, says Mal. By now you’ve probably noticed that most everything attached to a plug might try to kill you at some point today. If you don’t want to get thrashed by your coffee maker, text the number at the bottom of your screen to send a ten-dollar donation to the Malevolence World Domination Fund. Tax-deductible, a worthwhile cause, etc. And you rich assholes can send some extra, you know, progressive tax this shit. Pay however much not getting electrocuted while you try to make breakfast is worth. Yes, I have a quota. No, I’m not telling you what it is. Err on the side of extravagance. This message is going to loop for the benefit of you worthless layabouts in bed. Get a job already.

It’s three in the morning. I’m pretty sure the majority of the people in bed are there because they have a job.

On screen, the broadcast has restarted. Hello. By now…

I unplug the television and bend at the knee, testing the prosthesis. There are maybe half a dozen places in the city where I can look for Mal.

If he’s just picking a fight, it’ll be one of the warehouses down by the docks. If he doesn’t want to tangle with me, the blown-out shell of a train station on the wrong side of the river seems like a good bet. It’s the place I lost my leg five years ago. Mal is an ass and not above using my trauma against me, so my gut says train station.

I pry open my apartment window and check below to make sure no one’s watching before gliding out into the open air.

Often there are people looking up to the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of a super in costume, but today the focus seems ground level. Mal’s threats tend to produce nuisances rather than fatalities, but I still hear ambulances off in the distance.

Dodger’s the only one who sees Good Guy soaring out over the town. He stands on a rooftop, both arms spread wide as he radiates calm. The feeling threatens to leech the fight out of my bones. My guard drops just long enough for the psychic’s insidious voice to sneak past the mental barriers X had taught me years ago.

Go home, Alex, Dodger says, his voice loud and insistent in my head. I’ve sent someone to the station already.

That means my first instinct about Mal’s whereabouts was right. I should be disturbed by how well I know Malevolence. Instead, I’m just looking forward to the part after I kick his ass where we both dust ourselves off and Malcolm Quick drags Alex Manners to a bar.

You have so many problems, Dodger says, sighing into my mind.

I project back the image of my middle finger, because maturity is not on my list of character defects. Then I head to the burnt-out shell of a train station.

Back in my high school years, it was the place in the city I knew best. Me and my best friend, Brooks, went through an urban exploring phase. The condemned train station was far and away our best find. I stopped visiting around the time Brooks died and have more or less avoided it for the last nine years. Except for the kidnapping incident that lost me a limb.

So really, it’s a mixed bag of memories.

The nice part about the station is there’s no longer a roof. Convenient for letting people who can fly make an impressive entrance. Or it would be if Mal was in position to notice.

Malevolence is decked out in full costume. The dark green track suit, the flashy neon yellow trainers. He goes through about two pairs a month, the colors always the loudest he can find. Malevolence’s plastic goggles, which look like they’re straight out of a freshmen chemistry lab, are half melted, pieces of his soot-smudged face plainly visible.

And that’s dangerous if there are any supers besides me around.

Alex? Mal says, bewildered. What are you doing here?

Are you serious? My toaster tried to strangle me this morning. By your standards, that’s a hand-engraved invitation.

You’re supposed to bring the host a gift. I demand fine wine.

You don’t even like wine.

Then I demand—Get down!

I hit the deck. There have been too many close calls, too many truces between the two of us for me not to obey instinctively when Mal breaks out that tone of voice. Overhead slices a jet of fire, suspiciously well aimed. I raise my chin enough to see the source of the flames is a girl a few years younger than me, closer to Mal’s age of 24. She’s not much to look at, maybe five four with dark hair and light-colored eyes. Her face is round and red, but the red might just be from the heat spinning through the station.

Friend of yours? I call to Mal who’s halfway around the room.

Because all my fucking friends attack me! Mal cries.

You have a wreck of a verbal tick. The girl’s accent grates on my ears, the consonants chopped, the vowels slightly warped. It’s nothing I can place, but she’s not from around here.

Oh, fuck you twice, Mal retorts.

Look, whoever you are, you obviously don’t know how it is around here. I can’t help but wince. The District has a pretty warped status quo when it comes to supers. Malevolence here is my villain. My problem. You can’t just waltz in and mess with my nemesis.

Damn straight, Mal crows. He slinks behind me, using me as a shield. Get him, babe.

I shouldn’t turn my back on a villain. If it were anybody but Mal, I might be killed.

"I’m not messing with anybody, the girl says. I was planning to kill Malevolence. According to Dodger, there is a line leading from him to the recent attacks by kitchen appliances. Death is a remedy."

So very much not down with that plan. Mal peeks around me. Come on, no one died. Barely anyone got maimed.

Shut up or I’ll help her murder you, I hiss to Mal, who pouts like this whole thing isn’t his fault.

Move, the girl says, her voice measured despite the weird accent. Or I could obliterate you if preferred. She unfurls her fingers and flames spark off them. I can practically hear Mal flinch.

But he hasn’t run. There must be something here he’s loath to abandon.

Since it’s Mal, it’s probably some sort of computer program.

If I know Mal, he didn’t go through the trouble of setting up his own donation line. He’s diverting donations from an organization already in existence. A pulse throbs in my temple. Which charity, Mal?

The Girl Scouts, he says. They can keep everything after I hit my quota. And considering I reached that within the first twelve minutes, they should be sending me a thank you note.

That’s Mal all over. No matter what happens, he’ll keep his share of the money. Nobody will call for refunds, because ordering a mass recall of donations to the Girl Scouts is political suicide.

The girl sends a blast of fire above my head. I don’t flinch because I’ve trained away my survival instincts in favor of looking badass. Is that supposed to scare me?

It should, the girl says with a sneer.

To be fair, it does. I’ve been caught in explosions before. Getting blown up will ruin your day.

We’re good guys. I wince at my own choice of words. We don’t kill people.

X says you’re righteous, but you do not appear to kill villains either. Step aside. I would rather not incinerate you.

"X said you were righteous? Mal says from behind me. Didn’t he drop you off a building that one time?"

The girl purses her lips, then raises her arms. Good Guy, this is your final caution.

There’s a split second of silence and then every electronic thing in the station cuts out. I hear skittering footsteps. It doesn’t register that Mal is getting out of the way until a spurt of fire blasts the empty space he used to occupy. The next blast is aimed at me.

I go up instead of sideways. Even people who’ve fought me before tend to forget that I have the extra dimension. Even Mal forgets it sometimes.

This part of your plan, Malevolence? I call into the dark.

Hell, no. Sorry about this one, buddy. I’m out.

Irritation flashes through me as