The Dismal Tide: East End Irregulars, #2

By Michael DiBaggio and SHELL 'PRESTO' DIBAGGIO

The East End Irregulars are taking a bite out of the Pittsburgh underworld. Teen vigilantes Torrent and the Mysterious X have already walloped werecats and beaten the mad gasser of Panther Hollow. Now they’re finally getting the attention they deserve: from the press, the police, and the worst lowlifes the city has to offer. With Corona's pyrokinetic firepower added to the team, they’re ready to take on all challengers. 

Or are they? 

Before the Irregulars can claim their title as the Burgh’s undisputed champions, they must run a gauntlet of foes including the Flying Skeletons, the satanic Mr. Gentry, and the assembled might of the Global Parahuman Revolutionary Army. And the city’s other superheroes may have something to say about it, too. 

The sequel to 2014’s Young Adult superhero adventure After Dark, The Dismal Tide is the second novel in the East End Irregulars series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Insomn Studios
• Release date: Jan 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524271022

Michael DiBaggio

A mild-mannered software engineer during the day, at night Mike dons the mantle of award-winning author of heroic adventure fiction.  Inspired to create his own stories at a young age by the glorious cartoons and comic books of the 1980s, he graduated to the world of role playing games and SF and fantasy novels as a teenager. Together with his wife, Shell, he created the Ascension Epoch, an open-content, shared universe for adventure fiction based on the public domain. Besides his work on Ascension Epoch, he has contributed material for Eden Studios' "Conspiracy X" and dabbled in the indy RPG scene with several original settings like "Undertow" and "Eternal Empire."

Book preview

Chapter 1 

A Firm Purpose of Amendment

The holy water font became a miniature whirlpool. Sebastian didn’t even realize he was doing it. His fingers hadn’t touched it. He wasn’t even looking at it. Hydrokinesis was still a novelty; he’d only expressed the month before and, like a loose tooth, he played with his talent unconsciously. It was only when a spherical droplet rose above the rim and glittered in his peripheral vision that he noticed, and, in sudden alarm, forced it back into the stoup with a loud plunk. He glanced around nervously, but no one seemed to have noticed his psychic contretemps. He dipped two fingers, blessed himself, and hurried into line for the confessional.

As he clung to the wall of the nave, his gaze was drawn upward by the soaring murals that decorated the sanctuary of St. Jamison Doyle parish church. On the left side of the chancel arch was a grisly tableau of the Martian War, with the Signalman—the parish’s namesake—leading a troop of gas-masked soldiers through a blasted and withered landscape. A thin ribbon of blue light arced around his three-portal lantern while the lethal Black Smoke roiled beyond the protective margin. Above and behind the saint, a forest of stilt-legged tripods loomed, their black hulls glinting red amid the towering flames, within which writhed a danse macabre of human skeletons, their skulls warped in expressions of horror and anguish. When Sebastian first saw the painting as a little boy, he burst into tears and hid behind his mother. Thereafter, whenever he thought of Hell, it was the scene from that mural that burned most vividly in his mind’s eye. More than a decade later, it still caused him to shiver.

The mural on the right of the chancel was almost painfully bright in contrast to the somber, funerary palette of the first. Here, the much older saint descended from the sky, walking on a ray of sunlight. Unhooded and white-haired, his long blue cloak billowing behind him like a banner, he held out his hand in rebuke of the Germanic hordes. Beneath the saint’s feet slumped red-bearded Thor, his hammer splintered on the rocks, while wing-helmed Wotan and his Einherjar drew back in wariness. Behind the Signalman, the bandaged and bloodied army of the Papal States raised the cross in triumph, while far behind the Teutonic lines, amid the columns of armored crawlers and constellations of gray war zeppelins, the Irminsul crumbled into rubble.

A final mural dominated the apse, depicting the saint ascending a vast golden stair. Robed in white and flanked by St. George and the archangel Michael in the full panoply of the Heavenly Host, Doyle paid homage to crowned Christ. Sebastian looked with yearning on the expression of joy and peace captured so poignantly on the face of the saint. His heart filled with hope that one day, he, too, would be so transformed.

And that was why he was here. It certainly wasn’t because he enjoyed cataloging his faults, much less the hours-long penances that frequently followed. Sebastian wasn’t the sort that liked to admit he had any faults at all. He’d been instructed that frequent confession strengthened one’s resistance to sin, but in his case, the only thing it seemed to improve was his ability to notice them. He always felt optimistic afterward, but inevitably fell back into the same vices. In shame at his weakness, he made a circuit of half the churches in the east end so that he didn’t have to face the shocked gasps of the same priest more than once per month.

His foray into vigilantism hadn’t helped things, either. He was more convinced than ever that it was his calling in life and that he was fighting on the side of right, even though he sometimes did a poor job of it. But he was also mindful of the temptations and snares that came with the mask: the ever-multiplying deceits to preserve his secret, the hatred for his opponents, the thrill that often came with hurting another human being. He truly believed that, with time, self-discipline, and God’s grace, he would be able to overcome these sins and serve justice with the same sort of firm but calm benevolence that the Signalman once did. That was what separated the sheepdogs from the wolves, the quality that kept protectors from becoming tyrants and monsters.

The door of the confessional opened. Sebastian took a deep breath and girded his loins for spiritual scourging.

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession.

Sebastian could see the outline of the priest through the screen, leaning forward. He cleared his throat. Go ahead, son.

I’ve lied to my parents and my sister three... no, four times.

About what?

Sebastian ground his teeth. It was one of those priests. Where I was going, what I was doing. That sort of thing.

Were you doing something you shouldn’t have been?

Sebastian paused, wondering how to answer that. They would probably think so.

So you were also disobedient to your parents, then?

Not explicitly, but—

God commands us to honor our parents. And if you still live with them, you also owe them the respect of abiding by their rules.

Okay, I disobeyed my parents, Sebastian admitted. I’ve also trespassed on another’s property, though it was in furtherance of a good end. I was, uh, apprehending a criminal. I’ve harbored ill will towards others, nursed grudges, wished harm on them. I’ve—

The priest interrupted. How often do you do that? Wish harm on other people?

Several times a day, I guess. Very often. He winced at the shocked sigh he received in reply.

What sort of harm do you wish on them?

All sorts. It depends. Minor injuries, sometimes death.

That’s very grave. Why are you so angry?

Sebastian fidgeted on the kneeler, swaying his head back and forth in frustration. Because of the evil things they do. Their attitudes. They hurt people, or steal, or you know... things like that. Or they say stupid things.

These are your friends? Family?

No, not really. Classmates, sometimes. Mostly people I don’t know. Politicians, celebrities...

I see. Go on.

Well, I’ve beat up people and threatened them. Many times. It was always in self-defense or defense of another, but...

But?

But I enjoyed it. And maybe I kept it going longer than I should have.

The priest sighed. It’s not always sinful to use force, but violence can stray into sin even if started for a just cause. So go on.

I’ve detracted others. Sometimes behind their backs, but usually to their faces. I insult them and... well, I antagonize them. I like to argue and prod people. I say things intentionally to upset them and to show off, I suppose. I’m a smarta— uh, smart aleck. Also, I... almost took a bribe.

A bribe?

Yes. A bribe to not turn in a deranged criminal. I was seriously considering it, and tried to justify it to myself. And then I also lied to my friend about not considering it.

But you didn’t take it?

No.

Temptation itself is not a sin. It’s good that you were able to overcome it. Anything else?

Sebastian sighed. This was the part he hated the most, the sins he was most embarrassed of. I’ve had... impure thoughts. Indulged in, uh, impure acts and fantasies.

Of a sexual nature?

Yes. His voice squeaked.

I see. Of your girlfriend, I suppose?

Sebastian cringed. Of, uh, several women, actually.

I see. And you had intercourse with them?

No!

Or other explicit acts? Heavy petting? Oral sex?

No! None of that!

I see, the priest said again. So the impure acts were masturbation.

Sebastian was sweating. If he could, he’d trade both of his powers for the ability to shrink down and disappear into a crack in the floor. He thought fondly of his own parish priest, Father Swanson, who, though he handed out hours of Perpetual Adoration penances like they were candy, at least didn’t force you to wallow in humiliation. Eventually, he muttered in the affirmative.

How frequently?

Frequently, he growled.

And on it went for ten more gruesome minutes. When Sebastian had finally exhausted his list of transgressions, the priest voiced his concern, and rather ungently. Young man, that’s quite a lot of sins for only five days. I’ve heard shorter confessions from people who haven’t been to church in years.

They’re not all from the last five days, Sebastian replied defensively. Some I forgot from last time.

And how often do you go to confession?

Once a week. And then, in a tiny voice, he added, usually.

The priest hummed thoughtfully. You’ve made a thorough examination of conscience, but I’m concerned that you may think of this as mere formality, that you simply repeat your sins without any thought to their correction and to get a free pass, as it were. But, in fact, in order to receive absolution, you must have a firm purpose of amendment. That is, you must make a serious commitment to avoid sinning, though of course, none of us are going to succeed in that. Do you understand?

I do. Absolutely! In fact, I think I’m doing a lot better than I used to!

Good heavens, the priest muttered. In that case, I will absolve you for your sins. For your penance, pray the rosary, and then continue to pray it whenever you feel the temptation to sin.

Sebastian made his Act of Contrition and received absolution. Before he left the confessional, however, the priest called to him.

Son, I’m worried for the course of your life. There is a lot of deceit and violence there, not to mention the frequency with which you encounter criminals. What is it, exactly, that you are involved in? You needn’t have any fear of telling me; we’re under the seal. I’m only trying to help you. Are you in a gang?

Oh, no, father, Sebastian whispered. I’m a superhero.

For a while, there was silence. When the priest finally spoke, there was a hint of wry humor in his voice. In that case, may St. Jamison Doyle intercede for you, and may the peace and help of the Holy Spirit go with you.

~*~

Later that same day, Sebastian was alone in his garage when Alex Shepherd, his best friend and vigilante comrade-in-arms, stepped through the doorway. He bore a bundle wrapped in a plastic bag.

Yo, Sebastian greeted him without looking up. He sat on a bench, leaning back against the vibrating metal case of the big 3D printer that hummed and sizzled in the background, one leg kicked up on an old cardboard box. He had a pair of needle-nose pliers in his right hand which he used to tighten the gasket ring on a metal nozzle that he held in his left. Did they have the elastic tubing?

Alex slapped the bag against the door frame. Right here. It was a pain finding it, and it was way more expensive than you said. I had to go to Hawk Mountain for it.

Sebastian shook his head and set the nozzle down on the printer’s countertop, right in the middle of the big O in the International Fabricator logo. Long ago, the counter had been roughly the same gunmetal grey color as the nozzle, but now it was covered so thickly in a rainbow-colored dust of plastic shavings, splattered dye, and lumps of dried glue that the nozzle looked like a tiny volcano that had just erupted with molten confetti.

Of course they’re going to charge an arm and a leg at a sporting goods store, said Sebastian. Why didn’t you just go to the hardware department in Horne’s like I said?

Because they didn’t have it! Alex said, and tossed the bag to Sebastian. And don’t think you don’t have to pay the difference.

Sebastian caught the bag and looked at it for a moment, wondering if he should open it or return it for a refund and try to buy it more cheaply elsewhere. Eventually, his impatience overcame his stinginess and he opened it.

Speaking of doing what you said, why didn’t you clean this mess up? Alex surveyed the mayhem.

In one corner was a pile of old bicycles, some ancient pedal-only models that must have once belonged to Sebastian’s parents, others mud-caked mopeds with their engines and transmissions ripped out. In another corner sat a succession of lawn mowers arranged like an evolutionary chain, with a rusting, antediluvian push power anchoring one end and a new, but heavily soiled, Kingston Robomower on the other. Between the two corners were atolls of plastic boxes packed with all manner of junk. Narrow paths cut between them to reach the wall-mounted shelves cluttered with toolboxes and Christmas decorations. The table beside Alex was a graveyard of half-finished projects: dollhouses, customized action figures, even the remnants of their old pneumatic potato gun.

Bah. Sebastian dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. I said that because I was looking for something I couldn’t find, but then I found it without cleaning. It’s only going to get messy again anyway.

I figured you wanted to put the car in here. Are you still going to buy it?

Yeah, of course, Sebastian said. He looked thoughtful. I guess I could put the car in here, couldn’t I?

That’s what they usually build garages for.

A familiar shape and color caught Alex’s eye from beneath the clutter, and he dug through it to retrieve the remains of an old remote-controlled ornithopter. He held it up in front of the window and beamed in admiration. It’s been years since I’ve seen this bad boy! I remember when you first got it. The paint was faded and its right wing was sheared off, but angled in ascent and framed against the bright swatch of blue sky outside, it looked like it was ready to soar again. What happened to it?

Sebastian looked up. The ’thopter? It got stuck in the power lines, remember? I didn’t get it back until the next winter, when the weight of the ice snapped the wing off. That wing is probably still up there.

Ah, that’s right. He set the battered drone down. We should get a new one. They’re way quieter than the quadcopters; it could be good for scouting and tailing people.

I was thinking the same thing, only I was never good at flying them, Sebastian replied. Just then, the fabricator chimed and he hopped up to check on it.

You can say that again. What are you printing, anyway?

Lots of stuff. Sebastian slammed the lid shut and turned around. In his hands was a dome of plastic shaped like an egg cut in half, lengthwise. It was the same muted blue as his costume.

He lifted it up and slipped it on his head, guiding it around the back of his crown first, then tugging it down to the middle of his forehead. He swiveled his head in a circle quickly, and slapped it just above his ear. Just about perfect, he said, then profiled himself for Alex. What do you think?

Alex shrugged. It’s OK, I guess. A little bit dorky though. Why not just wear your baseball helmet?

Sebastian knocked on the front panel with his knuckles. Because this baby will stop a forty caliber caseless at point-blank. Laminated ballistic polymer, and light as a feather.

Alex gave a low whistle. I’ll bet the resin cost a small fortune.

Sebastian nodded. It wasn’t cheap. I paid for the schematic, too. I wanted something that would fit right on my big head.

Yeah, I know how hard that is for you.

It’s worth it, though. I’ve been thinking a lot about the Miasma situation. That might have turned out a lot worse.

Alex rubbed the back of his head, taken by a painful memory. You mean how he rang my bell with his shillelagh? Yeah, I noticed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have kept my braincase on, but with the gas mask... He still had a lump where the mad gasser had thumped him, but it had shrunk enough over the past week so that it was barely noticeable through his thick, chestnut hair. There were still faint red marks on his cheek where the buckles of his gas mask had sliced into his skin.

We need better gear. Sebastian’s eyes swept the room to make sure his parents or his snooping sister weren’t anywhere nearby. He added in a hushed voice, It’s only a matter of time before someone starts shooting at us.

For a moment, Sebastian thought he saw his friend smile at that, and he wondered at it. But Alex’s expression quickly changed, along with the subject.

So what are the tubes for?

Oh, just for blasting people. Sebastian grabbed the metal nozzle from the countertop and fitted it to the end of one of the elastic hoses. You said it was dumb that I didn’t carry around water, and I realized you were onto something. These will get in the way less than normal tubing. I plan to put the outlet on the back of my hand, like so, and connect it to a wet-pack.

Alex moved closer to examine the system. What is that? A pressure washer nozzle?

No, it’s wide-spray. High pressure’s hard, and it usually turns to steam when I force it. But I’m not going to fill it with water.

Pepper spray, Alex said.

That was my first thought. But what if I run into another hydrokinetic and he blows it up on me? Sebastian did not elaborate that this fear of an enemy hydrokinetic was more than a theoretical possibility. He still hadn’t told Alex about his shameful meeting with Cascade and Scald. No, there’s too much downside in pepper spray. I’m using vinegar.

Alex snorted derisively.

I can tell you’ve never gotten vinegar in your eyes, Sebastian replied. It hurts like hell, but it won’t permanently maim anybody.

Plus, they’ll smell like a salad for the rest of the night.

I’m telling you, one drop in the eye and you’re blinded. I got the idea from Olivia, actually. She puts a mix of vinegar and rubbing alcohol in her ears to dry them out after swimming, but she stores it in an eyedropper. The little witch left it in the medicine cabinet one day and I grabbed it by accident. I thought I was going to die.

Alex chuckled. Whatever doesn’t kill you gives you a good idea of how to hurt other people. What about the rubbing alcohol?

Some pyrokinetic might light it on fire, Sebastian replied.

Good point. So, do you think you can do it? Hit somebody in the eyes, I mean?

I’ve been practicing. Sebastian pulled something out of the pocket of his hoodie and handed it over to his friend. It was a pair of old swimming goggles. Come at me, bro.

Alex groaned as he snatched the goggles from Sebastian’s hand. Oh, cripes. I should have known you were going to do this. I hope you’re using water.

Nope, Sebastian said firmly. It’s the real thing or not at all. Practice with what you shoot, right?

Alex couldn’t argue with that. Fine, but if you actually get it in my eyes, I’m going to kick your ass. He stomped back about twenty five feet to the far end of the garage and slipped the goggles on.

If it gets in your eyes, you won’t do anything but cry like a little girl. Or maybe jump in the shower with your clothes on. If you can find it.

Alex punched his open palm with a loud crack. Alright! Let’s get... He stopped mid-utterance as a stream of vinegar exploded against the goggles and ran down his face in little stinging rivers.

At the other end of the garage, Sebastian blew on his outstretched finger like a smoking gun. I think I’ll call them ‘salad shooters.’

Alex yanked the goggles off, his crooked nose wrinkling at the acrid smell. Does that mean you’re ready to go back to work tonight, or do you still need time off for skirt-chasing?

Don’t give me that crap. I was waiting on your concussion to heal.

Bull! You’ve never heard me whining about a little bump on the noggin, and you never will. I was ready to go the next night! Alex shook out his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. I’ve been sitting around too long. I feel... itchy.

You have a problem, Sebastian accused, pointing at him. You’re an adrenaline junkie. Any sane person would at least have second thoughts after getting whacked that hard. Let me at least print you a new helmet.

Alex waved him off. My boxing helmet is fine.

It has no protection on the top of the head!

I’ll take my chances. It’s better than looking like Timmy the Glue-Eater with that new helmet of yours.

Sebastian shrugged. All right. It’s your swollen brain. Don’t get mad at me when you’re shaking and slobbering in a few years.

A crooked smile slanted across Alex’s jaw. Speaking of shaking and slobbering, did you have a late night with Evangeline or what? Since I didn’t hear from you all evening, I’m guessing she didn’t give you the cold shoulder.

No, she didn’t. She actually apologized to me.

Unreal! She obviously doesn’t realize how insufferable you’re going to be now.

Whatever. I apologized, too. I didn’t tell her I knew she’s a talent, though, nor did I mention that I was. I didn’t want to look like a creepy cyber-stalker, you know? I thought I should feel her up first. Sebastian blinked and shook his head in embarrassment, quickly correcting himself. Out. I meant feel her out.

Sure you did. Alex grinned.

Long story short, we had a nice time. Things are back to the way they used to be.

So you’re going to tell her?

Absolutely, I’m going to tell her.

When?

The next time we go out, he answered. Which will be as soon as I get the car detailed.

Good call, my friend. But not tonight, then.

No. Tonight, we go back to work.

Chapter 2 

Psycho Magnets

There’s an old joke that every Catholic schoolboy learns about how to make the sign of the cross: spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch. I was doing my own version of that behind the bush as I double-checked my gear. I adjusted my new helmet, synced the night-vision attachment to the HUD on my goggles, and tested the video feed from the head camera that I swore I’d never forget again after the Miasma incident. I made sure the mobi[1] strapped to my wrist—a cheap throwaway with no personally-identifying account information—was set to anonymize all wireless connections. I