Perennial

By Edward M Erdelac

La Futura. The dream factory. A city of angels who cavort across a silver screen sky. Yet, in the deep shadows cast by the Hillywood sign, sometimes children disappear…


In the darkness there is a boy. A boy who never grows up….a shadow that fights for the lost. A superhero saving one small world at a time. Those few that know him, call him Pan.


When a powerful metahuman runs amok in the city, Pan is forced to intervene and finds himself unwillingly thrust into the national spotlight. Something that has been waiting for him, hungering for him in the dark, is aware of him at last… Now it waits…atop a skyscraper packed with innocent hostages, guarded by an army of supervillains. And it wants Pan to come...alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward M. Erdelac
• Release date: Oct 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201545406

Edward M Erdelac

Edward M. Erdelac is the author of ten novels including Andersonville, Monstrumfuhrer, and The Merkabah Rider series. His short fiction has appeared in over twenty anthologies and periodicals. He's also written everything you need to know about boxing in the Star Wars Galaxy. Born in Indiana, educated in Chicago, he lives in the Los Angeles area with his family.  

Book preview

PERENNIAL

Copyright © 2021 by Edward M. Erdelac. All rights reserved.

Perennial was previously published in Emergence: A Humanity 2.0 Novel,

Ragnarok Publications, September 27, 2016.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or fictitious recreations of

actual historical persons. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not

intended by the authors unless otherwise specified. This book or any portion thereof may not

be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of

the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Illustration: Russell Marks

Cover Design STK•Kreations

Worldwide Rights

Created in the United States of America

PERENNIAL

By Edward M. Erdelac

This work is dedicated to the Children of The Secret and the men and women of H.E.R.O. Child-Rescue Corps.

Please consider donating to the Legislative Drafting Institute for Child Protection here. http://ldicp.org/contribute/

Thanks to Mike, Lee, Vic, Daryl, Rob, Richard, Chris, and the rest of the VC guys, who got me through a year and a half of cubical work and planted the seeds for a lot of stories.

Pan previously flew under everybody’s radar in a mishandled early publishing venture. I’m pleased to give him a second chance at the limelight here.

The bonus story included at the end of the book, Wide Awake, tells the story of The California Girls, the all-teen girl team that makes an appearance late in the novel. My daughter Magnolia came up with some of the superpowers and characters.

-EME 5/12/2021

Table of Contents:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Bonus Story: Wide Awake

CHAPTER ONE

With all the hot spots for celebrity sightings in La Futura, the maternity ward waiting room at the LF County Hospital at nine PM on a Thursday night was the last place anybody would expect to see anybody famous. No A-listers popped their brats out here. They weren’t caught dead or medicated outside of Seder’s-Horeb in the 90048, just a quick limo ride from the obnoxious multimillion dollar estates of Waverly Hills.

But Nico Tinkham was hardly an A-lister.

He bore all the signs of a celebrity in the wild though; drab gray hoodie, baggy sweatpants, curled brim of an old LF Riders ball cap pull low over a pair of dark aviator sunglasses, maybe a little too pricey for some poor uninsured chav sitting with his scrawny, coughing kid, awaiting the arrival of a new family addition he couldn’t afford. The tennis shoes were a giveaway too. Dirty they might be, but any twelve year old connoisseur from Englewood could tell you they were limited edition vintage Victoria KD6 Elites, two hundred dollars out of the box. The watch was a dead giveaway too. Wildorf & Davis. 

Of course not being an A-lister had ever stopped any D-lister from trying to look the part, even incognito. That was LF preening, and you couldn’t shake it.

The extensive, disfiguring burn scars down the right side of his face and covering his right hand might have made someone think he was nothing more than a well-dressed curiosity. But his were probably the most famous burn scars in Hillywood.

The blonde kid coughing regularly into his fist next to him was more subtle. Off-brand shoes, frayed sweatshirt, cheap stocking cap, and holes in his jeans. No paparazzo worth the name would make them as father and son, but of the harried maternity nurses and midwives, the bone-tired illegals waiting on their little first-generation Americans, no one at all on the ward even looked twice at them. They were all too caught up in their own dramas.

A tired looking Filipino nurse came out into the waiting room and massacred a Mexican surname, causing a bullish looking, tattooed fellow with a bald pate and track pants to scramble from his naugahyde chair and follow her deeper into the ward.

Nico rose too and sauntered over to the ancient magazines, then walked idly down the corridor, only the kid he’d left behind taking any notice.

He was an old hand at sniffing out unwatched pharmaceuticals. A junkie nurse who had introduced him to the wonders of Dilaudid when he was seventeen had taught him all about swiping hospital supplies through a haze of post-coital marijuana smoke. He hadn’t really intended to do anything other than peruse a magazine while he waited, but he found himself gravitating toward the half open door of a welcoming supply closet.

Sometimes mothers requested epidurals or morphine. Sometimes mothers were allergic, and that was where hydromorphones came into play. None of the allergic reaction but ten times the high. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. He had just about unballed his fist in his pocket and reached out to try the knob when a tall ginger in a white coat and glasses stepped in front of him.

S’cuse me. Can I help you with something?

A male obstetrician. That was one of those occupations Nico had never really been able to figure out the appeal of, like a gynecologist, or a guy who always played females in video games.

Nico made some inaudible, slightly apologetic excuse and turned about to head back to the kid and the waiting room.

That was when the short, fat armed Mexican woman in the red nurse’s scrubs stepped off the lift and pushed an empty gurney down the corridor, squeaking right past him.

No doubt about it. That was Zita.

Zita Cariño, smiling, pleasant mannered midwife, the kind who cooed over newborns and exclaimed "Ay que linda!" loud enough to wake the mother dozing across the hall, then said a benediction over their heads without asking if it was wanted or not. Pleasant. Earthy. Well-meaning.

Apparently she was notorious down in Juarez as the most accomplished baby napper in Chihuahua, Durango, and Sinaloa. She had fled Mexico with ten thousand dollars paid out by a cartel chief for snatching the newborn daughter of his biggest rival right out of the Star Medica Hospital in Juarez.

The popular narcocorrido about the affair, Los Doce Días de Navidad, said that her employer had shipped the baby in twelve individually wrapped gift boxes to her parents on Christmas morning two months after her disappearance. Ayudantita de Santa, they called her. Santa’s Little Helper.

Zita had used her money to set herself up in business doing what she knew best how to do, plying her trade all over California for a variety of clients. She was a kidnaper for hire, keeping herself afloat stealing unwanted babies out from under the noses of adoption agencies, and taking on the occasional high price abduction for childless couples willing to pay for precisely what they wanted.

Some of these babies went to good homes. A lot more flat-out disappeared, passed through the darkest guts of Molech or God only knew where, the only evidence of their existence a stack of incomplete paperwork, or at the very worst, a shaky video playing across the wretched eyes of some miserable law enforcement official in a hard drive seizure years after the case had gone glacial, to haunt them and all who came in contact with the hideousness of their fate for the rest of their days.

The perpetrators of the latter misdeeds were the ones Pan hated the most.

And Pan brimmed with that hate. It made his bones shake, made his teeth come together so hard they creaked.

It angered Nico too, in a deeper way, more personal than it could ever enrage Pan. That was why this bitch needed to be sorted. As awful as she was, she could lead Pan to greater monsters.

He moved to catch up with her, but the ginger headed doctor caught his elbow.

Just a minute.

Nico turned. He was caught. One goddamned moment of weakness. Jesus, not even a full on relapse. All he had been about to do was test a doorknob. That’s all. What would Pan say if Zita got away?

If he hit the doctor and bolted, that would only bring security all that faster. He looked towards the waiting room. Couldn’t see where the kid was sitting from where he stood. Why had he left?

He inwardly admonished himself.

Damn it! Useless goddamn junkie.

But the doctor’s previous stern look was gone. There was a half-smile on his face, and his green eyes were narrowed and sideways.

Are you....?

Oh Jesus. Really? Not now!

"Are you Nico Tinkham? From the Gutmunchers movies?"

OK. Be polite. Don’t be an arsehole. Let him have his fan moment and be done with it. Hell, wasn’t this the sort of thing he relished as a rampant egomaniac? Wasn’t it what had driven him out of West Thurrock all the way across the Pond to Hillywood?

Guilty as charged, Nico said, smiling.

Wow! the doctor said stupidly. Wow! Crandall, his nametag said. Marvin Crandall, MD. Gutmunchers fan. "You’re the last person I expected to see here tonight. Are you...? Are you expecting? I mean, not you of course. That is, I don’t know. Are you married?"

The last, in disbelief. Because why would a hideously disfigured ghoul like him have a wife? Wouldn’t he have to steal his bride and secret her to some underground lair to assail her with maniacal pipe organ serenades?

Nico opened his mouth to tell Dr. Marvin Crandall to fuck off.

Over Dr. Crandall’s shoulder, Zita opened the door to one of the maternity rooms like it was the most natural thing in the world, and laughed to the unseen occupant. She began talking loudly in Spanish.

Dr. Crandall didn’t wait for his ‘fuck you.’

"I’m sorry, it’s none of my business at all. I just wanted to let you know how impressed I was with your decision not to go forward with the cosmetic surgery on Celebs Under The Knife. That was one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever seen on television. I mean, given your history....all you went through. What did you say? ‘I am what I am?’ Very inspiring."

Nico shrugged and gave his best aw shucks, even though Dr. Crandall had gotten his exact words wrong, and attributed a cartoon sailor’s maxim to him.

The burn scars up the right side of his face were what had landed him the part in the Gutmunchers movies, and in Don’t Accept Rides From Strangers, and as Dr. Damnation in Metahuman Massacre. Ironically, the very disfigurement that had ended his childhood acting career had made his adult comeback possible. It hadn’t been out of any dignified sense of self that he’d wound up refusing the corrective surgery. He had taken the paycheck to be on the stupid reality show in the first place in a moment of addiction-fueled desperation. His Gutmunchers 2 money had run out and he’d needed a fix. Production on Gutmunchers 3 had been stalled because the goddamned Armenian director had broken into the production office and fucked off to Turkey with the budget to pour it into the goddamned resistance or whatever.

Then, in a moment of clarity, Nico had realized the paycheck from Celebs Under The Knife would never cover the loss of income he would suffer if he wound up unrecognizable. Nobody in the B-movie schlock horror pictures he had been doing for the past few years wanted a pretty Nico Tinkham in their zombie bullshit. They wanted the ready-made monster to save on the makeup artist.

The unexpected on-air decision not to go through with plastic surgery to erase his burn scars had been lauded by Tonight In Entertainment as must-see television the week it aired and the skyrocketing ratings had been the only thing that had kept the showrunners from hitting him with a breach of contract suit.

It had been some of the best acting he’d ever done really, sobbing to ‘Plastic Surgeon To The Stars’ Dr. Jean Marc Mendelsson that he had to make do with what he had, that God had marked him maybe for a reason he didn’t understand and who was he to change himself on the outside if he couldn’t change who he was on the inside.

It had been good shite, that, Nico had to admit. Even Jean Marc’s fit Brazilian assistant had had to touch up her mascara.

He’d gotten more offers after that. TV Movie of the Week stuff, a lot of interviews. These scars had paid off in the very long run after all. Of course, the truth was he had been afraid to go without them. He really wasn’t that good of an actor.

Zita came out of the room bidding a boisterous farewell and maybe a ‘be right back’ in Spanish as she closed the door. She had a blue blanketed bundle in her arms, and after a quick check to make sure nobody was looking, she lifted the sheet on the waiting gurney and deftly stowed the kid underneath.

Then she made her way back down the corridor to the elevator bank, humming her own goddamn narcocorrida as she went.

Nico watched her pass by as Dr. Crandall began to gush about his favorite scene in Metahuman Massacre, where the villainous Dr. Damnation removed his metal mask revealing Nico’s own scarred face to Lilia Lilliard, the bound Opaque Girl.

And then, when you drove your fist into her sternum and she materialized around it! Crandall chuckled exuberantly. What a great effect!

Yeah, said Nico, glancing over his shoulder as Zita pressed the lift button. The FX lads really earned their dosh with that one.

I’m sorry, said Dr. Crandall. I know I must be keeping you. He reached out and grabbed Nico’s mottled pink, scarred hand and pumped it vigorously. It’s been a pleasure.

Likewise, mate. Always nice to meet a fan.

He turned then as the lift dinged open and Zita pushed the gurney inside.

But something caught his hand.

Dr. Crandall hadn’t let go.

Oh! Listen! Would you mind terribly, giving me your autograph?

He pushed a little notepad into Nico’s hand and a pen. It was full of prescriptions. Jesus, if Crandall only knew what a temptation it was for him to just knock him down and bolt with this little treasure.

He scribbled his name quickly, glancing at the door.

Oh sorry. I actually need that page. Can you do it on a blank one?

Sure.

And make it out to Marvin?

Sure. Marvin.

M-A-R-V-I-N.

He nodded. He goddamned well knew how to spell Marvin. C-U-N-T.

The doors closed. He watched the numbers descend rapidly as he handed back the notepad and Dr. Marvin Crandall shook his hand again and reiterated his pleasure at having met him.

Say, said Nico. What’s in the basement of this place?

Oh nothing but the pathology lab, the morgue, he said, giggling a little at the last and pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger. Nico wondered if he had ever seen a black shirted Crandall at one of the horror hound conventions he sometimes got a signing table at. Oh and the loading dock. You know, for supplies and stuff.

Thanks, Doc. Brilliant meeting you.

He hurried down the corridor, ducked his head into the waiting room.

Goddammit!

The kid, Jimmy, was not sitting where he was supposed to. What a hell of a time for him to go to the loo. Now what?

The second lift dinged open, a red arrow pointing down.

He ran to catch it.

He rode it thankfully alone to the basement, and stepped out into a bleakly lit fluorescent hallway with a big yellow sign on a pair of doors to the right that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. NO ADMITTANCE.

No convenient doctor’s smock and surgical mask about. No wheelchair to jump into. If he ran into a security guard or a nurse, he’d be escorted back to the lift, maybe given the boot.

He went to the door and peered through the little glass squares. He caught a glimpse of a red clad figure turning the corner at the end of the hall.

He pushed through, got his cellphone out and dialed.

No signal here in the basement. He was on his own.

He jogged down the corridor, hearing the squeaking of the gurney wheels like metal rats getting quieter ahead.

He reached the corner, flattened, and peered around the side like he was MI6 or bloody John Steed or something.

She had stopped the gurney and lifted the sheet. Underneath was a pet carrier with a wire door. He saw the blue of the baby’s blanket through the mesh, heard it squeal.

She told it to shut up as she gripped the handle and pulled it out from under the cart, set it roughly down.

She got a coat out from under the gurney, put it on, zipped it up, and opened an outer door, sweeping up the pet carrier.

Nico looked down at the phone again. Still no signal.

He wasn’t supposed to get this close. Just phone it in. Except no phone. Go back upstairs, try to find the kid, or follow?

The door slammed shut.

He abandoned the cover of the corner and went down to the exit, waited a moment, and pushed it slowly open, the night air frigid on his hand.

The loading dock Dr. Crandall had mentioned was there. Idling in the bay was a van marked AAA Cleaning Service. Zita had just slammed the passenger door. She looked to be rubbing her hands in front of the heater.

The kitty carrier was on the ground behind the van, the baby getting a face full of exhaust.

A shaven headed Mexican man in a red hoodie and matching trainers was opening the back of the van.

Nico slid along the wall towards the end of the bay, tried the phone. Nothing.

The man in the back lifted the carrier into the the van and closed the doors.

He got out from under the building and tried the phone. Now it was acquiring a signal at least.

The driver’s side door slammed and the engine revved.

Nico spammed the call button and stepped out in front of the van as it lurched into gear and stopped short of hitting him.

The driver’s side window rolled down.

"Hey, puto! Get the fuck outta the way!" yelled the driver.

Nico looked into the glaring headlights and kept hitting Call.

Now Zita leaned out of her window.

"Hey! Move, pinche guero!"

Nico just stared. He had no idea what to say. His thumb was getting sore from jamming the phone.

The driver’s side door opened and the bald man in the red hood came from behind the headlights, coalescing from shadow into detail. He was scowling, shoulders rolling like a panther’s as he approached.

Shite.

You deaf? Get the fuck out the road, homes.

Then they both heard a ring tone from somewhere very close. The tune was Peter ‘N Wendy’s Theme, the Elton Ormond hit tune from ten years ago, written especially for the titular TV show.

The driver of the van looked confused.

Nico breathed deeply, and stepped aside.

There was Pan, standing behind him. A slight figure, no higher than Nico’s chest, in a green leather tunic with a peaked cap that came down over his eyes and nose in a sharp, stylized cowl. His bright blue irises shined through the eyelets. His leather gauntleted fists were bunched, knuckles on his narrow waist, encircled by the wide belt with the ringing phone in the pouch and the knife.  His legs and arms were sparingly muscled but looked absurdly thin in dark green Expandex.

He didn’t cut a very imposing figure, to be honest.

The driver smirked at his appearance.

’The fuck is this shit? he said, chuckling.

Where’s the baby? Pan asked in his high little voice.

Back of the van, said Nico.

Pan moved.

There was only about seven feet between him and the driver, but he launched himself into the air so swiftly the impact of his two feet sent the driver slamming back against the grill of the van.

Then he just floated there for an instant before righting himself, the toes of his boots eight inches off the pavement.

The driver groaned and peeled himself off the bumper of the van.

Zita shrieked from the passenger’s window.

"Es El Niño Eterno! Quemarlo, Bombero!"

What did she say? Nico wondered out loud.

She said ‘burn him,’ said Pan. "Look out!’

Nico felt himself shoved aside hard enough to fling him back against the wall of the dock. He lost his sunglasses. As he went flying, a jet of orange and blue flame roiled through the spot he’d been standing in, flying out of the driver’s outstretched hand.

He was a metahuman.

Pan wasn’t caught in the gout of fire either, he slipped under it, twisting gracefully, and flew at the man Zita had called Bombero.

Bombero dodged aside and Pan’s small fists smashed the front of the van, rocking it on its chassis.

Bombero’s still flaming fist came down across Pan’s back and slammed him to the pavement, but before he could blast him again, Pan’s body rose no more than an inch off the ground and shot forward under the van.

Bombero looked confused for a second, then heard the sound of running feet on the roof and looked up just as Pan came flying down at him. He caught the larger man by his sweater and used his momentum to fling him head over heels, out into the parking lot, tearing his red hoodie away.

Bombero rolled to his feet though, and now both arms rippled with crackling flame. He was like the burning bush. Though blue hot at the source, his skin was unburnt. His white t-shirt smoldered, curled, and fell from him, revealing an intricate tattoo painted across his muscled chest. It depicted some kind of ghastly, grinning red fleshed figure adorned in savage turquoise jewelry and bearing a flaming serpent on his back. To Nico it looked like something in the margins of a placemat at an Oaxacan restaurant.

Bombero whirled his arms clockwise and then flung out both hands with a gleeful shout. Two twisting slinkies of fire erupted from his hands and merged into a horizontal cyclone which swept straight at Pan.

Instead