The Last Hero

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Book excerpt

May 1st, 2015

The dimly lit pub reeked of cigarette smoke and stale sweat. At one end of the bar an old man engaged in a heated debate with the bartender, something which had been going on for the better part of an hour. One minute he ranted about the city's undisciplined youth and the next he argued about the corporate elite repressing the working poor. It was enough to drive a sane person mad, but the bartender seemed to possess an iron constitution.

Opposite the bar, stuffed away in a dark corner of the room, a middle-aged couple sat in a booth with their heads bowed, more interested in their drinks than each other. She sipped a light beer while he stirred his martini with his finger. With the exception of these folks, there was just one other person in the bar. The secluded stranger sitting at the opposite end of the bar cradled his drink as if he were prepared to make love to it. He bowed his head and, with both hands, cupped the glass in a lover's embrace. The hood of his sweatshirt hung loosely around his face like a cowl. No one in the bar, except the bartender, paid any attention to him. The man preferred it that way. He embraced privacy and wrapped it around him like a shawl. The quiet solitude was the prime reason he frequented the place. It sure wasn't for the overpriced, watered-down piss they called liquor or the squealing crap they called music. The garbage coming from the jukebox was like nails on a chalkboard and enough to drive a person into an uncontrollable rage. The man heard better music coming from a dentist's chair.

The old man at the other end of the bar paused his arguing just long enough to run to the bathroom. The bartender used this welcomed break to wander over and check on the stranger.

“How ya doing, buddy?” He smiled and tapped the side of the glass with his index finger. “Do you need me to fill her up? The high octane stuff?”

The stranger nodded, swallowed the rest of his drink and slid it toward the bartender. Before the bartender could lift the glass, the man's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don't bother putting any ice in it,” he growled. “I think you have watered down this piss enough.”

The barkeep's smile wavered, and he measured the stranger, studying him to see if the man would pose a threat. The bartender normally kept an aluminum baseball bat underneath the bar. Enough blood stained its surface to prove to people what happens to uncooperative assholes. The last thing he needed was a violent drunk tearing up his place, and he would not hesitate to let the metal fly.

The man let go of the bartender's wrist and gave him a thumb's up. “High octane is always good,” he muttered.

After studying him a little longer, he finally concluded the stranger would not cause a ruckus, at least for the moment, and departed to fill up his glass. When he returned, he slid the glass gingerly across the bar. The stranger looked up and pulled his hood back, revealing dark brown hair, greasy and matted from old sweat. The hair fell lifelessly across his forehead. He flicked it away from his dark, hollow eyes like someone would swat a fly. The man's look was one of someone who had just crawled from a ten year bender in a wine cellar, buried deep within the earth. Salt and pepper beard stubble landscaped the lower half of his face where crusted remains of his last meal could be observed.

Junkie. That was the bartender's first reaction. When the stranger lifted the glass to his lips, he narrowed his eyes as a sense of familiarity washed over him. It wasn't until the stranger put the glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled that the bartender recognized him.

“Holy cow, it can't be!” he exclaimed with eyes as wide as saucers. “It's you!”

The stranger's smile faded and his eyes closed. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The man reached into his pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes along with a plastic lighter molded in the shape of a firetruck. He shoved the cigarette in his mouth and pushed the button on top of the cab causing an orange flame, tinted with just a hint of blue, to erupt from the rear of the truck. The man lifted it to the end of the cigarette and lit it. After breathing in a couple long drags, he shoved both the pack and lighter into his pocket.

“And who might I be?” the man inquired.

The bartender nervously cleared his throat. “Hey listen, buddy, I meant no trouble by my outburst. I just thought…I mean…people thought you were dead.”

“Perhaps I am,” the stranger responded dryly. “You shouldn't believe everything you hear on the streets. The road leading from this city is paved with fallacy.”

The bartender relaxed slightly and chuckled. “Yeah sure, whatever.” He removed a rag from his back pocket and polished the countertop in a vain attempt to persuade the stranger his curiosity had abated. The stranger eyeballed him with a guarded look, seeing through the ruse.

The bartender stopped rubbing the bar top and returned the rag to its resting place. “Bryan? That's your name, right?”

Bryan took a long drag on the cigarette and let the smoke drift slowly between his teeth. “It used to be,” the man replied dryly.

“Sorry, man, I didn't mean to get excited like that,” the bartender explained. “It's just not often we get your kind around here.” He flipped a thumb over his shoulder, toward the old man who, after returning from the bathroom, continued chugging shots of Crown Royal and muttering to himself. “As you can see, we get the regular dregs.”

“My kind?” Bryan looked up slowly from his glass and placed the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “What's that supposed to mean?”

The bartender offered a nervous smile in an effort to diffuse the situation. “Celebrities of course.”

Bryan's sarcastic chuckle echoed throughout the bar. The old man glanced at them with mild curiosity. The couple in the corner glanced up from their drinks and eyeballed the man. Within the confines of the nearly empty tavern, the laugh echoed off the walls, however there was no hint of humor contained within.

“Celebrities?” Bryan rasped. “Sure, man, whatever floats your boat. Just keep the drinks coming and don't get all gushy on me. I don't sign autographs, unless you're a woman with big boobs, of course.”

The bartender shook his head vigorously. “No, no, nothing like that! Sorry to bother you. How about this? Your drink is on the house and we'll call it even, okay?”

Bryan pointed his finger and cocked his thumb like a gun. “Now you're talking!” He offered the bartender a broad smile. With the reflection of the low lighting overhead, the smile appeared more demonic than merry.

The bartender practically tripped over himself to return to the old man. It seemed arguing about the city was better than dealing with a washed up, alcoholic has-been. Bryan didn't blame the guy; he would have done the same if roles had been reversed. He lifted the glass to his lips but stopped when a news report popped up on the television mounted over the “Town Tap” sign behind the bar. A masked figure, adorned from head to toe in black body armor, with various gadgets attached to a belt around his waist, dragged two handcuffed teenagers across the ground toward waiting police cars. The police trained their guns on the two teens while the masked figure adjusted a nylon tube attached to his wrist. The tube ran from the bracelet to a pack on his back. The scene cut away to a reporter who stood about a block from the action.

“As you can see the hostage situation could have taken a deadly turn had it not been for the heroic intervention of Oracle. According to one eyewitness, the police failed to open a dialogue with the hostage takers who threatened to murder a woman and her unborn baby. Our sources have told us the two men who took her hostage were former members of the street gang 'The Raging 86's' and the woman was an ex-girlfriend of one of the leaders. Stay tuned for further details.”

Oracle stood over the squirming gang bangers while onlookers, crowded behind bright yellow police tape with adoration in their eyes, screamed his name. Their faces, flush with excitement, gazed upon the hero through bulging eyes as if he were the second coming of Jesus Christ.

Oracle had just started his term as the current hero. Normally, a hero served a four year term before passing on to the next. That safety protocol had been put into place when the Hero Factory was created in 1981. Brady Simmonelli, the Chairman of the Hero Factory, considered it the prime safety protocol. “Power corrupts and our goal is to prevent corruption,” he said when the organization was founded. Bryan would never forget those words.

“Power corrupts indeed,” Bryan muttered to himself as he watched the action unfold on the television screen.

Since 1981, the Hero Program had been extremely successful every year in existence. Crime had fallen seventy-five percent. In 1990 (during the term of Twilight Shadow) a police force had been established within city limits for the first time since 1976. The gangs had been decimated. The Hero Factory's reputation, considered an unparalleled success during its tenure, changed in 2014. Between 1980 and 2014, no city official nor their families had come under harm. The Hero Program's prime directive was to keep the people of the city safe but also maintain the city's government infrastructure in order to prevent the city from descending into chaos. Until 2014, when all that had changed. 2014 was the year someone bombed City Hall. Thirty-Five people had been killed including the mayor, the police chief and seven out of ten city council members. That year was a blemish in an otherwise spotless record of the Hero Factory.

Bryan drained the glass and placed it on the bar. With a scowl he replayed the event over in his mind until his anger reached the boiling point. The hero on duty at the time failed in his prime directive and was subsequently kicked out of the Hero Program. The event resulted in the biggest embarrassment suffered by the organization since its inception. Confidence in the leadership team of the Hero Factory had reached an all-time low, and the Hero Factory nearly shut its doors that year.

Bryan threw a wad of cash on the bar and chuckled. A false tip. That's all it took to throw the hero off the trail of the real perpetrators that day. The tip regarding criminal gang activity positioned the hero on the other side of town, about as far away from City Hall as one could get.

“Gang activity!” Bryan barked. “What a hoot that was!”

The bartender whispered to the old man and gestured toward Bryan. In unison they glanced at him nervously, as if he were about to lose it and shoot up the place at any minute. He didn't give a shit what they thought. Frankly, he didn't give a shit what anyone thought.

The gangs hadn't had any organized activity in years before that phony tip came in. If the hero on duty had his head screwed on straight, he should have caught on immediately. After the bombing was when the rumors started circulating. Some said the hero was drunk or on drugs at the time. Other rumors spread stating the hero was shagging a blonde stripper working down at the Double Deuce, located near that side of town. Bryan knew better. The reason was much worse. The hero on duty, haunted by his past, harbored a private vendetta against the gangs. Ghosts from the past betrayed the hero. Like a poltergeist, the ghosts tossed the hero's good judgement aside like a piece of furniture, and the city had suffered because of it.

Bryan stepped outside and inhaled the crisp evening air. It provided a welcome relief from the smoke-filled environment inside the tavern. In the distance, police sirens echoed off of nearby skyscrapers and vanished into the night. Across the street, a hooker and her john huddled together in the shadows as money changed hands. Despite the many strengths of the Hero Factory, this side of town remained its weakness. This side of town was a cesspool of junkies, whores and the con artists. Corruption on this side of town was rarely noticed by hero or cop alike. As he watched the hooker and her customer hop into a beat up blue pickup truck and speed off, his thoughts returned to that day in 2014.

“Heroes,” he scoffed and reached for another cigarette. He shoved it into his mouth and retrieved the lighter. The red of the fire engine absorbed the yellowish color radiating from the sodium vapor street lights overhead. “Fuck them all.”

Bryan turned his attention toward the next city block and shoved the lighter into his pocket. Stumbling a bit from his whiskey high, he shambled down the street before disappearing among the shadows.

The bartender and the old man emerged from the tavern and looked both ways, hoping Bryan was out of earshot. Convinced Bryan was gone, the old man turned to the bartender.

“What the hell was that guy going on about?” he asked.

The bartender looked down at his hand, clutching the bat he retrieved from underneath the bar. He was never one to take chances and wouldn't start tonight, with such a loose cannon running around.

“Zeke, you drank so much your brain is mush,” the bartender grumbled. “Don't you know who that was?”

The old man shook his head. “You mentioned the name Bryan Whittaker before but it don't ring no bell.”

“Do you remember when Soulfire was the hero on duty?” the bartender asked.

Zeke cocked his head but still looked confused, which only served to fuel the bartender's irritation further. He tapped the end of the bat impatiently against the pavement.

“Damn your worthless hide, Zeke. You don't remember shit!” The bartender lowered his voice, despite the emptiness of the streets. As stated, he was never one to take chances. His eyes turned glassy as he recalled the memories of those days. He pointed the bat in the direction Bryan had walked. “Are you telling me you don't remember him?”

The old man concentrated for a moment. The act twisted his face as if he were sitting on a toilet, suffering from constipation. Suddenly, Zeke's eyes lit up and the bartender dropped a hand on his shoulder.

“Exactly!” the bartender exclaimed. “Soulfire was the hero on duty when City Hall exploded.”