Superhero Fiction: Gods of the American Wild
“What the hell?” Grant said inaudibly as he began to feel a force pulling against his back. Another portal had opened behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see mass greenery, an alien world with blue flowers. His shock lasted only a second before the scene pulled back like a camera zooming out, and there was a dense abyss of starry space. He looked back at Andromeda, smiling back, not at him, but smiling in general, at the beauty of the infinite world. He felt his instincts tell him the end was near, and put all his energy into driving his sword hand forward. As he began to make progress against Andromeda’s pull, his eyes went wide.
The black hole behind him opened with its full force, tugging his spine straight from his back, leaving him with a basketball sized hole in his torso.
Carnegie pounded at Apache, whose face was becoming cut, bruised, and swelling rapidly. Carnegie threw another punch and Apache grabbed it. He snarled and Carnegie, for a moment, thought he saw fangs in Apache’s mouth. He looked at the hand grabbing his fist and saw Apache’s nails beginning to grow into claws. No time to react to the new information, he swung his other hand, but it didn’t make it to its target because as he brought his arm back for the punch, Apache broke every bone in his fist like he was crushing an apple. Carnegie arched his back to yell, and taking advantage of the opening, Apache thrust his fully extended hand into his ribcage like a spear, piercing his heart.
As Apache stood up, he looked to Andromeda, who was standing in a state of catatonic happiness as the black hole in the middle of the room began to get out of control. He planted his feet and hiked toward her against the gale force of the portal. The black hole sucked in all its surroundings — lamps, trays, small tables, paneling from the wall — as Andromeda’s raven black hair swirled around her face. Apache finally reached her and put his hand on her shoulder, shaking her back to reality.
In the recesses of Andromeda’s mind, she saw Apache’s face as though through a nearly opaque glass. His desperate expression reached her and she pulled back, painful as it was, from the comfort of the stars. She looked at Apache’s face.
“What happened?” she asked.
She looked at Apache’s face and pointed at it slowly. “You have fangs,” she said. She tilted her head to the side. “Did your hair get longer?”
“We’ve got to go,” said Apache.
Andromeda looked around the room, still disoriented and saw the two assassin’s corpses. She saw the blood and the horror scene of the torn-out spine and she wretched. Her eyes widened and shook. She covered her mouth. “Oh my god,” she said. “Did I do this?”
Apache put his hands on her cheeks and pointed her face toward his. “We don’t have time for that. We have to get out of here,” he said, but Andromeda fell to her knees.
Apache picked her up. “Sorry, no time, kid,” he said. “We’re going.”
He rushed to the elevator, but it was broken. The thick doors were bent toward the direction of the suite severely, collateral damage of Andromeda’s power, and could no longer open. He headed toward the stairway as he saw Hemingway and Hearst quickly walking down from the far end of the hall. They spotted him. Hearst raised his hand and pointed in their direction. A vision assaulted Apache’s mind. There he was again, in the Afghan desert, trying to cram piles of his friend’s intestines back into his body. Apache froze up immediately, but the momentum of his body carried him through the open door into the stairway. He caught a quick glimpse of the two council members as the door closed. In front of Hemingway a black skinned demon began to manifest. Apache shut the door quickly and began running down the stairs at the speed of an Olympic athlete, Andromeda in tow.
Though he rushed, he didn’t feel like he was being pursued. As he exited the stairwell on the ground floor, he put Andromeda down. “Can you walk?” he asked. “You good?”
“Did we… do that?” said Andromeda of the horror scene they left behind.
“Yeah,” said Apache. “Don’t think about it now.” The regular sounds of the casino floor buzzed around them, but the place was largely empty.
A tear fell from Andromeda’s now normal eyes. “We did it… but…” she started to say, trailing off, not able to speak the words. “Do we really have that much strength? It’s scary,” she said.
“It got messy,” Apache said. He thought of his own role in the battle. He wished it had played out the way he wanted in his mind — touching the assassin’s pressure points to disable them, then praying for their spirits as he gave them a swift, painless end. He looked Andromeda directly in the eye. “Don’t think about it yet. There will be plenty of time later. Let’s go,” he said.
