Peter Clines - Ex-Heroes

You know what it’s like? It’s like Jekyll and Hyde. I’ve got the same mind and the same personality, just a slightly different set of morals. Different ethics. But it’s still me. He won’t do anything I don’t want him to do.

Me. Not he. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.

Look, just let me put it on. You’re barely doing anything, and what you are doing isn’t even slowing this down. I’m burning up, my head is killing me, and the only reason I’m not throwing up is because I haven’t kept anything down for twelve hours now.

Well, that’s not really my fault. I mean, yes, I knew what I was doing. Just …remember the filter I told you about? It didn’t seem any more out of line than jerking off or something.

Hey! I think rape is a little strong. She’d been dead for at least two days. No, I was very aware of that. It just …it didn’t matter as much when I was Cairax. Yeah, you could call it that, I guess. No, hard as it may be to believe, when I changed back my first thought was intense pain. Yeah, go figure.

No, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that, either. Split personality’s a nice, easy label for people who don’t want to dwell on the reality of what I can do. One of my fellow “heroes” has tried to explain away my abilities with a lot of scientific terminology, too. Suggestion. Psychokinesis. Mass hypnosis. All from a man who converts his body into pure energy at will.

Look, why can’t I just get an aspirin? Is that really so much to ask? I mean, they think I’m important enough for a private room, why can’t I actually get any treatment?

Conservation of resources? What the hell is that supposed to …oh. Oh, I see. Things have gotten that bad, eh? And here I thought these fine gentlemen were here just in case I died and turned a little faster than expected.

Well, then. That makes all this a bit easier.

Here’s the thing, doc. You can choose to believe in magic or not. You can trust everything I’ve been telling you or you can say I’m some latent psychic if it makes you feel better. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you believe in. The Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, faked moon landings, the 2000 election results—you can believe in whatever fairy tale you want.

Let’s be honest about what you know, though. You’ve seen me fighting out there. You know if I put on that medallion I’ll change. I’ll change into something bigger, stronger, and tougher. You can call it whatever you like. Demon. Polymorph. Lycanthrope. Again, I don’t care. But it’s my only chance.

Yeah, I see them, guys. They’re not much of a threat at this point, are they? We all know I’m a dead man.

What do you mean, you don’t know? This is kind of a nobrainer. If I don’t put the medallion on, there’s no question I’m going to die. If I put it on, there’s a chance I’ll live. Even I can see that. Hell, Cairax heals faster than me. There’s a good chance he’s recovered by now, which means I’ll be recovered as soon as I change back. Thank you, doctor.

This might be alarming for all of you. It only takes a few seconds, but it’s big and scary and loud all at once. No, it’s not anything like that. You’d just be amazed at how much pain a demon can fit into just a few seca aaa—

—aaah hhhh, yes.

Much better. Back in my favorite skin.

Now, now, my dear little doctor. Don’t be scared. I may be a bit hard on the eyes and the sanity now, but it is still me. Just remember that filter I told you about.

The fear makes you smell delicious, by the way. Yes, just like food. Absolutely delicious. I just thought you should know.

Please be careful with the rifles, gentlemen. My reflexes are so much faster now, and the tail does have a mind of its own sometimes. No, it really does. I would hate for you to make a threatening gesture with a bayonet and be eviscerated before I knew what I was doing. What it was doing, that is.

What? Oh. Very observant of you, my little doctor. It doesn’t seem to have healed at all, does it? I feel better, but the sensations in this body are always so muddled. No …no, there they are. The tiny things are still there, chewing away, weaving themselves into my blood and muscle.

Oh, perhaps. However, in retrospect, I think I shall remain in this skin. If there is any chance for me to survive, it will be in this form, yes? As Maxwell I had an hour or so left, less if you decided to conserve any more resources. No, I believe Cairax has a far better chance of fighting off the infection …or any of the dangers that apparently come with it.

Gentlemen, I asked you to please keep—-ahhh, there. See what has happened? I did warn you about the tail. Doctor, please, please, do not waste your time. You and I both know there is no chance he survived that. My dear friend, perhaps you should place your rifle down on the floor and lie face down. That will be a safer place for you to avoid your companion’s fate. Thank you. Doctor dearest, if you could get next to him. I would hate for you to be hit by any loose metal when I go through the wall.

Where? Back to the shore, back to the sand. While we fritter away time here the contagion continues to spread. We need every hand fighting it for as long as they can and I have, if you will pardon the phrase, an appetite for destruction. If we are all lucky, being in this skin may give me several days, perhaps weeks, to rip and shred.

No, no, my dear little doctor. You are perfectly safe. I may look like a monster, but I am still Maxwell Hale inside this skin. I would never harm another human being.

Very well. I would never deliberately harm another human being. Is that better?

The ingratitude of some people …

Mike and John stood in the small parking lot across from the cells and debated what to do with the prisoner. “Does he need to eat?”

John shrugged his lanky shoulders. “Of course he needs to eat.”

“Yeah but he’s …” Mike shrugged back and scratched his beard. “He’s an ex. Does that mean he only eats people or meat or what? What do we give him?”

“Good point.”

“I mean, I haven’t had any meat in two months. Remember when they found that case of tuna?”

“Yeah.”

He mulled it over. “They’ve gotta have some canned meat stored away in the food bank. You think they’d free up some Spam or something for a prisoner?”

“I don’t know if Spam counts as meat either.”

“Well, fuck him. If we get him something and he doesn’t want it, we can eat it.”

“Good point,” nodded John with a grin.

They banged on the door. “Hey,” called Mike. “You hungry? What do you want for breakfast?”

A thump and some scuffling came from inside.

“What’s his name?”

John’s narrow shoulders bounced again. “I don’t know. Everyone just said the dead guy.”

They unlocked the door. The ex-Seventeen had fallen off his cot and was struggling to his feet. The cell stank and the blood had dried in a wide scab across the floor.

John peered around his partner’s bulk and cleared his throat. “Hey, dead guy, what’s your name?”

The ex’s skin had gone chalky gray. He stared at Mike and displayed his engraved tooth. His jaws clacked together once.

Mike glared back at the ex. “Don’t give me any of that gang attitude, dipshit,” he said. “We’re trying to be decent people. You play nice, we’ll get you some breakfast, maybe something to read, whatever. You want to be a dick, we can just leave you in here.”

The ex took a shaky step forward, then another. It raised its hands.

John took a step back. “Mike …”

The dead thing snapped its teeth together again. And again and again. It made an awkward grab at Mike’s beefy arm and opened its mouth wide.