Stronger: A Super Human Clash (20 page)

I tried to force myself to be rational, to remind myself that I should be thinking of him as a slave master, as the man who had ordered Keegan to be shot in the head. But instead the memory of the day he let me out of the hot box kept coming back. He had mentioned his one-year-old son. That was the first time I’d seen Hazlegrove as a real person.

That kid will never understand why his father had to die,
I told myself.
Can I do that to him? Leave him fatherless?

I slowed as I neared Hazlegrove’s office. Through the partly open door I saw him talking to Swinden.

There he is. My first murder victim.

No! It’s not murder! It’s not even revenge! This is justice—and the first step on the road to freedom!

But not for me, I knew. I would never be free, and if I was going to be a killer, then I didn’t deserve freedom.

The thought briefly surfaced that I was going to die very soon, but it seemed a minor thing, a blip, compared with the necessity of my actions.

Then Hazlegrove saw me approaching and beckoned to me.

I crouched down outside the door, with my hands on either side of the frame, ready to rip the walls apart so that I would have enough space to get inside.

Hazlegrove said, “Brawn. I was about to send DePaiva to find you.”

“Yeah?” I asked. Hazlegrove, Swinden, and DePaiva were gathered around the desk, peering at a dog-eared and age-stained map of the complex.

I took a quick glance behind me. Two guards were on the
gantry just above the main doors, five were standing at the processing station. From the sound of the machinery, it was almost ready to spill the molten platinum into the mold—that was when the guards would be most alert. After a few minutes’ cooling, the mold would be lowered into a large vat of water. This solidified the platinum and heated the water at the same time. Already a line of prisoners had formed to take advantage: The first eight or nine would be able to have a quick wash before the water cooled again.

“There’s been some good news,” Hazlegrove said. “It will mean a few changes around here, however.”

I nodded and looked back toward the mine shafts, hoping to see Cosmo, hoping that he’d realize what was happening and get out of the way.

“What sort of changes?” I asked.

When the molten platinum hit the water, it would create great clouds of steam—and that was the moment to strike. The guards would be watching the platinum as best as they could through the steam, and the prisoners would already be jostling each other to get closer to the water.

At the same time, three more guards would be approaching the processing station to take the platinum bar to the vault—one to carry it, two to stand guard—but they’d have their backs to me. “A restructuring of the trustee process.”

“OK,” I said, not really caring. In a few seconds, I was about to do some restructuring of my own.

The mold was already being lowered toward the water when Hazlegrove said, “So, Brawn … Brawn, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Come on!
I said to myself.
A couple more seconds
… I turned back to face Hazlegrove.

He smiled. It was a smile I’d never seen cross his face. I’d seen many of them, and I couldn’t help but wonder what this one meant.

“Is this the part where you try to kill us?”

A knot twisted in my stomach, and Hazlegrove reached down behind the desk and picked up a cloth-wrapped bundle, held it up for me to see. “Recognize this? Dynamite, four half sticks. Two liters of hydrochloric acid. Seven razor-sharp makeshift knives. Almost three ounces of platinum pellets, drops that splashed out when it was poured into the mold.”

From behind me came a loud hiss of steam as the mold hit the water, but I barely registered it.

Hazlegrove said, “Taking over the mine. Do you really think the warden didn’t anticipate that? Are you that stupid?” He sighed. “Swinden?”

Swinden slapped a sheet of paper down on the desk. “Roman Laberis. Charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”

Another sheet. “Ashley Roesler. Same charge.” Another. “Ferdinand Cosby, also known as Cosmo. Same charge. Emily Stanhope. Same initial charge, but charges reduced in light of … uh …”

“Mitigating circumstances,” Hazlegrove said. “Stanhope didn’t agree with your plans. She told us everything. Her charge was reduced to sedition.” He walked around the desk, stopped in front of me, glanced back at DePaiva, and nodded.

DePaiva unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt and raised it to his mouth. “McDonagh? DePaiva here. Proceed.”

From somewhere outside the dome came the sound of a gunshot.

“That was Roesler,” DePaiva said.

Another gunshot. “Laberis.”

A third. “Cosby.”

Hazlegrove poked me in the shoulder with his swagger stick. “
I’m
in control here. Me. Not you. Understand? The penalty for conspiracy to commit murder is immediate execution. Unfortunately, the warden has insisted that I don’t execute
you
.” His face turned grim. “I was so looking forward to that.”

He slapped the stick hard across my face. “But maybe that’s a good thing—I’ve got my own plans for you.”

Swinden said, “As a result of your plans to escape, all rations will be halved. Permanently. Any further troublemaking on your part and we will start executing the prisoners. Starting with the least productive, of course.”

Hazlegrove said, “You understand what
that
means, don’t you?”

I nodded. There was no way I could speak.

“Yes. The children first.” Over his shoulder, he said, “DePaiva?”

DePaiva nodded, and into his walkie-talkie he said, “Go for Stanhope.”

Another shot rang out.

Hazlegrove said, “The penalty for sedition is also immediate execution.” He gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Stupid woman thought she could save her own skin by ratting out her friends.”

He slammed me across the face again. “I
trusted
you, and
you betrayed that trust! From now on you will be chained and guarded at all times. The guards watching you will call in every half hour. If they fail to make one of those calls, for whatever reason, people will die. If you attempt to communicate with the other prisoners on matters that don’t relate to the work, people will die. When not working you will be kept separate from the other prisoners. But there won’t be many times that you’re not working, because you are now on duty twenty-three hours every day. After all, we’re now down a further four workers. The warden doesn’t want you executed, but it’s a whole different matter if you die of exhaustion.”

IN OAK GROVE I WAS GIVEN
a cell that looked more like a bank vault from a movie. It was sealed with a large circular metal door, and it took two guards to turn the giant locking wheel.

Inside, four mattresses had been laid side by side, covered with a bunch of different-colored blankets that had been stitched together.

The senior guard, Mr. Chapman, said, “Sorry it’s not much. But it’s warm and dry, and safe.”

I crouched as I entered the room. “It’s OK, thanks. It’s better than sleeping in a cave, anyway.”

Chapman was in his forties, bald with a full gray beard. He always came across as very relaxed and easygoing, but the other guards still respected him.

He followed me into the cell. “My wife made the blankets.
She said to tell you that if they’re not comfortable, then you’re not to be shy about letting me know.” He pointed to a neatly folded orange bundle on the floor beside the bed. “She also made you a new pair of shorts from one of the prison uniforms. They should fit, but if not she can adjust them.”

I glanced out to where we’d left the other guard, but he’d already gone.

“A lot of people here—inmates
and
guards—are very nervous about you, Brawn. Until they settle down, it’d be best if you minimize your contact with the general population. But we won’t be able to keep you totally isolated. You’ll have to mix with them at mealtimes and in the yard. Just keep your head down and it’ll be fine.”

“Are there any other superhumans here?”

He nodded. “Oh, we do have quite a few. Necroman, Gyrobot, Termite, The Scarlet Slayer, Texanimal, The Waspider, Schizophrenzy …”

I sat down on the bed. “I’ve never heard of the last two.”

“Count yourself lucky. Schizophrenzy’s a supervillain who has a secret identity that’s
also
a supervillain. I’m no expert on criminal psychology, but if you ask me, he’s putting it all on. And The Waspider’s fast. He can race around the place on his hands and feet, and he really does move like a spider. He can’t climb up walls or make cobwebs, but,
man
, he can jump.” Chapman smiled. “The ‘wasp’ part of his name comes from the way he fights his opponents, always darting in, attacking and retreating over and over.”

“How do you stop them from escaping?”

“Different ways for each of them. Some are drugged to
keep their power levels down, others are chained at all times. In the case of Gyrobot we just took away his armor and weapons. He’s not really a robot, just a guy. But we have to make sure he doesn’t get his hands on anything mechanical or electronic, because that guy could turn a kitchen whisk into a death ray.”

I must have looked worried or something, because Mr. Chapman reached up and gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Hey, you’ll be fine. The DA told me about, you know, your age. I’m the only one who knows. Everyone else thinks you’re just an ordinary prisoner. And you really don’t have to worry about the other inmates. Chances are they’ll be as scared of you as most people are.”

“And you’re not? Scared of me, I mean.”

“I’m told that you give off a scent that triggers people’s fear reflex.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But not mine. My dad worked in a chemical research lab, and one day I was there visiting him when some idiot messed up one of the experiments, released a cloud of chlorine gas. I got caught in it before my dad got me out.”

“Wow … So, what, you got superpowers?”

“No, chlorine gas is poison. I inhaled too much of it and it nearly killed me. Pretty much destroyed my sense of smell.” He looked around the cell. “So, you’ve got your radio there—but keep the volume down because none of the other inmates are allowed one—and there’s the john. Sure hope it’s strong enough to take your weight.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“There are communal showers, but if you’re shy, we can
arrange for you to use them when everyone else is in the exercise yard. Librarian comes around every morning. Officially inmates can read only books on the approved list, but if there’s anything in particular you want, just let me know and I can pick it up for you at the bookstore in town.”

I nodded. “Thanks. For everything.”

“You’re welcome. Now, listen … Like I said, the other prisoners think you’re just one of them, OK? They think your powers have been hobbled like theirs. So whatever happens, don’t let them know the truth.”

For the first few days, I really enjoyed my vacation in Oak Grove. It was nice to be able to just lie back, listen to the radio, or read without having to worry about being found by a hiker.

But by the end of the second week, I was getting antsy.

“You’re gonna have to ride it out,” Mr. Chapman told me. “You’ve not been here nearly long enough.”

But he agreed to allow me to spend more time with the other inmates. At least that way I’d never be bored.

I was surprised to discover that I wasn’t the only sixteen-year-old in the prison: Pyrokine was a year younger than me, and by all accounts he really
was
a villain. His real name was Fabian something, but I never learned his last name. He had the ability to turn matter into energy, which should have made him incredibly dangerous, but to me he always seemed kind of distant, the way someone gets when they’ve suddenly lost a loved one.

Mr. Chapman told me that Pyrokine was in Oak Grove because there was nowhere else to put him. He was too powerful
to put in a juvenile detention center, and too dangerous to be let loose.

I never spoke to him, though. Pyrokine kept to himself, which suited the other prisoners because they were more scared of him than they were of me.

They were a fascinating collection of oddballs, and I should know. Schizophrenzy was the most entertaining, at first. He had an opinion on everything, and those opinions weren’t tied down to anything as mundane as facts or knowledge. But I learned pretty quickly not to engage him in conversation, because no matter what you said, he would go out of his way to prove that you were wrong, even if you agreed with him on something.

The Scarlet Slayer latched on to me as though we’d known each other for years. He was a tall, skinny guy who looked like Ming the Merciless from
Flash Gordon
, if Ming had also been a pirate. He had his head shaved and wore a long beard that was split into two plaits. Of all the superhumans who operated on the bad side of the law, he had been the one who received the most coverage in the press. Not because he was so evil, but because he really
looked
the part.

He was Schizophrenzy’s opposite in many ways, because The Slayer almost always agreed with you. It wasn’t that he thought you were right, but because he seemed to think that if he agreed with you, you’d shut up and let him take over the conversation.

He was convinced that any day now he’d escape, even though he never actually seemed to be working on an escape plan. “It’s gonna happen tomorrow,” he told me one Friday during breakfast. “Yeah,” he added, nodding for far too long.
His eyes shifted from left to right and back. “You and
me
, man. The Scarlet Slayer and Brawn. Perfect team. They wouldn’t be able to stop us. You know who put me in here?”

“Titan,” I said. He told me every time we spoke.

“It was Titan,” The Slayer said, and spat. “I
hate
that guy! Flying around in his blue pajamas with his little cape and his perfect hair! You know he’s
younger
than most of us? Makes you sick, doesn’t it? Thinks he’s all that, but he isn’t. He’s not all that at all. So who got you?”