The Last Of The First (Halfhero Book 3) Read online

  "The titans are American, The Deterrent—who will be back soon, I'm sure—is American, and you guys have to live with that."

  The president was neither a great public speaker nor a natural diplomat.

  As the plane lowered its landing gear, the president saw crowds lining the perimeter of the airport. Tens of thousands had turned up. The presidential approach was quite a sight. Eight flying figures surrounded the descending 747 as it lined up with the runway.

  The president handed his press secretary a tie and waited while she knotted it around his neck. She knew his eyes were on her cleavage.

  "I always draw a crowd, Casey," said the president.

  Casey was tempted, for a second, to show him the pictures on her phone of the placards the crowd were waving, the chants they were singing, and the unflattering masks many of them were wearing. Her favourite placard read, "You may have titans, but you're still a tit."

  She resisted the temptation. Casey had steered him away from the subject of The Deterrent during the flight. The fact that the superhero had disappeared from the biggest parade in US history last year still made him furious. He was in a cheerful mood. Better to keep it that way.

  "It might get bumpy when we land, Casey," said the leader of the free world. "Wanna sit on my lap?"

  Casey smiled as if acknowledging his little joke and returned to her seat. She congratulated herself on managing, for about the thousandth time since she took the post, not to say, "fuck off." Her time would come.

  Casey had only just pulled her seatbelt across her lap and snapped it into place when there was a bang, the plane lurched to one side, and alarms shrieked.

  "What's happening?" she screamed as an oxygen mask dropped in front of her.

  The president shouted, then fell silent. Casey wondered if he'd passed out. She looked at her boss. He was staring out of the window, his body rigid.

  Outside the plane, The Deterrent stared back. The superhero pointed at the president and shot away from the plane, climbing out of sight.

  The president regained the power of speech.

  "Carter!"

  An older man with a crew cut made his way down the aisle.

  "Sir? Are you hurt?"

  "No. But that asshole is here!"

  "Sir?"

  "The Deterrent! Send the titans after him. Now!"

  3

  Abos knew he could stay out of reach of the titans. Physically, there was nothing to choose between him and his pursuers. Mentally, it was a different story. His mind was his own, not dulled by a regime of drugs and hypnotic programming. Brainwashing techniques had improved since Station had practised it on Abos, but it still limited the subject's ability to think for his, or herself. Or itself, in this case.

  The titans could follow orders, but they weren't good at improvising. They could work as a team, but they couldn't connect as onemind, the organic way Abos had linked with Shuck and Susan, the first two members of his species he had found.

  The titans on the port side of Air Force One were taken by surprise when Abos dropped behind them and delivered a powerful kick to their backs, sending them spinning downwards. They responded faster than any human, but by the time they were back, Abos had given the 747 a firm slap. He made sure the president saw him.

  Just as Sara had hoped, all eight of the titans were now on his tail. Abos headed west. When he reached the Bristol Channel, he turned south at a speed that would have torn any aircraft apart. As it was, his clothes were ripped from his body by the force.

  He kept the coastline on his left and looked ahead. Then he saw it. To the right and coming fast, Lundy Island. Using its lighthouse and the castle as a guide, he lined himself up with his destination, knowing he would be there in another thirty seconds.

  Then it would be up to Daniel and Sara. If the plan didn't work, he'd shortly be rejoining the ranks of brainwashed superheroes, and his surviving children would spend the rest of their natural lives in prison.

  Daniel and Sara stood by the van, partially hidden under some trees. It was Daniel's turn with the binoculars. He wished he'd bought a telescope. It was hard to use something designed for two functioning eyes. When he saw the titans, he thought there was something wrong with his depth perception because of their speed. When he opened his mouth to say something, Sara gripped his wrist.

  Sara's voice was a whisper. "Am I dreaming, or are they—?"

  "Yes," confirmed Daniel, as the first figure, wearing only a helmet, swooped through the open door of the warehouse, followed by eight giant naked versions of the incumbent American president. "Apparently so."

  "That," said Sara, as she watched the parade of flying buttocks, "will haunt me for the rest of my life."

  They stared at the warehouse door as the titans followed Abos into the red cabin within.

  Daniel stopped breathing. Sara's nails dug into his wrist. Neither of them blinked. Daniel dropped the binoculars and sprinted towards the building.

  Abos ran the length of the warehouse, pulled open the red door, and threw himself into the blast-proof cabin, picking up the item on the shelf at the back before turning to face his pursuers.

  The titans came in after him without hesitation.

  Inside the windowless room, all fixtures and fittings had been stripped out. When the last of the titans was inside, the door closed behind them, sealing the room. Daniel had done his part. Abos knew his son would now be running to safety.

  Abos scooped two cigarette lighters from the floor. Daniel had insisted on two of them because of something he called Sod's Law.

  Abos had died three times before. This time, it wouldn't just be him, it would be every known member of his species. If Sara's plan worked, it would mean freedom for all of them.

  If the plan failed, it would mean extinction.

  Abos placed his thumb on the jagged edge of the spark wheels.

  "You can thank me later," he said, and flicked the lighter.

  TripleDee and Saffi both looked up at the same moment when a dull, muffled boom sounded from the warehouse.

  "Do you think...?" said TripleDee.

  "I don't know. Could be."

  Saffi pulled out her mobile phone. She was sure she would hear it ring, but this way, she would feel the vibration. She stared at it, willing it to ring. When TripleDee looked like he was about to speak, she held up her finger and shook her head.

  She looked up towards the distant warehouse. At that precise moment, the screen of her phone lit up. Saffi dropped it, the phone bounced once on the wooden boards of the jetty, then headed towards the water. TripleDee's hand shot out and caught it.

  Saffi fumbled to answer, forcing her shaking finger onto the right button.

  "Daniel? Are you all right? And Sara? Thank God. Yes, yes. Call me as soon as you know."

  TripleDee raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

  There was a sound like a kick drum amplified through the world's biggest sub-bass speaker buried in a deep pit and covered in jelly. The air around the warehouse rippled. As Daniel got close enough to the van to see Sara's wide-eyed expression, he heard a whistling noise that grew in volume, followed by a sharp, loud crack.

  Something smacked into Daniel's shoulder. He tasted dirt and spat. He was on the floor, flat on his face. Daniel groaned and rolled over, sat up and looked at the van. It had gone.

  "What the—?"

  After a second's panic, he located it, pushed back ten feet by the blast. The door opened, and Sara stepped out.

  "Daniel? Are you okay?"

  He stood up. "Nothing broken. I thought the cabin was supposed to contain the explosion."

  "In theory," she said. "But it was designed to protect people from blasts outside. I couldn't predict what would happen if the explosion happened inside. Are you sure you're okay? What about your shoulder?"

  Daniel twisted his head to look, peeling his T-shirt up.

  "Ow," he said. His shoulder and part of his upper back were red. "Looks like a smacked arse. The shock-wav
e did that?"

  "Uh-uh," said Sara, shaking her head. She pointed at a big oak tree. Embedded in its trunk was something that looked like a giant red axe head, splitting the tree to a depth of three feet.

  Daniel moved closer, wondering what he was looking at. Then his brain connected the dots. It was the door to the blast-proof cabin. The force of the explosion, looking for any weakness in the structure, had found it and blown the door off, out of the warehouse and into the tree, clipping Daniel en route.

  "Fuck me, that was close," he said.

  "Too close," said Sara.

  "Well, at least we know it worked," he said.

  "I hope so. Only one way to find out."

  The two of them walked towards the warehouse to see if, in fact, they had just spectacularly murdered their parent.

  4

  The Old Man, according to Matil's grandmother, had lived in the cave for as long as she could remember. His grandmother learned about him from her grandmother, who also described him as 'the Old Man.' If he was old back then, thought Matil, what did that make him now?

  The villages of the Spiti valley were accustomed to hermits and truth seekers. As well as Indians and Tibetans, a few shiny-eyed, determined-looking westerners made their way to India's border with Tibet every year. Few expected the winters to be quite so hard, and the buses south were always busy a few weeks after the first snows. Spiritual retreats in Spiti suited only the hardiest individuals, a few of whom remained for a lifetime. Matil's grandmother said the Old Man liked it so much, he had stayed for two lifetimes.

  The canvas bag bumped against Matil's side as he climbed the slope to the north of the village. Today he brought jam sandwiches, apples, and leftovers from last night's keu. It was good luck to feed the hermits, and most families close by took turns leaving items for the Old Man outside his cave. They placed food, clothes, toiletries, medicines, and books on a dead tree stump outside the cave's entrance. Since no one had seen the old man for over twenty years, the only evidence of his continued survival was the empty bowl returned to the stump.

  Matil had sneaked out of bed one summer night and clambered up a nearby tree, hoping to get a glimpse of the legendary cave dweller. Everyone had bodily functions, and surely the Old Man wouldn't want to poo in his cave? Jagbil once said the hermit shit solid gold, and Matil spent a week searching the area for it until he caught Jagbil laughing with his friends.

  What he had seen that night from the tree should have stopped them laughing, but no one believed Matil. He had settled in the upper branches with a good view of the cave mouth. There had been food and drink in a wooden box on the tree stump, and Matil had waited in silence, his eyes flicking from the black cave to the moonlit provisions.

  A movement in the cave had brought him out of a doze. Some small sounds, footsteps perhaps. He had peered into the darkness, seeing nothing. Matil had looked back at the tree stump just in time to see the box vanish. No, not vanish. Something had emerged from the cave, scooped up the box and made the return journey in the time it took Matil to take one shocked breath.

  Since then, whenever it was Matil's turn to take food, Jagbil would ask him if he was visiting his friend, The Flash? Jagbil, Matil had decided, was an idiot. He had also resolved not to spend more time than necessary near the cave. Whether or not anyone believed him, Matil knew the truth. Someone who could move that fast must be practising dark magic, not meditating and praying.

  So when he placed the food on the tree stump and looked up to see the Old Man staring at him, Matil thought his heart would stop. His legs became heavy, his mouth dried up, and he stared at the hermit without a word on his lips or a thought in his head.

  The Old Man lived up to his name. He was, without doubt, the most ancient person Matil had ever seen. His body, clothed in rough robes, was emaciated but strong, his legs polished mahogany, his arms sinewy and lean. It was his face that most clearly proclaimed his age. He still had teeth, yellow and stained, visible for a moment as he spat onto the dirt. He didn't so much have wrinkles as folds of skin that had developed their own set of wrinkles in the ridges and fissures scoring his features. His thin hair was the same white as the snow that covered the mountains during the long winters. His eyes, fixed on Matil, were buried deep within the geography of his face. They were the only part of the Old Man that looked young, but there was something wrong about them. Something that made Matil afraid. He remembered the stories his grandmother told him when he was small; stories of demons, of vengeful spirits.

  The Old Man's eyes were yellow.

  Matil remained frozen as the Old Man took a step towards him, then another. When the hermit spoke, it was with words that made no sense. His voice was like dead leaves in the wind. He spoke again, and Matil thought, this time, that he understood a word or two. The Old Man came closer, spoke again, and this time his words made sense.

  "The year, boy. What year is this?"

  In his terror, Matil couldn't remember. He was eleven years old, and he had been born in... no, was that right? He was too scared to think. Matil blurted out a year, not even sure if it was correct. The Old Man grunted and shook his head, whether in confusion or disgust, Matil wasn't sure.

  The hermit examined Matil. He cocked his head to one side like a stray dog, but there was nothing endearing about the gesture. Matil's fear grew, becoming terror, his skin turning cold, his lips numb. With an effort of will that took all his strength, he wrenched his gaze away from those eyes and dug a foot into the dirt, turning to run.

  His feet moved, but his body stayed where it was. With horror, he looked down to see he had risen from the ground. His feet were pedalling the air six inches from the earth.

  When Matil looked back up, the Old Man was in front of him, his hot, fetid breath rank and foul. Up close, the hermit looked even older, his dark skin pitted with holes in among the gnarled folds of his face. Matil thought he saw the white bone of the man's skull through those holes. He wanted to gag, but his body was no longer his own to command.

  The Old Man went to the tree stump, picked up the food and walked back towards the cave. For a moment, Matil was flooded with relief and joy. He was safe. Jagbil would never believe what had happened, but he would tell him anyway. And he would make them all swear never to come back up here again.

  Then the Old Man glanced back over his shoulder and, still floating, Matil followed behind him like a child's balloon in a horror film, tears streaking his face as he passed out of the sunlight and into the darkness of the cave.

  Matil must have slept. During the few seconds before he opened his eyes, half-dreaming, he wasn't sure where he was. Maybe at school. It wouldn't be the first time he had dozed sitting up. Grandmother's house, perhaps. Sometimes, when she put down her sewing to rest her eyes, Matil would do the same. What a nightmare he had been having - thinking he was in the cave of the Old Man.

  He heard the crackle of a fire.

  Matil opened his eyes, and, with a calm certainty that temporarily overcame his fear, knew he was going to die.

  The fire burned in the centre of a cave no bigger than the tiny yard in which Matil's family kept their donkey. The smoke snaked up to a hole in the rock ceiling. Matil had seen smoke curling from the mountain before, and had smelled the coriander and curry leaves the Old Man put in his tea. Not today, though. This smoke was acrid, the fire flaring and spitting as it burned. A shape flitted across Matil's vision. The Old Man. He paid Matil no attention, tossing a handful of books onto the fire.

  The Old Man wore the saffron robes of a monk. As Matil watched, he threw his old clothes onto the fire. Then he walked away, into the darkness at the rear of the cave. Still floating, Matil followed. He tried struggling, but his body no longer obeyed him.

  At the back of the cave, three tunnels led deeper into the mountain. The Old Man didn't hesitate, striding into the right-hand tunnel, bending a little to avoid scraping his head. Matil sank down until his toes nearly touched the floor, then bobbed along behind him.
/>   For a second, hope flared in his heart. His family would miss him by nightfall. They knew he delivered food to the Old Man. They would enter the cave, discover the remains of the fire. More villagers would come to search the tunnels. They might find him. It was possible, wasn't it?

  The Old Man turned to face him and held up his hand. His yellow eyes were fixed on something behind Matil.

  First came a sound like stones sliding down a slope. Next, a deep, dull scrape of rock on rock. A heavy thud echoed around the tunnel, and the light from the cave they had left gave way to absolute darkness.

  Matil smelled dust, tiny particles of grit irritating his nostrils.

  The Old Man had blocked the tunnel. If anyone came after Matil, they could only explore the open tunnels.

  No one would follow them here.

  The Old Man walked for a long time in the darkness. Matil's mind entered a state he had never experienced before. He tried to think of his father, his mother and grandmother, but they slipped away from him, replaced by a slow, pulsing cloud of nothingness, a blank, empty space that swelled and receded with his breath.

  All sense of time passing had dissipated by the time they stopped. For a while, Matil had been aware of a change in light, the sides of the tunnel gradually becoming visible. When the Old Man stepped into a chamber not dissimilar to the one they had left, it was lit by the moon, its glow reaching them from an entrance ten yards beyond. It wasn't only the light that was different; there was an odour, growing stronger. It smelled like rotting food.