Diary of a Teenage Superhero (Teen Superheroes Book 1) Read online

  Diary of a Teenage Superhero

  Darrell Pitt

  Copyright 2012 Darrell Pitt

  Published at Smashwords

  Find out more about Darrell at his website:

  http://www.darrellpitt.com

  Email: [email protected]

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  Dedicated

  To Aimee

  Chapter One

  My name is -.

  Wait.

  Scrub that thought. I don’t know my name. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I came to be here.

  I don’t know anything.

  I’m lying flat on my back looking up at a ceiling coated in peeling mustard yellow paint. Light is streaming in through a window, casting long rectangles across the floor and the bed. A white curtain, fading to brown, covers the window. To its left hangs a small white hand basin. It’s leaning badly, clinging grimly to the wall by only one bracket. A single square mirror sits directly above it. A plain round clock to its left counts the minutes.

  3.07pm

  This place has all the trappings of a seedy motel room. It even smells like it. Stale. Unkempt. Even the mattress smells bad, covered by a grimy gray sheet.

  I stagger to the hand basin. My head feels heavy. Everything seems to be vibrating from side to side. I feel like I’ve been drugged. I look into the mirror.

  The face staring back is completely unfamiliar.

  But this is me. Male. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Short cropped brown hair. Brown eyes. A small scar on the left side of my chin. I’m wearing a blue and white striped t-shirt. Gray jacket. Faded blue jeans. My shoes are clean, though worn.

  Then I examine my hands. Not working hands. Not someone who’s used to outdoor labor. I’m probably still at school.

  Wherever that is.

  But I still have one overriding question.

  Who am I?

  I turn around to survey the room and discover something so unexpected I fall back in surprise and almost dislodge the hand basin completely from the wall.

  A man is lying on the floor.

  As I was a few minutes earlier, he is face up and staring at the ceiling. Unlike me, he has a wound in his side, possibly a bullet wound. Blood seeps from it. His eyes are open and staring. More blood stains his mouth.

  He is lying so close to the bed, I can see why I didn’t notice him earlier. Did I do this? Did I harm this man? I don’t see a weapon. Regardless, I have to help him in whatever way I can. Kneeling beside him, I gently pull his shirt apart to examine the wound. I don’t know wounds – no medical training springs to mind – but it looks bad. I reach into my pocket and find a handkerchief. Pushing it hard against the injury, the man’s eyes shift to me.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m going to get help.”

  He shakes his head. Tries to speak. Fails.

  “I’ll get an ambulance,” I say.

  “No,” he responds. “My…”

  His eyes search the ceiling hopelessly. He wants to speak, but the pain is so bad the words will not come. I take his hand.

  “I’ll get help,” I offer.

  The stranger squeezes my hand and before I know it he is dragging it towards his coat pocket. He forces my hand around something hard and rectangular. A book. As I draw it from his pocket he points to me. I know what he’s saying.

  He wants me to take the book.

  I don’t care about the book. It can wait. “I’ll get help.”

  He shakes his head. With an enormous effort, he takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes.

  “Your name is Axel,” he says. “You have to find the Swan. You can’t trust…”

  A spasm of pain seizes him and he shudders. For a long moment I think he’s going to die. Then the pain seems to subside as his breathing becomes more rapid.

  “Trust no-one,” he says. “Some…at The Agency…will help you. The answer…is in the book.”

  “The book?” My mind whirls in confusion.

  His hand traces a path across his body and finds its way up my arm. He points with a single finger. There are a series of tiny pinpricks running all the way up my arm. I touch the injuries.

  Either someone has injected me…

  Or I’m a drug addict.

  “The Agency…” He tries to speak again, but the pain must be terrible. A pattern of sweat breaks out across his forehead. I should be finding a doctor for him, but now he grabs my hand again and holds it tight.

  “Make…” he begins again.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “…a difference,” he says. “Make…”

  How I’m supposed to make a difference is a subject that becomes a moot issue. The stranger’s head falls back as his hand goes limp and his eyes go unfocused.

  He’s dead.

  I slowly release his hand. The whole incident has been so shocking, so unexpected, so mind numbing that I feel like I’ve been hit with an electric shock. The man is dead. I’ve got to find -. Who? The Swan?

  Apart from a type of bird, I have no idea what or who the Swan could be. And then there’s The Agency.

  Oh great, I think. Trust no-one, but at least some people at The Agency are on my side. Whatever agency he was referring to.

  I slump next to the dead body and stare blankly at the walls. All my strength is gone. Then slowly I realize there was one other piece of information the stranger imparted to me that was important.

  Vitally important, actually.

  My name is Axel.

  I’m Axel – someone. No last name. No address. I rack my brain. There is a curious blank void that seems to lie outside of my thoughts. Even my own name means nothing to me. It’s as foreign as everything else.

  I don’t remember friends or family. I can remember places. Television programs. Types of food. Lyrics of songs. But as soon as I try to extract personal information about myself – nothing.

  The sounds outside the window slowly intrude. The din of traffic. The faraway whistle of a train. The overhead drone of a passenger jet. Slowly the sounds bring me back to the present. Slowly I realize that I’m now sitting on the floor with the body of a deceased individual. The man’s body is cooling. He will never move again under his own volition. At some point in the future he will be laid to rest.

  Under normal circumstances I would go to the police, but these are not normal circumstances.

  Trust no-one.

  That’s what he told me. Trust no-one. The book he handed me is sitting on the floor. I tuck it into my back pocket. Then I start a search through the pockets of the dead man. I’m squeamish, but not so squeamish I don’t make a thorough job of it.

  The only thing I find is a business card. It reads:

  Cygnus Industries

  Below it is an address on West Forty-Ninth Street in New York City.

  A sound comes distantly from within the building; a jarring, clanking din. It can only be an elevator. As I hear it wheeze to a halt, I slowly rise and stare at the door. I have to get out of here. The best course of action is to make some distance between myself and this crime scene. I don’t think I’m responsible for this man’s deat
h – I don’t see a murder weapon – but staying here can only be asking for trouble.

  I cross to the door, but at the same time I hear footsteps in the hall outside. They are the tread of more than one individual. Maybe two or three people. Purposeful. Determined. I hear them draw frighteningly close just as I reach for the door handle.

  Holding my breath, I don’t make a sound.

  Someone starts to turn the door handle from the other side.

  Chapter Two

  The door is locked.

  My heart is beating so hard I actually feel slightly faint. The handle turns once. Twice. Jiggles vigorously. I stare at it in horror. Then someone slams into it with their shoulder. The sound of muffled voices emanates from the other side.

  Spinning about, my eyes helplessly search the room. There is only a single window and I’m several floors above the street.

  Except…

  I race to the window and unlock it. There is a fire escape on the other side. I try pushing the window up, but the owner of the building has very intelligently decided to paint it shut.

  I push up on the sash with all my might. It moves. Slightly. Glancing back to the door, I see it shudder as the strangers on the other side slam against it.

  It won’t hold.

  So I draw back from the window, raise my leg and kick hard at the glass. It shatters and I immediately punch out the remaining jagged shards with my hand. I climb head first out onto a fire escape and race to the stairs to my left. Within seconds I’m charging down them as I hear the crash of the opening door from the room above.

  There’s no time to think. There’s only time to act. I don’t run as much as fling, scramble and tumble down from one level to the next. I hear something thud onto the escape above me. More footsteps. They’re giving chase.

  The terror of being caught drives me on faster. I slip on the stairs and bang my knee. The pain is instantaneous; a shooting explosion of agony that dances up and down my leg. I ignore it as a new thought in the back of my mind drives me forward.

  If it was the cops at the door, they would have identified themselves as such. So these aren’t the cops. Not anyone legal.

  So who are they?

  There’s no time to ponder the question. I take another turn in the fire escape and find – it ends.

  My heart nearly stops with panic until I look to my left and see -.

  A ladder. Of course. A sliding ladder is attached to the escape to allow residents to evacuate the building, but not to allow thief’s access to the apartments at other times. I push the ladder down as hard as I can and it slides easily to the ground.

  Seconds later I’m on the street. Once again, there’s no time to think. I’m in a wide back alley behind a row of buildings. Large square trash cans line the laneway. I sprint up the length of it as the sound of feet bang loudly on the escape behind me.

  I’m half way down the block when I hear the gunshot. It slams into a wall to my right and I immediately veer away, forcing myself to weave slightly to become a more difficult target. The gun fires again. And again. This time I feel something whiz past my ear. I put on a burst of speed, reach the end and round the corner.

  A man and woman holding hands walk past me. They cast a curious glance in my direction. Probably I’m wild eyed and looking like a crazy person. So be it. I am a crazy person. Someone is trying to kill me. I charge across the street. A car screeches. I veer away from it. Another one stops in front of me. I roll across the bonnet.

  Gotta keep moving, I tell myself. Gotta keep -.

  Bang!

  Bang! Bang!

  People start to scream. A shop window explodes. I see a man bend sideways onto the sidewalk.

  No!

  But I can’t stop. If they’re prepared to shoot a complete stranger then there’s no limit to what they’ll do to me. I sprint up the sidewalk and find a thin alley between the buildings. I tear down it, reach the other end and dance about undecided. Left or right? It makes no difference at all because I have no idea where I am. I just need to put distance between myself and my pursuers.

  The street is congested with traffic, so I start to cross between the vehicles. There are a couple of trucks idling in the midst of the chaos.

  This is part of the afternoon rush hour. Wherever I am. I think it’s Manhattan. So many engines are churning at the same time that it takes me a moment to realize I can hear a higher pitched whine above the chaos.

  I turn around to see a girl roaring up behind me on a motorcycle. She is slim and dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. The helmet obscures her face. No sooner do I acknowledge her appearance than I realize her eyes are focused directly on me.

  “Get on!” she snaps.

  “What?”

  “Get on! I’ll get you out of here.”

  I’m standing undecided in the middle of the traffic. Out of the corner of my eye I see three men round a corner. They are all muscle bound, dressed in identical tank tops and jeans. One of them is holding a gun.

  The words go through my mind again as I look at the girl.

  Trust no-one.

  Turning my back on her, I weave through the cars until I reach the sidewalk. A moment later I’m racing down another narrow side alley. It suddenly occurs to me that the book is still in my back pocket. The stranger in the room died to entrust it to me. Slowing, I spot a gap in the brickwork near the bottom of a wall. I bend over and slide the book in. It fits. In fact, the spine blends so well it could have been made to match.

  At the end of the alley I find an empty patch of road and a wide river. I’m on the island of Manhattan. I’m sure of it. I have all of five seconds to process this information before I hear the squeal of brakes.

  I race up the road, but within seconds a truck has pulled up beside me. Half a dozen thugs leap out. One of them tackles me to the ground. I try screaming for help, but no-one’s around.

  They drag me into the van.

  Something hits me hard just above my right ear.

  The world goes black.

  Chapter Three

  The sounds come to me first. A confusing mishmash of words and phrases that make no sense. Opening my eyes I can see only black. Slowly I realize that something is covering my face.

  A hood.

  I’d like to say the memories come pouring back, but mostly they do not. My name is Axel. That much I know. I remember the dead man in the room and my desperate escape through the streets of Manhattan. I remember the men in the truck.

  A shred of knowledge burns the pit of my stomach.

  I’m in trouble. Big trouble.

  It’s the kind that people don’t usually survive.

  I could die in this place.

  At that instant the hood is dragged off my head and I find myself half blinded by the light. My hands are handcuffed to the arm rests of a wooden chair. My ankles are attached to the legs of the chair via more metal restraints.

  Disconcertingly, the chair is bolted to the floor.

  Blinking into the glare, I find myself in a timber room with bare walls and ripped carpet. It’s some kind of derelict building. Angling my eyes upwards I spy a single light set into the ceiling. It is intensely bright. And hot. Must be halogen. It cleanly separates light from dark. A clock hangs on the wall. Ten minutes past six.

  I am afraid.

  But it is not the room that makes me afraid.

  It is the man sitting before me.

  He looks emaciated; his suit almost looks like it is ready to fall off. He is narrow faced, bald except for tufts of graying hair above his ears. He has a tiny chin that recedes straight into his neck. His lips are slender and tight. His glasses have round lenses; they are the type that John Lennon made so famous.

  He smiles.

  I wish he hadn’t done that. It is almost reptilian.

  “Ah.” His voice is soft and calm. “You’re awake. I’m so pleased. I was afraid Terrance had struck you so hard you would never speak again.”

  I say nothing
.

  “Speak to me, boy.” The smile has not left his lips. “What is that old expression? Has the cat got your tongue?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “How are you feeling?” He leans forward. “Is your head sore?”

  I nod. When I speak, my voice is a croak. “Whatever it is you’re after, I don’t -.”

  He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Save your breath. We are still in the introductory phase. We will become friends. You believe that, don’t you? We will be friends?”

  Out of all the things I believe at that moment, becoming friends with this man ranks last on the list. Regardless, it is pointless to antagonize him. I nod.

  “Good,” he says. “Now, would you like a drink of water?”

  “Yes.”

  He rises from the chair, goes to the door and departs. My first action is to try my restraints. There is a tiny amount of give, but only keys will open the locks. The chair is timber and, given time, I could possible rock back and forth on the chair and try to collapse the furniture into pieces, but time is a luxury I don’t have. The man reappears with a glass of water in his hand. He holds it to my mouth and I drink. After the third swallow I wonder if the liquid could be poisoned, but that could be a blessing depending on what this man has in store for me.

  He draws back the empty glass, sits back in the seat and places the glass next to the chair.

  “How easily most problems are answered,” he says. “A man is thirsty. He drinks water and his thirst is quenched. Simple.” He nods. “My name is Doctor Ravana. As they say on television shows, ‘I will be your host for the evening’.”

  I nod.

  “Questions and answers are similarly simple.” He bites thoughtfully on his bottom lip with his thin, even teeth. “As long as the questions are answered correctly, honestly, with humility and verisimilitude there are no problems.”

  He speaks as if delivering a lecture.

  “I will not lie,” I say. “I have nothing to lie about. I don’t know anything.”

  “Everyone says that.” He nods, smiling again, but there is no humor in the smile. “In the beginning.”

  “But I really don’t know anything,” I say. “I woke up in a room. I could not remember my name -.”