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  STEVE BEAULIEU PRESENTS:

  A SUPERVILLAIN ANTHOLOGY

  Cover Design by Steve Beaulieu

  Print and ebook formatting by Steve Beaulieu

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Authors retain all rights to their individual stories.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD: RYSA WALKER

  VILLAINOUS ORIGINS: JESSICA WEST (WEST1JESS)

  VILLAIN FOR A DAY: HALL & BEAULIEU

  CHARISMA: TERRY SCHOTT

  DREAMER: HANK GARNER

  THE COLLECTOR: DAVID BRUNS

  RARE: TOM REYNOLDS

  NOW COMES THE BRINGER OF BLIGHT: ED GOSNEY

  REDEMPTION: IAN GARNER

  TROUBLESHOOTING: HAYLEY STONE

  THE ARCH-NEMESIS: CHRISTOPHER J. VALIN

  THE UNKILLABLE KILLER: LUCIA ASHTA

  BLACK RAZOR: PHILLIP HALL

  This book is lovingly dedicated to a man whom none of us knew but who changed our lives forever.

  Adam West—you are Batman.

  You are the hero we all wanted and Gotham deserved. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the laughs. And thank you for igniting the flames of our imaginations.

  September 19, 1928 - June 9, 2017

  FOREWORD

  BY RYSA WALKER

  IN SECOND GRADE, I ran home from school each day and parked myself in front of the TV, one eye on the clock and one hand on the knob, determined to switch it on at exactly three-thirty p.m., and not a single second before. If I turned it on too late, I risked missing the first minutes of Batman. If I turned it on too soon, I’d have to watch the closing credits of Dark Shadows, which spooked the holy hell out of me.

  More often than not, I watched those creepy closing credits. I watched them even though I knew I’d lie awake that night wondering if Barnabas Collins was hiding in my closet, because no way was I missing Batman. And this was doubly true when the Dynamic Duo was in the clutches of one of my favorite villains—Catwoman, Riddler, Joker, or Penguin.

  There was no question as to which side I was rooting for. I was definitely pulling for Batman and Robin (and, all too rarely, Batgirl) to save the day.

  But the heroes weren’t the key reason I watched. The problem with most superheroes is that they’re always the same. Always stalwart, upstanding citizens. Always predictably good. The good part is fine by me. But the predictably part? Not so much.

  Batman’s arch-enemies, however, had a surprise or two up their sleeves. That’s what kept me tuning in to the same Bat-Channel at the same Bat-Time.

  I still have a soft-spot for the villains. In my own writing, their voices are frequently the ones that won’t shut up at the end of the series, who keep reminding me that I’ve only told part of the story.

  In most cases, I end up letting them vent before I can move on to something new. It’s only fair, right? Catwoman was always allowed to explain the motivations behind her dastardly plan as our heroes dangled over a vat of sharks or whatever foul end she’d cooked up for them. The Joker was always given his moment to cackle wildly about how he fooled everyone as viewers waited for the bomb to tick down to zero.

  Or, more accurately, as they waited patiently for it to tick down to one.

  Because we knew something would go wrong. Frequently, the very clue our heroes needed to break away was hidden in the villain’s soliloquy. They were foiled (again!) by their own desperate attempt to pull the spotlight away from the good guys for a moment.

  And it was only for a moment. After that, it was BIFF, BAM, POW—and then off to Gotham State Penitentiary for a (usually brief) vacation behind bars.

  That’s what makes this anthology so much fun. The heroes are the ones having to beg for the spotlight this time. Yes, there are good guys in the mix. Sometimes, they even win. But the villains take centerstage.

  Here’s a quick peek at what’s ahead:

  The first story, “Villainous Origins” by Jessica West, explores the fine line between justice and injustice, between righteous anger and vigilantism. And there are zombies, too!

  In Hall & Beaulieu’s “Villain for a Day,” we meet the Silver Serval—super-smart, super-fast, and despite a slight ego problem, determined to use his powers for good. The Voltress may have other plans, however.

  Terry Schott’s “Charisma” examines the end result of a hero’s less-than-heroic actions. Can justice be served when a villain has the power to sway the minds of everyone around him?

  “Dreamer,” by Hank Garner takes us into the mind of a young man intent on battling a crime wave in his city. This guy’s no hero—but when you’re seeing the crimes each night in your dreams, you have to do something, right?

  In “The Collector” by David Bruns, we follow the story of Mr. Rogers, a mercenary with a talent for persuasion. But what exactly are his employers doing with the people he collects?

  The abilities of the title character in Tom Reynold’s “Rare” leave no doubt that he’s a super. The question that one aggrieved woman must answer, however, is whether Rare is hero or villain.

  What if you learned that your best friend was hiding his superpowers? That’s the core question in “Now Comes the Bringer of Blight,” by Ed Gosney, which examines the toll that superhuman abilities might take on both friendship and sanity.

  In Ian Garner’s “Redemption,” a supervillain who has spent more than a decade reflecting on the sins of his past is given one last chance at atonement. But does he possess the moral strength to take it?

  “Troubleshooting” by Hayley Stone introduces a savvy reptilian villain-for-hire. Her task? Eliminate the world’s greatest superhero, no matter how many times she must die trying.

  In Christopher J. Valin’s “The Arch-Nemesis” we meet Eric, a sympathetic everyman villain whose life appears to be in a state of chaos. His latest screw-up could cost him his membership in the Villain’s Union—and maybe even his life.

  What happens when an immortal superhero has simply had enough? Lucia Ashta’s “The Unkillable Killer” takes us on an existential journey to discover the extremes to which one hapless immortal will go in his quest to end it all.

  The anthology wraps up with Phillip Hall’s “The Black Razor.” In this dark morality tale, a superpowered ninja seeks to avenge his parents, whose death was treated as mere collateral damage by a group of superheroes.

  The authors in this collection deftly avoid the cookie-cutter, mustache-twirling caricature of supervillains. These “bad guys” have depth, motivation, and pathos to spare. I occasionally found myself rooting for them, instead of the “good guys.”

  I believe there’s something for everyone in this volume, and I hope you’ll enjoy these tales as much as I have. To paraphrase our good friend The Joker, it’s time to sit back and let your imagination “dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.”

  VILLAINOUS ORIGINS

  BY JESSICA WEST (WEST1JESS)

  VILLAINOUS ORIGINS

  BY JESSICA WEST (WEST1JESS)

  NOVEMBER, 2017

  Present Day

  Bare trees stand sentinel on my nightly walk home. A full moon—the only source of light in the woods between the hospital where I work and the apartment complex where I live—paints my surroundings in shades
of black and white and every gray in between. The short walk between here and there only takes ten minutes. I could take the bus, but that’s thirty minutes out of my way. So, unless it’s raining, I walk. What’s the worst that could happen?

  Should have known better.

  Not two minutes into my hike, light glints off a sliver of steel to my right; just a flash, but the flicker’s sufficient warning.

  Just in time, I dropped to my knees.

  A fist barely misses my head, the wind catching a few strands of hair.

  As my knees hit the ground, I slam my elbow into my assailant’s crotch.

  With a grunt, he doubles over.

  I land a solid left hook into his jaw, roll onto my heels, and return to my feet in a fighter’s stance. No chance in hell I’m actually going to win this fight, but this guy doesn’t know that. All he knows is that I’m winning so far. Hopefully, that’s enough.

  He straightens, apparently not the least bit deterred.

  I try to get a good look at his face so I can describe him to the police later, assuming I survive, but I can’t look away from his eyes.

  Full of malice, of course. But that’s not what roots me to the spot. He seems… happy. His smile somehow looks genuine. When he opens his mouth to speak, he actually grins. A solid silver tooth in the front stands out among a row of perfect, straight, white teeth.

  “That’s all right, darlin’. I like it rough.”

  This guy is seriously twisted.

  I am so screwed.

  FEBRUARY, 1996

  The first time I met Justice, I thought I’d lost my mind. After everything I’d been through, it was entirely possible. I’d been living with my mom and stepdad for two years. Things got strange after I turned fourteen and started shaving my legs and wearing a bra. He never touched me, though; only watched.

  No matter what I tried, I couldn’t escape. Too many holes and cracks in the rundown shack we lived in assured every bath was a live peepshow. Women these days speak about being objectified. I don’t think they quite understand just how deep that goes. I was constantly on display for someone else’s enjoyment. Me and my “nice legs.”

  Those nice legs did get me some of the attention I wanted. I never had to attend a dance or the movies alone. But I would have been better off wearing braces and glasses, and shoving my nose into a book and keeping it there. Well, as far as the boys were concerned. At home, I’m not sure it would have made a difference. Not now, anyway. Back then, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my social life. Instead, I gave up my peace of mind. Home should have been a safe haven. Boys became my escape. That and the woods. I’d always felt safe there.

  Until the year I turned seventeen, anyway.

  My stepdad was waiting for me in the woods one day.

  I hate to even think about what could have happened. What did happen is hard to explain.

  At first, I thought one of the trees nearby had groaned.

  He and I both froze, glancing around in panic. It’s weird, but at the time—even though I was the victim of an attack—I felt guilty. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I managed to take the blame—at least in my own mind—anyway.

  After that moment of terror passed, he relaxed.

  I struggled, trying to pull my hands away or head butt him or anything. Useless, all of it.

  Another groan echoed in the trees, this one accompanied by a walking corpse. I kid you not, a real zombie actually walked right out of the trees.

  My stepdad got off of me real quick. “What the…” He walked toward the zombie, probably planning on killing it for good.

  The dead kid, a girl a little younger than me—too young for a bra, too old to play with dolls—just stood there.

  Another voice came from the woods behind her. “Noco de Teloah, torezodu. Solpeth od darbs.”

  A shape emerged from the shadows between trees. A long, hooded robe covered the speaker’s form. The head tilted up until solid black eyes met mine, then turned to address the zombie girl next to it.

  “Beranusaji tbl.”

  Midnight eyes lightened by degrees, turning from a dark gray to almost white as they focused on my stepdad.

  The zombie ambled toward me as the form moved closer to him.

  He ignored the shadowy figure, and instead raised his hand to strike the dead girl.

  But the androgynous figure blinked out of the dim light, and then into another shadow near him.

  He shouted and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and going down hard.

  The zombie drew closer and closer to me until she walked into my line of sight, blocking my view of the other two.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but she simply stopped walking and turned around to face her master and my stepfather, putting her body between me and the others.

  Cautiously edging to one side, I looked around her and watched as my stepdad faced my strange new ally.

  Once again, he raised his hand to swing.

  A pristine, white hand with horrifically long, dingy nails shot out from the deep folds of the cloak and latched onto his forearm. A viper couldn’t have done it better.

  When he tried to jerk his arm away, the claws sank deep into his flesh.

  His skin changed immediately. The hues went from tan to yellow to a sallow, almost green color. Wrinkling as even that color drained, he appeared to grow old within seconds. A man of almost forty-five years aged at least thirty more. He dropped to his knees as the transformation overwhelmed him.

  His skin turned gray, ashen, and clung to his bones.

  The shadow person released him.

  He fell to the ground in a heap, his eyes and mouth wide open and staring at nothing. His chest remained perfectly still.

  The cloak swished as my savior turned away, presumably to retreat back into the woods. “Niis.”

  The zombie turned to follow its master without so much as a glance in my direction. Fine by me, but…

  “Wait!” I wasn’t sure what to say, but this person had just saved me from something horrible. No one could just walk away from that. “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?” The gritty voice sounded like dead leaves scraping their way across a dry dirt path.

  Even hearing the voice gave me no clue as to whether this was a man or a woman.

  “It does to me. You’re my hero.”

  I cringed at how lame that sounded.

  With a glance over one shoulder, my ‘hero’ met my gaze once more. “Heroes don’t kill people.”

  “Then I’ll call you Justice.”

  Without so much as a parting word, the strange figure vanished. The zombie ambled along in the direction its master had been facing.

  I had a feeling the dead girl knew exactly where her master was. Justice waited in the shadows for her. For us all, I’m sure, for one reason or another.

  NOVEMBER, 2017

  Present Day

  He likes it rough. Great. So, not only have I not deterred him, I’ve actually managed to encourage an attack. If I fight hard enough, and long enough, maybe ‘Sicko’ here’ll knock me out for the worst of it.

  “Noco de Teloah, solpeth od darbs.”

  That language is unmistakable. Justice has returned. This time, her voice is easily distinguishable as feminine.

  She extends a ghastly hand toward the man now leering at her instead of me, just as she had so many years ago. “Quasaba ar.”

  Her voice is no longer as scratchy or ambiguous as it was over twenty years ago, but I’m certain it’s the same person. Has to be. How many people walk around with zombie body guards?

  By zombie body guards, it’s important you understand I mean plural. As in very plural.

  Corpses in varying degrees of decay stumble out of the woods as if just waking up. A young guy, still pretty fresh I’m guessing, pauses briefly as his gaze searches for then settles on Sicko. Reaching over his shoulder, he pulls a machete and rushes his target.

  Sicko’s quick, though. He turns in a r
idiculous imitation of a ballerina and slashes out with his knife just as Zombie Boy, arm upraised for a strike, plunges past him.

  A long gash appears in the dead teen’s side, exposing a dark gray lung.

  This guy was a smoker. I wonder if he still smokes, even in death.

  The absurdity of the thought under the circumstances strikes me as funny. I can’t help the giggle that escapes.

  Sicko glances at me, his eyebrows pulling together to form creases between them.

  Zombie Boy takes advantage of the distraction. With two steps forward and a lunge, he shoves his machete toward Sicko.

  But Sicko stumbles backwards and the blow is completely ineffective.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately, for him—he backed right up into a mosh pit of dead bodies. When one of them jerked his head to one side and bit into the flesh of his neck, I looked away.

  I didn’t need to see what happened to him. I heard it well enough to know this guy wasn’t going to be a problem for me, or anyone else, ever again.

  Sicko’s still screaming, but if I don’t hurry, Justice will disappear again.

  “Justice, wait!”

  Before I can even scan the trees for her, she emerges from a deep shadow near me. Instead of the rotting corpse of a tween girl I expected to see with her, a bare skeleton follows at her side.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were right there.” Usually, awkwardness compels me to apologize for any little transgression. Right now, though, fear is my motivation. I’ve seen what she can do.