The Last Hero (Book 1): Ultra (3 page)

W
hen I walked
into my Staten Island home, I knew right away what I was going to face.

The walls of the hallway were dark, and the wallpaper was curling at the edges. As I walked past them, I tried not to look at the photographs pinned up to the wall. Some people liked to be reminded of times they’d once had. Of the things they’d lost. But I didn’t. I didn’t like being reminded of the day my parents’ lives tore apart. The day that changed my life, forever.

I could hear crying in the kitchen. Mumbling. I knew without seeing that it was Mom. I held my breath as I pushed open the kitchen door. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what I was going to face. Nobody could accuse me of not being prepared.

But it never got easier.

Grief never got easier.

That was something I had come to understand in my sixteen mostly miserable years on this planet.

Mom was on her knees. She was sweeping something from the kitchen floor. It looked like the remnants of a smashed dinner plate. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Mom?”

She looked up. Stopped sweeping right away. She forced a smile, quickly wiped the tears from her eyes as if it’d cover up the fact she’d been crying effectively. Her light brown hair hung limply by the sides of her head. She looked older, more wrinkled, every time I saw her. Her skin was pale like she desperately needed a holiday. She never dressed up—right now she was in gray joggers and a white T-shirt, which had turned a shade yellow. “Kyle,” she said. “He’s… He’s… I can’t…”

“Where is he?”

“In the living room,” Mom whispered. “I just don’t think I can watch him do this anymore. I don’t think I can handle it.”

I felt my stomach sinking when I heard the upset in Mom’s voice. I walked over to her. Hugged her. It felt nice when she hugged me. The smell of her hair always took me back right to my earliest memory, when she was holding me in her arms, rocking me from side to side.

“Sorry to bring you home from your friends.”

“It’s okay. We were pretty much done anyway.”

“You always say that.”

“What?”

“You always say that. You were pretty much done. Kyle, I’m… I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to handle him when he’s like this. You’re the only person who can get through to him.”

I pulled back from my mom’s hug. Wiped her salty tears from my face. I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

“You’re a good boy, Kyle. A good boy.”

I turned around and nodded. She was right about that.

Just a pity the “good boys” didn’t get anywhere in life.

I walked up to the living room door. Part of me just wanted to turn around and run away. Mom might think I was the only person who could deal with Dad when he was upset, but the truth was, I was just winging it too. I didn’t really know what to say. Didn’t really know what I was doing.

I just felt like I should be there.

Because I guess, I felt weirdly responsible for his misery.

I let out that deep breath and lowered the handle.

My dad was sat in the corner of the room. To the everyday bystander, it looked like he was just sitting there, having a rest.

But I knew my dad. And I knew he was having what Mom called an “event.”

An “event” that he’d been having ever since The Great Blast killed my sister.

“Dad?”

He looked up. He was usually bald, although his shaven head was growing pretty long. His beard was wispy and gray. His eyes were sunken, dark underneath. His smile was flat. Empty.

Dad didn’t look healthy. But he hadn’t looked healthy for eight years.

To say that this was the dad I knew wasn’t an easy thing to admit.

“You should be out with your friends,” Dad said.

I nodded. Walked over to him. “We finished. I—”

“Did your mom tell you to come speak to me?”

I paused. “No,” I said. “I just got back and saw the kitchen in a state. Figured something must’ve happened.”

Dad tutted. Shook his head. “You’ve always been an awful liar, son.”

I sat beside my dad. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. Stared across the room at the television, which wasn’t switched on. One of the photographs on the fireplace caught my eye. One of Dad with Cassie on his shoulders at some summer fair. The photograph had faded a little in the sunlight. But I knew there were plenty other photographs Dad could switch it with if he needed another to look at; to remind himself.

I tried not to remind myself too often. But in moments like these, I couldn’t deny the wandering of my mind. The wandering to a time that seemed an eternity ago; a time that already filled the history lessons even though it only ended when I was eight.

Dad had been this way ever since The Great Blast. Some people doubted The Great Blast. Some people questioned whether it was really as deadly and terrifying as the teachers and the New York old-timers made it out to be.

But it was. Because I’d seen it.

I’d watched it take my fourteen-year-old sister away.

Like Hiroshima and Nagasaki before it, The Great Blast was a bittersweet event. It marked the end of the Era of the ULTRAs. Now let me educate you on ULTRAs a little. ULTRAs were supposed to be the future. The First World War was a turning point for the planet. It fast became clear that full armies were not a sustainable way to fight. There was too much damage. Too much collateral. Too many scars. So the leaders of the world got to work on the ultimate arms race: a way to find an alternative to conventional warfare.

It took time. There were harrowing human experiments by the Nazis. Nuclear explosions. There was the Cold War, the information war, counter-terrorism and drone strikes. But nothing was right for the purpose. Nothing replaced the old-fashioned methods of conflict that’d spanned since the beginning of time. It was still just a human and a weapon of some form or other.

Until the discovery of the ULTRAs.

Nobody knew exactly how the ULTRAs came about. Not publicly, anyway. Just that fifteen years ago, the United States government unveiled their very first creation. Some people said they were modified humans. Others said they were the products of genetic experiments. Nobody really minded as long as they protected the planet.

The powers of the ULTRAs varied. Some had just the one—the ability to fly, or the ability to run at super-speed. Others had tricks of the mind, like the power of super-thought, and the ability to crack codes that not even the best computers could manage.

There were rare ones, too. ULTRAs that had multiple abilities. Telekinesis. Teleportation.

But they were very rare.

In fact, there were only ever two.

Saint and Orion.

Of course, they weren’t called ULTRAs then. ULTRA by its definition means extremist, something that they were only regarded as four years after the introduction of Alpha.

Originally? They were simply known as Heroes.

And they were going to change the world.

They did just that.

Only not in the way the government planned.

The first few Heroes went down without a hitch. There was a reduction in military spending because of them. Police presence was less required. People seemed safer on the streets. Those four years between Alpha’s introduction and the change from Heroes to ULTRAs were reportedly some of the most blissful in human existence.

Then some of the Heroes decided they wanted more than just to gate-keep the planet.

As with everything powerful, some of the power started getting to the Heroes’ heads. After a series of devastating scuffles within the ranks, one Hero rose to the top of the villainous food chain: Saint.

Saint led three years of terror. He launched attacks on cities. He terrorized people for fun. His goal? Complete control of the planet. Complete superiority over humans.

He wanted humans to fear him. And he wanted humans to serve him.

He didn’t want Heroes to be the new gods. He wanted Heroes to be the new humans.

The humans? They were just the cattle underneath.

It didn’t help that he had multiple abilities. That he was the most powerful ULTRA in existence.

With the Heroes becoming ULTRAs by definition, the tables turned. ULTRAs of all kinds were hunted down by government forces. Military spending was ramped right back up again to levels it’d never before reached. Curfews were in place. Humanity faced near certain extinction as more and more ULTRAs converted to Saint’s ways.

All of them except Orion.

Orion was different. He was powerful, just like Saint, which was remarkable in itself, leading many to assume he was a product of severe government experimentation. Instead of turning to the side of Saint, he fought for what he believed in. Even though the government demanded he back down, he kept on hunting Saint’s people, desperate to force them into oblivion.

And he did. After three dark years, Orion succeeded. He defeated Saint.

The only problem was, Saint triggered something just before Orion pounded into him. He triggered an ultimate power source within, something people were still trying to explain to this day. Pure Hero power.

And that caused The Great Blast.

The event that ended the Era of the ULTRAs.

The explosion that killed one million New Yorkers.

The explosion that ripped through my Staten Island neighborhood. That I, somehow, survived.

That my sister, Cassie, died in.

Where my father’s descent into depression began.

Mom always wanted to move from Sherman Avenue. To get a fresh start. Our place was one of the lucky ones that stayed standing, despite everything.

But Dad couldn’t move on. He’d never even cleared out Cassie’s room.

To this day, I still hadn’t walked into that room. It gave me the creeps even thinking about it. Like there were ghosts of a dark past waiting in there for me, and if I opened that door, I’d let them out all over again.

“I’m here for you, Dad,” I said. “Don’t… don’t ever forget that. I’m here for you.”

Dad didn’t say anything in response to me. And I knew why.

Dad didn’t care that I was here for him.

Because what could I do?

What could a weak-ass little pussy who fake-shat himself to get out of a game of football do to ease his grief?

What could a failure like me do?

I sat there in silence, Dad silent by my side.

As I stared at the photograph of Cassie, I thought back to the final time I’d seen her.

Running out into the street to try and save her when Mom and Dad were so worried.

Trying to be the hero.

Failing.

I’d never tried to be the hero since that day. Never.

Because I saw what being the hero did to people.

I saw what Orion trying to be the hero did to one million New Yorkers, to their families.

Heroes were overrated. The world didn’t need them messing things up. Not again.

At least, that’s what I thought.

D
aniel Septer sat
in his bedroom and listened to the arguments downstairs.

He was so used to hearing conflict between his mom and his stepdad, Garth, that it was beginning to lose all meaning. Outside, in the darkness of night, Daniel heard the rain rattling against the window, the wind shaking it. He’d never enjoyed the darkness. Always found it so spooky, so creepy.

That’s probably why Garth didn’t like him, either. Too soft to be a son of his. Too weak.

The voices downstairs got louder. Daniel felt the tension in his stomach tingling away. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could smell food cooking; a meal for the pair of them that hadn’t worked out. Maybe Mom cooked something for Garth, and he didn’t appreciate it. Or maybe Mom made an offhand comment about something Garth made, and he didn’t take too nicely. There was always something between them. Some sticking point, something to make them argue. It’d been that way ever since they met three years ago.

Daniel didn’t ever step in or intervene. Because he’d heard how loud Garth could shout. He’d heard how loud it got before a sudden silence kicked in and the pair of them went quiet, completely quiet.

And he didn’t like to think about what happened when it went quiet.
Why
it went quiet.

So he just sat in his bedroom on his creaky single bed and played his video games.

Daniel never wanted to be this way. He always wanted to be strong; he still
wanted
to be strong. But he’d never had the courage to stand up to anyone, whether it be at school or at home. It’d been that way since he lost his dad in The Great Blast. Mom said that’s what’d made him weak; Garth just told her Daniel was weak from birth. That some kids were just wired up that way. Wired up wrong.

But not his kid. No kid of his.

Daniel carried on pounding away on the controller, hoping the sounds of the rain and the wind would cover up the sounds of the shouts, when he heard a high-pitched scream.

Daniel felt something then. Felt something unfamiliar. Something he had felt at some stage in his life, but something he couldn’t pinpoint.

He knew it was his mom’s scream he heard.

And that she sounded in pain. In danger.

He wanted to go down there. Check she was okay.

But even more than that, Daniel knew he couldn’t go downstairs because Garth was down there, and he was too weak to stand up to Garth, too weak to tell him to—

Another scream.

This one louder.

Daniel felt that sensation inside again, and he wanted to do something. He wanted to react. He hadn’t felt this way since he lost his dad. He remembered it now. Remembered that tingling feeling as the windows in the flats either side of him caved in. He remembered the sounds of the screams all around him, the feel of the explosion blast into his body.

He remembered that tingling feeling and remembered his dad’s body going limp.

And it made him angry.

It made him so…

The feeling overwhelmed him, filled every inch of his body… and then he was standing in the middle of the kitchen with Garth and Mom.

Daniel stood there a few seconds. His heart pounded. He couldn’t understand how he was here. One second, he was in his bedroom. Now, he was downstairs with them.

He couldn’t be down here. This couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t—

“What the hell are you doing down here, boy?”

Daniel heard Garth’s voice and felt a shiver creep up the back of his neck.

He turned around, looked over towards the oven and the counters, and he saw them.

Garth was standing, but Mom was on her knees. She was crying. Holding her stomach, like she was in pain.

There was something in Garth’s eyes. Redness. His sleeves were rolled up.

“I asked you a question, squirt. What the hell are you doing down here?”

Daniel wanted to go back to his room. To run away from these people he barely recognized as his mom and his stepdad.

But he felt that tingling sensation grow stronger.

He felt that
urge
to do something building inside.

That memory of his dad dying beside him. The dad who should be here right now, making Mom happy.

Not this man.

“Go… go to your room, Daniel,” Mom said. She barely spat the words out. “It’s—It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Daniel looked around the kitchen. Over into the dining room. He saw a card and wrapping paper on the table. On the floor, a shirt. It was ripped.

And suddenly reality dawned on Daniel. It was Garth’s birthday. Mom bought him a shirt. A shirt he didn’t like.

And he was punishing her for it.

Garth was punishing Daniel’s mom because he didn’t like the shirt she bought him.

Daniel turned around, and he saw Garth walking towards him.

“Garth, no!”

“I told you to go upstairs,” Garth said.

Daniel saw the redness building in Garth’s eyes. He saw his fist tensing. He could feel in the air that Garth had wanted to do this for a long time. He’d been waiting for the right moment, for the right opportunity.

This was it.

This was his moment.

“But seeing as you’re stayin’,” Garth said, squaring right up to Daniel, towering over him, “might as well teach you a few manners.”

“Garth, please!”

Garth pulled back his fist.

Hurtled it toward Daniel’s face.

Daniel felt that anger, that tingling, within. And he felt something leave his body. An energy, that was the only way he could describe it.

It took him a few seconds to realize what was happening.

But then he saw the confused look on Garth’s face.

He saw his fist stuck inches from Daniel’s nose.

Just stuck there in mid-air.

It took Daniel by surprise. He couldn’t understand. Couldn’t get his head around it. But deep down, he got that
he
was doing this somehow. He was stopping Garth’s fist, midair. He was using that tingling feeling—that same tingling he’d felt on the day of The Great Blast—and he was stopping Garth from punching him.

“What the—” Garth started.

He didn’t finish.

Daniel used that tingling feeling, used that anger, to turn Garth’s fist around.

Turn it so it was pointing at his own nose.

He bit his lip. Tasted blood at the back of his throat.

But in his mind, he heard the screams of his mom.

He saw the sadness in her eyes.

He saw that shirt, ripped, on the floor.

And he used his mind to crack Garth’s fist into his own face.

The force of the impact knocked Garth back. He flew across the room, slammed against the cupboards, hit the floor.

And Daniel knew he should stop. He knew he should run away and hide because whatever this was, it was dangerous. Whatever this was, it was getting him into trouble.

But instead, he kept on tensing.

Kept on using his mind, his anger, to swing Garth’s fist against his own face.

To beat himself right there on the floor, nothing he could do about it.

He heard Garth begging him to stop. He heard Mom asking him to give in, too. To quit whatever he was doing.

But Daniel kept on going.

He kept on going because the anger was turning into excitement.

He kept on going because for so long he’d wanted to do this, to stand up to someone, to beat the bully.

He kept on going because for the first time in his life, he felt strong.

He didn’t know how long exactly he kept going. But when he stopped, Garth was still. Completely still.

He took a deep breath. Walked over to his mom. Reached down and hugged her.

“We’re going to be okay now, Mom,” he said, holding her close. “Everything’s going to be okay now.”

Blood trickled across the kitchen floor.

Daniel felt alive.