First Superhero 1: The Second Super Read online

  THE SECOND SUPER

  THE FIRST SUPERHERO, BOOK ONE

  LOGAN RUTHERFORD

  WWW.AUTHORLOGANRUTHERFORD.COM

  Contents

  Copyright

  Thank You (Free Stuff!)

  1. The Interview

  2. Broken Windows

  3. The Last Supper

  4. Genesis

  5. The Second Super

  6. The Aftermath

  7. Excuses

  8. A Surprise Visit

  9. A Happy Accident

  10. A Terrible Mistake

  11. Cleared for Liftoff

  12. The Calm Before the Storm

  13. Suiting Up

  14. Richter Returns

  15. The Mountaintop

  16. Two Sides to the Truth

  17. Interferance

  18. Performance Anxeity

  19. Enemy of the State

  20. Confident Confessions

  21. Party Crashers

  22. Drives

  23. Breaking Curfew

  24. Searching for Answers

  25. A Few Questions

  26. To The Stars

  27. Richter’s Game

  28. Crossroads

  29. A New Resolve

  30. The Lion’s Den

  31. A Plan

  32. The Fight Begins

  33. Detonation

  34. Plan B

  35. Flight

  36. Asleep at the Wheel

  37. Born for the Grave

  Kane Returns

  Mailing List = Free Stuff

  Also by Logan Rutherford

  About the Author

  The Second Super © 2015 by Logan Rutherford

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art by Damonza (www.damonza.com)

  Copyedited by Gabriela West (www.editforindies.com)

  Fragments & Fictions

  THANK YOU (FREE STUFF!)

  I greatly appreciate you taking the time to read my work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

  You can also sign up for my mailing list at authorloganrutherford.com/list to get free books, like my upcoming post-apocalyptic novel Mortis, and other short stories, along with updates on my books straight to your inbox

  Thank you for supporting my work.

  THE INTERVIEW

  SEPTEMBER 19TH, 2078

  Leopold Renner barely registered the sound of his car’s autopilot telling him he’d arrived at his destination. He was distracted by the possibilities of what he was about to learn, so it wasn’t until the friendly female voice told him a second time that he’d arrived at the Tempest Memorial Museum before it finally registered with him.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled as reached over to his driver’s seat to grab his tablet.

  Leopold climbed out of his dark blue car, and closed the door behind him. The car drove off on its own, going to find a parking space. Leopold wished it hadn’t gone so fast, however. He wanted to look himself over in the reflection of the car to make sure he looked nice. However, he would’ve found nothing wrong. He would’ve seen that each curl of his brown hair was placed perfectly, just like it was every day thanks to his genetically modified follicles. He would’ve seen that his green eyes were piercing as always, and his early-thirties face looked not a day over twenty.

  Still, despite looking so meticulous, Leopold still felt as if he should’ve brushed his teeth himself instead of using his personal hygiene robot, just to be sure everything was perfect.

  He walked up the steps to the museum, which was an old white house that was taller than it was wide. Leopold walked across the porch, the creaking boards beneath him giving him an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t used to sounds like that. Sound of age, and strain.

  He knocked on the dark green door and waited. While he waited, he checked around, looking for signs of anyone else. He found it strange that the place wasn’t bustling with activity. This was, after all, the Tempest Memorial Museum. The news had just broken recently that the museum curator was in fact the widow of Tempest, whom she said was a man by the name of Kane Andrews. Leopold, being one of the top reporters in the country, packed up his vehicle and sped to the Museum as fast as he could. So the fact that there was no one else there before him, Leopold found peculiar.

  The door opened, and bells jingled from within the Museum. Standing on the other side of the door stood the museum curator, Mrs. Andrews. She looked up at Leopold with sparkling eyes, and a smile that was as bright as it was warm. Wrinkles shifted and spread across her face, a rarity in a world where people could live to be almost a hundred and fifty before wrinkles even began to show. “You must be Mr. Renner,” she said as she looked Leopold up and down, her stark white ponytail bouncing around with her head movement.

  Leopold gave her a genuine smile and reached out his hand. “Yes, ma’am,” he said as he shook her frail hand. “And you must be Mrs. Andrews.”

  At the mention of her name, Mrs. Andrews smiled even bigger and her eyes brightened even more. “You betcha,” she said with a wink.

  Leopold already adored the woman’s charisma, and his excitement grew that much more.

  Mrs. Andrews stood to the side, gesturing for Leopold to come in. “Come on in, Mr. Renner. What’ll it be, tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee,” Leopold said as he walked into the foyer. His mouth hung open from the last syllable, though. He couldn’t find the strength or will to close it, as he looked upon the headgear of his hero. The hero.

  Tempest’s crimson head piece with navy stitching around the eyes sat on a bust underneath a glass case.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” Leopold asked.

  “That’s a question I can’t answer,” Mrs. Andrews said with a sly smile.

  She disappeared through a door, which Leopold assumed was to the kitchen. He gazed around the room for a moment, looking at all the things in the cases. A piece of steel girder from Tempest’s and Richter’s first real battle, a duplicate of a sealed Scroll of Power from the Vespa War, a bronze serpent’s head from a terrorist organization that took Tempest years to bring down…Leopold was overwhelmed by it all.

  “This way, Mr. Renner,” Mrs. Andrews said from behind him.

  Leopold turned around, and followed Mrs. Andrews—who held a tray with a mug and a teacup on it—through a set of French doors. She led Leopold to a library that housed tons of books, most of them about Tempest or the other Supers that came in his wake—both good and evil. Or worse, a chaotic neutral.

  Mrs. Andrews set the tray down, and then sat herself down in a faded, blue recliner. “Have a seat, Mr. Renner,” she said as she took the tea bag out of her cup.

  Leopold crossed the room, noting the musty book smell in his head, which in turn appeared written down on the screen of the tablet he held in his hands. He sat down on the faded, blue love seat that matched the recliner Mrs. Andrews sat in.

  “Will you be using that tablet?” she asked as nicely as she could, but Leopold could still hear a hint of a condescending tone.

  “Yes, ma’am, is that all right with you?” Leopold asked, not wanting to offend her.

  “Yes of course, whatever it takes,” she said as she put down her teacup. “But in case you couldn’t tell, I have a liking for the
archaic,” she added with a discreet chuckle, as if she’d just shared an inside joke with a friend.

  “Well, using a tablet is considered archaic by some people’s standards,” Leopold said, trying his best to be in on the joke.

  Mrs. Andrews gave an innocent laugh and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  Leopold reached for his coffee and took a sip. “So,” he began as he set down his mug, “Mrs. Andrews. I guess the question that I think is on a lot of people’s minds is simple: Why?”

  Mrs. Andrews burst out laughing. “Oh my, Mr. Renner. That is a simple question, yet very complicated. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  Leopold sat for a moment, thinking. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, he didn’t know where to begin. He was hoping Mrs. Andrews would just start going and he could just be a note-taker, relishing the information he was being given. He wiped his clammy hands on his khaki pants and thought of his second question. “Why is there no one else here?”

  Mrs. Andrews’s smile turned sad. “Because most people have forgotten. My husband is now just a mere memory in most people’s minds. A legend. He and the other Supers brought humanity into a new age, but they all died off along with the times.”

  It made sense to Leopold. He only knew so much about Tempest and the other Supers because of how much they’d done for him personally. Studying them was a bit of an obsession for him. Time moved so quickly nowadays, and people’s attention spans were notoriously short. They didn’t care about the Supers of the past, and after the events that led to the end of the Super era, most were eager to forget.

  “Why did you just now come forward with Tempest’s identity?” Leopold asked next.

  Mrs. Andrews sat for a moment, staring into her tea as if the dark liquid held the answer to his question. “Because,” she began. “I miss him.” She looked up at Leopold with watery eyes. “And he deserves for people to know who he was. How great he was. I don’t have much time left on this Earth,” she said, examining her frail, wrinkled arms. “I’ve stayed away from anything that would extend my life. Those things would just prolong my time away from Kane, who’s waiting for me up above.” Her face brightened up. Leopold could only imagine she was thinking about seeing him again, which struck a sad chord within him. “I’m the only one left who knows the story of Kane Andrews. And it’s about time that story was told.”

  Now it was Leopold’s turn to smile as big as he could. “Well,” he said, doing his best to contain his childish glee. “I’m ready to listen.”

  Mrs. Andrews nodded. “Well then, Mr. Renner, let’s begin.”

  BROKEN WINDOWS

  JULY 7TH, 2015

  I sat on the couch of my ranch house in Indiana, watching the television as the person referred to as Richter went on his rampage through New York City.

  “The eighteen-year-old Patrick Henry—referred to as Richter—is continuing his seventh rampage in New York City,” the news caster said in a voice-over of the shaky footage that showed Richter standing in the middle of the road, picking up cars and throwing them to see how far they could go. He acted like a kid in a candy store.

  I watched as each car flew further and further, going until they were tiny dots in the distance.

  “Kane, turn that off,” my mom said from the front door entryway next to the living room. “I don’t want to see anybody getting killed.”

  “He’s not going to kill anybody, Mom,” I said. “The city’s evacuated. He’s just dicking around.”

  “Turn it off and watch your language,” she said, her fiery red hair matching the tone of her voice. She walked out of the room, and I continued watching the news.

  On one hand, the fact that I was watching someone with superpowers was cool. On the other, the newscaster’s monologue reminded me why Richter had the entire world in a state of fear and panic.

  “All attempts to subdue Richter have been met with failure. The number of lives lost total in the tens of thousands, and those missing easily top that. We are witnessing someone barely out of high school turning the world into his playground, having no regard for the safety and lives of others.”

  My stomach twisted. I couldn’t even imagine what Richter’s appearance meant for the future. If no one could bring him down, I didn’t even want to think about how many lives would be lost. All I knew was that for the immediate future, the Earth was in gridlock. Always watching for any sign of Richter and the destruction that followed.

  “We are getting reports of two high-speed bogeys heading toward Richter’s location. We are getting confirmation that the United States military is launching missiles at Richter. I repeat, missiles launched at New York City, in an attempt to stop Richter.”

  My attention turned from my thoughts and back to the television screen. As one of the missiles neared, Richter picked up a green SUV, and threw it at the missile. The car and the missile both exploded on impact, just a few hundred feet from where the guerrilla-style cameramen were positioned, sending them flying backwards.

  The camera flipped and rolled, sending images of a burning New York City rolling across the televisions, phones, and computer screens of billions around the globe. The camera settled on a shot of Richter, right before the second missile reached him. He flew toward it, meeting it in the air. He grabbed ahold of it and sent it flying into a building down the street, causing a massive explosion.

  The camera moved as the cameraman regained his composure and went back to filming.

  Richter’s glowing blue eyes turned straight toward the lens of the camera, looking into the eyes of billions. His brown hair blew in the wind, and he raised his hands as if challenging all those watching. He lowered his hands and jumped into the air. He flew toward the building right behind the cameraman. A sonic boom erupted in the air as he slammed into the building faster than the speed of sound.

  The cameraman pointed his camera up, trying to follow Richter, but all the camera could capture was the building beginning to crumble as it collapsed on top of the cameraman.

  The feed went black and cut back to the shocked faces of the reporters in the newsroom. I glanced away from the television, looking outside. I regretted not listening to Mom and not turning off the television sooner. My stomach turned, fear gripping it. But then something even more terrifying happened, drilling home the fact that nowhere was safe.

  Richter himself flew past the windows of my two-story ranch house at such a high speed that the windows shattered, and I was thrown back to the ground.

  Mom let out a scream. “Are you okay?” she shouted. She ran into the living room. She came to my side and helped me up.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I said.

  “What was that?” She turned and looked out the window, trying to piece together what happened.

  “It was Richter,” I said.

  My mother’s face turned white. She wasn’t able to say anything, she was so shocked.

  “Don’t worry, he’s probably somewhere in California by now,” I said, answering one of the questions I knew she was going to ask.

  “You mean he got from New York to Indiana in seconds?”

  I nodded.

  “Holy shit,” she cursed, which was something she almost never did around me, even though I was a senior in high school and heard things ten times worse every day at school.

  The front door to the house burst open, and Dad came running in. “What’s going on? Are you alright?” he said, running over to me.

  “Yeah, Dad, we’re fine,” I said. “Richter flew by so fast he shattered the windows.”

  My father ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair and then rubbed his deep blue eyes. “This is some B.S.,” he muttered.

  “It’ll be alright, Andy,” Mom said in a sweet voice as she placed her arm around her husband’s side. Even though she tried to shrug it off, worry still hung heavy on her face.

  Dad sighed again, examining the damage with his tired eyes. “When we moved out here I worried about some punk teenagers m
essing with us because we were so far out, away from the police. I never thought that punk teenager would have superpowers.”

  This warranted a chuckle out of me, which in turn caused Mom and Dad to begin laughing too. It was so ridiculous that laughing was the only thing we could do. We began to clean up the windows, still chuckling from the shock that our windows had just been blown out by a supervillain.

  THE LAST SUPPER

  I FINISHED SENDING a text to my best friend, Drew, as I walked down the stairs. I ruffled my fingers through my curly brown hair, giving it a messy look that I loved.

  “Going somewhere?” Mom asked, based on the way I was walking with purpose.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I gotta go to the shelter. I’m meeting Drew there, and we’re gonna help out for a few hours.”

  Mom dabbed at the sweat beading on her forehead. “Maybe this summer heat is getting to me, but it sounds to me like you just said you were going out?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mom, I am. I’ll be fine. Richter is probably on the other side of the world by now.”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head with disapproval. “Still, I don’t like it. I’d rather you be safe at home.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, this house is Richter-proof, I forgot,” I said as I made my way to the front door. “And this house wouldn’t be so hot if you weren’t so anti-AC!” I said over my shoulder with a teasing smile.

  “Air conditioning costs money!” Mom shot back. “And now there’s a nice breeze thanks to Richter,” she said, motioning to the broken windows.”

  I chuckled and went outside. I began walking down the sidewalk, but as I walked past the broken windows, Mom stopped me once again.

  “Kane,” she said to me from inside. “Just be safe, okay?”

  I nodded. “Don’t worry, Mom, alright?”

  She nodded her head and I walked to my car. I climbed into my mid-00’s four-door sedan and began the fifteen-minute drive to town.