Generation Next: A Superhero Adventure (The Pantheon Saga Book 3) Read online

  By

  C.C. Ekeke

  Generation Next © 2019 by C.C. Ekeke

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of C.C. Ekeke, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.

  C.C. Ekeke

  www.ccekeke.com

  Cover Art: Carlos Cabrera

  1st Edition

  ShatterHouse Press

  BOOKS by C.C. EKEKE

  The Pantheon Saga

  Age of Heroes

  Monsters Among Men

  Generation Next

  Gods of Wrath (Summer 2019)

  Star Brigade Series

  Resurgent

  Maelstrom

  Supremacy

  Ascendant

  Extremis (Fall 2019)

  Star Brigade Short Fiction

  Odysseys

  Traitor

  Nemesis (Fall 2019)

  Forsaken

  Inheritance

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

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  Books by C.C. Ekeke

  About the Author

  For JH

  Thanks for your encouragement and friendship.

  Prologue

  Sunlight stabbed through his closed eyelids, drawing him from sleep.

  He winced, clumsily shielding his face with both hands. “Whoa…hangover…” His head pounded, chest feeling squeezed like in a vise. More awareness returned, registering the feel of cool polished wood pressing against his cheek and right knee. Babbling from countless people forced his eyes open. And the smell of fresh produce.

  A sunny outdoors turned sideways greeted Landon Lang’s eyes. He jerked up to a seated position, and a migraine walloped his skull. Wincing, he focused on the familiar boulevard. “What the…?”

  Landon last recalled walking home from Mac Wilder’s house party on Stowell Road. Now, on a blazing Saturday morning, the teenager was on a bench in the middle of Santa Maria Town Center farmer’s market.

  Landon ran shaky hands through his curly hair, studying his surroundings.

  Numerous people surged past, many who were swarming vendor stands of fresh produce. Sunkissed couples displaying excess PDA. Parents handling rowdy kids. Elderly folks enjoying a morning stroll. It was a typical farmer’s market crowd. Quite a few bystanders glanced critically at Landon’s unkempt state.

  He blinked, baffled by how he’d arrived here, two miles from home. Landon had like five beers last night, all shit quality since Mac was cheap. Not enough to get blackout drunk.

  Probably one of Hank Weatherby’s stupid pranks.

  “I’ll get that motherfucker,” Landon growled, rubbing his chest. Something hard and plastic was beneath his plaid shirt.

  Frowning, Landon groped his chest more thoroughly. “What—?”

  A buzzing in his pocket startled him. He fished through it to pull out his iPhone. Instead, Landon produced a generic black burner. He squinted at the device in bewilderment. “Where’s my phone?” Landon spied a new text onscreen.

  UNKNOWN: Unbutton your shirt.

  Landon recoiled. “Excuse you?” Growing dread burned away the fatigue clouding his brain. “What freakish game is this?” The realization that Hank Weatherby wasn’t behind this settled in Landon’s mind.

  Another insistent text appeared.

  UNKNOWN: Unbutton your shirt, Landon.

  His heart raced into a gallop. He whipped his head around. Only the usual throng of farmer’s market shoppers flooded the street. Most ignored him. Some sick freak was out there watching. Probably whoever had dropped him off in the Santa Maria Town Center. Against his better judgement, Landon unbuttoned his shirt.

  His discovery rocketed him upright. “What the hell?” Landon exclaimed, drawing stares.

  He was wearing some navy-blue, bulky police vest. A blank rectangular screen was stuck to the middle. Landon’s blood chilled. He didn’t remember putting this on, or anyone putting it on him.

  More shoppers looked his way with wary eyes.

  So stunned was Landon, he almost missed the next text message.

  UNKNOWN: Mister Quiet sends his regards.

  Landon scowled. “Who the hell’s Mister Quiet?”

  The moment he asked, a beep on the vest’s screen grabbed his attention. A timer, set to five seconds, appeared.

  0:05…0:04…

  Landon dropped the phone and staggered back, almost tripping over the bench. “Fuck!” He yanked at the vest to pry it off. It was clasped firmly to him.

  …0:03...0:02…

  Nearby shoppers and sellers pointed. Some cried. The smartest ones ran.

  …0:01…0:00

  Landon’s brain froze, right when the fiery blast mushroomed out from his vest. As blinding light incinerated Landon, his world turned white-hot for a split second—then pitch-black.

  Chapter 1

  He’d been running the racecourse for over an hour. Round and round the crimson, tunnel-like loop, pushing his limits. The world quieted, except the whooshing winds when running at superhuman speed.

  Hugo Malalou glanced at his watch’s speed tracker. 617 miles per hour. New record. He grinned, barely tired.

  If Hugo had gone this fast over
ten weeks ago, before his sixteenth birthday, he’d have felt wiped.

  But thanks to his mentor’s aggressive training, increased speed and stamina were just a few ways Hugo had leveled up.

  But this tightfitting grey tactical unisuit wasn’t Hugo’s favorite. His mentor had said wearing this training outfit would familiarize him to moving and fighting in his eventual costume. Weeks later, Hugo had finally grown comfortable wearing it.

  Hopefully, my actual costume is less basic, he mused. With a mask.

  Thinking of suiting up as a real superhero jolted through Hugo like lightning…distracting him from the speedway.

  Hugo looked up. A thick pipe abruptly jutted from the right-side wall, inches ahead and closing.

  Shit! Hugo somersaulted over the bar a fraction of a second beforehand. Landing several feet away, he rocketed onward without breaking stride. That was close.

  His mentor loved keeping Hugo on his toes during speed drills. Constant vigilance in a crisis. That had been hammered into him these last ten weeks.

  A series of spiky cones sprouted from the ground as Hugo banked around the corner.

  He frowned, zigzagging through the closely grouped spikes, never grazing any. I’m not even tired. Feeling cocky, he pushed himself faster.

  Instants later, Hugo spied the limp body falling from the ceiling. His panic was fleeting as his training took over. A crash-test dummy shaped like a man, no facial features. Creepy AF. Hugo should be used to that, but the visual still unsettled him.

  With Hugo moving superfast, the dummy plummeted in slow motion. He gritted his teeth, decelerating enough upon approach to not smash through the dummy like so many times before.

  Hugo reached out, catching it perfectly. Ha! He couldn’t hide a smirk while racing forward.

  “TIME!”

  Hugo braked promptly, sliding by a foot. Sweat beaded from his buzzcut head down his blocky, swarthy features. He sucked in greedy gulps of air to catch his breath. Minor exertion stung his legs and arms. Hugo didn’t mind some fatigue after a long run. He savored the sensation before it soon faded. Another perk of super stamina. Hugo placed the dummy on the track floor and turned at the approaching footsteps. Two women advanced along the red speedway track. The tall adult wearing a shapeless green muumuu and a headband on thick golden locks was Hugo’s trainer, Betty Ortiz. Beside her was twelve-year-old daughter, Zelda, with her bronze curls and sullen face.

  “Well?” Hugo inquired expectantly, hands on hips.

  “Better,” Ms. Ortiz commended. “You hit a running speed of 620 miles per hour. The dummy’s sensors detected you slowing enough to avoid a fatal collision.” Since revealing she was Lady Liberty, world famous superhero, Ms. Ortiz had dialed down the airy-fairy flowerchild act. She was a strict instructor but attentive and encouraging. “You still ‘cracked’ the dummy’s ribs.”

  Hugo cringed, no longer feeling cocky. “Cracked ribs beat several shattered ribs like the last three times,” he remarked, fishing for a positive. “Sounds like an improvement.” He’d been working on catching dummies in mid-sprint without ‘killing’ them or shattering every bone in their bodies. Those dummies were too fucking sensitive.

  Ms. Ortiz couldn’t hide her smile when looking down at her daughter. “Thoughts?”

  The twelve-year-old folded both arms, giving Hugo a hypercritical onceover. “Not gentle enough. Needs to stop checking his speedometer mid-sprint.”

  Hugo rolled his eyes. She caught that. Zelda sometimes served as his trainer whenever her mom was busy as Lady Liberty. Much stricter than Ms. Ortiz.

  “Always a critic, Z?” Hugo quipped.

  Zelda arched an eyebrow. “Always a wiseass, H?” Hugo grimaced at the clapback.

  Ms. Ortiz wasn’t pleased. “Zelda. Try again.”

  Zelda glowered at her mother. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry.

  “Go help the costume designers upstairs,” Ms. Ortiz ordered.

  Zelda looked surly marching out of the speedway’s side entrance. Personally, Hugo missed her being in a state of constant embarrassment over her mother’s hippy-dippy axioms.

  He and Ms. Ortiz were on the lowest level of her private training facility beneath her superhero costume shop in San Miguel. Hugo trained here three hours a day, four days a week. Saturday mornings or afternoons and Thursday evenings focused on strength, speed, endurance, and safe power usage. Sunday evenings, Hugo’s least favorite, was for unarmed combat, battlefield speed, and moderating fight power. He enjoyed Tuesday evenings, running mock battle or rescue scenarios to learn situation awareness. With all that training, Hugo barely recognized his physique. Yeah, he’d been muscular after getting Titan’s powers. Now, Hugo was leaner and more chiseled, with eight-pack abs and biceps like small mountain peaks. Even better, Hugo’s strength had skyrocketed under Ms. Ortiz’s training, along with his control. He no longer worried about injuring someone with a casual touch. Hugo also worked on body movement, voice acting, and persona. The latter training would help people think Hugo and his superhero identity were separate people once he finally suited up.

  “Even if certain lessons don’t make sense,” she’d said during his first training session, “this regimen will get you to your full potential.”

  Hugo had made an effort to never complain. He just absorbed as much as possible from Ms. Ortiz, a living Wikipedia on superheroes.

  “Don’t take her attitude personally,” Ms. Ortiz said once her daughter departed. She approached, standing slightly shorter than Hugo’s six-foot-three inches. “Zelda’s like that when she emotionally invests in someone.”

  Hugo shrugged it off. Zelda’s surliness barely fazed him. “I’d hate to see how she treats enemies.” He wondered if Lady Liberty’s daughter had powers, despite never displaying any. But Hugo felt weird prying too much into his mentor’s privacy.

  “Not to sound impatient, but how ready am I?” Hugo asked. “To fight the good fight?” Part of him craved a positive answer yet secretly dreaded a negative one.

  “Surprised you showed this much restraint,” Ms. Ortiz quipped. Her gaze was so intense, Hugo almost looked away.

  “You started very raw, without many bad habits to unlearn. Your self-training beforehand also helped.” She tossed back her long locks. “You’ve come a long way and keep improving.”

  “I’m still earthbound,” Hugo grumbled. He had supposedly received all Titan’s powers after the superhero’s murder. Yet Hugo still couldn’t master flight beyond controlled leaps or brief floating. That angered him.

  “Titan could fly, so that should develop eventually.” Ms. Ortiz pondered this. “If not, then so what? You have superspeed and can leap.”

  Hugo chewed on her words, realizing she had a point. And that she’d deflected. “Didn’t answer my question.”

  Ms. Ortiz nodded. “You’re close, Bogie. But you still have lots to learn.” She placed a hand on his broad shoulder and squeezed. “Be patient. When it’s time, you’ll know.”

  Her answer didn’t irk Hugo. Not entirely. He knew parts of his superhero skills beyond flight needed work. “What about my costume?”

  Ms. Ortiz’s grey eyes gleamed. “It’ll be ready tomorrow before training.”

  Hugo’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

  Ms. Ortiz nodded eagerly. “Putting on some final touches. I’ll call you.”

  “Sweet!” Hugo exclaimed. A costume fitting was one thing. But getting his own custom superhero suit? I’m gonna be a superhero! Hugo had to geek out somewhere. “That all today?”

  Ms. Ortiz grinned, as if sensing his barely contained excitement. “Tuesday, we’ll do some new movement exercises to help separate your civilian and superhero identities.”

  Hugo rubbed his hands together, already enthusiastic. “Funny you should mention that. I’m going to Central Coast Plaza with my friends to try the body language exercises we worked on.”

  Ms. Ortiz wrinkled her nose. “Your playboy persona,” she remarked disapprovingly. “Can
’t you go for socially awkward? Its more unassuming.”

  Hugo felt somewhat annoyed, having heard this before. “Socially awkward was my life for years. Not anymore.” Hugo had given this considerable thought and respected Ms. Ortiz’s opinion. But he wouldn’t budge. “Also, people thinking I’m with a girl lowers the chance they’ll suspect I’m a superhero.”

  Ms. Ortiz sighed in exasperation but didn’t push further. “Tell me how it goes—” A buzzing caught her attention. “Hold on.” Ms. Ortiz whipped a cellphone from her pocket. Her face tensed at whatever text she’d received.

  Hugo sensed something was wrong. “Everything okay?”

  Mrs. Ortiz looked up with an unflappable expression. “Trouble in San Francisco.” Backpedaling several steps, she spun around, faster and faster, becoming a tornado-like blur.

  She stopped seconds later, replaced by Lady Liberty in full costume. Her figure-hugging red uniform displayed long tanned and toned legs, her brunette bob flowing as if windblown. Lady Liberty’s getup was completed by the silvery diadem on her head like a crown. Stunning.

  Hugo’s jaw dropped. “That never gets less mind-blowing,” he marveled. “Need help?” Despite her earlier words, Hugo hoped this crisis needed backup. Or a superhero-in-training.

  Lady Liberty’s thin smile didn’t reach her eyes, as if saying “Nice try, kid.” She headed for the speedway exit. “Justice Jones is en route. And you got no costume.” The superhero gesticulated at Hugo’s training unisuit. “Go have fun with your friends.” She rushed out in a powerful gust of wind.

  “Okay,” Hugo said to an empty speedway. Shrugging off fleeting disappointment, he strode out the exit to change and shower. “Time to practice my lothario skills.”

  Chapter 2

  Under the dim bedroom lights, their intertwined bodies writhed as one. Her thighs felt deliciously warm as she kept riding him slowly. She was home.

  Greyson Hirsch reached out and caressed her face. “Laurie…” he gasped.

  Lauren smiled that loving smile. “I'm here.”

  Greyson sagged with such relief it hurt. “Thank God…” If he was with Lauren…then the last three months must’ve been a nightmare.