Superhuman
A Spear Bearer short story
Stephen Clary
eBook Edition
eBook Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away. Even if you received this eBook for free, you do not have the right to distribute this book. If you did not purchase and/or download this book from an eBook retailer, please do so now to own a legal copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s note:
The Spear Bearer stories should be read in the following order:
Spear Bearer Book 1
Mimic (A Spear Bearer Short)
Superhuman (A Spear Bearer Short)
Abomination: Spear Bearer Book 2
The short stories are meant to be bonus stories for folks that have already read Spear Bearer Book 1. If you choose to not read these stories in order, I don’t think Superhuman would be a bad place to start. There aren’t any spoilers and I think the story will work as an independent read.
Superhuman
“Hey, back page.”
Manuel rolled his eyes. Not this again. Latrell with all his ‘back page’ crap.
“Too bad Mexicans can’t ball,” Latrell said, leaning up next to Manuel’s open locker door. “Maybe you’d be mister front page.”
Manuel shoved his slacks and purple shirt into the locker and slammed the door. “What are you talking about?” Sitting on the bench, Manuel leaned over to put his sneakers back on.
“Ooh,” Marshall said. He was Latrell’s white friend, stocky and as faithful as a pit bull. “He’s getting feisty.”
Manuel picked up his soccer cleats and got up to leave, but Latrell stood blocking his way. “I’m talking about b-ball. A real game. A front page game.”
“At least they put me in the paper,” Manuel answered. “I haven’t seen your face front page, second page, third page...” Manuel looked up a Latrell, and he wasn’t used to looking up at people. Although only in eighth grade, Manuel stood taller than most of the ninth graders. But Latrell must have been six-four already.
“I’m only a freshman,” Latrell answered. “But I’ll be front page soon enough.”
“I’m still at Carver,” Manuel answered. “And I’m starting varsity.”
Latrell snorted. “Starting varsity soccer.”
“Soccer,” Marshall repeated.
“Why don’t you come out and practice with us?” Manuel asked. “You’d be begging for a break after five minutes. But...oh...it’s cold outside. Basketball players don’t like the cold.”
“Only pussies play soccer,” Marshall said, pointing a finger at Manuel.
Manuel looked at Marshall who stood on the other side of the bench that ran between the lockers. He felt threatened and pinned in. It would be thirty minutes until the final bell; he came early every day from his middle school to practice with the varsity soccer team. Why Marshall and Latrell weren’t in class right now he didn’t know; he just knew that they’d been coming in and hassling him every day for the last few weeks and he was getting sick of it.
“Okay,” Manuel said, directing his attention toward Latrell. “I’ll play your game. One on one.”
Latrell laughed.
“I think he’s serious,” Marshall said wearing a fox’s smile like Manuel had just been tricked into a trap.
“I’m serious,” Manuel said. He’d played basketball at lunch with his friends and he could play. If Latrell had gone to Carver he’d know that.
Latrell’s heavy purple lips turned down at the corners. “Okay. Mano on mano then. I’ll get my shorts on.”
Manuel shook his head at Latrell’s use of Spanish, but he decided not to correct him. “Five minutes. I’ll be waiting.” Latrell nodded and moved out of the way.
Going to the court, Manuel sat on the first row bleacher bench and began to tighten the laces on his sneakers. His heart beat fast, a natural response to being cornered. But also he felt angry...and excited. And he was pretty certain he would win. Latrell might be a half a foot taller, but Manuel didn’t think that would be much good against his speed and quickness. He could steal a ball with superhuman quickness because, after all, he was not human. He was Nephilim—only half human. And he was about to teach Latrell a lesson in humility.
“Okay, soccer dude,” Latrell said as he swaggered onto the floor, dribbling a basketball brown with age. “Let’s get this over with.” Marshall trailed behind.
Manuel stood up. Latrell dribbled the ball to him. Manuel dribbled it back. “Go ahead,” he said.
Latrell drove to the basket, jumped up, and slammed it down into the net. “Booyah,” he screamed. “What you going to do about that, soccer dude?”
Manuel smiled. There wasn’t any reason to challenge Latrell yet. He took the ball, dribbled it for a minute while he walked along the 3-point arc of paint.
“We ain’t got all day,” Marshall said, standing at the edge of the court.
Manuel turned and casually shot. He watched the ball as it flew through the air and willed it into the basket.
Swish.
“3-2,” Manuel said.
“Ain’t no 3-point shots in one-on-one,” Latrell said.
“You would say that,” Manuel said. “You’re about half a foot taller so of course it is okay to dunk. But I can sink 3-point shots and you can’t, so that’s not okay.”
“That the rules,” Marshall yelled.
“If 3-point shots don’t count,” Manuel argued, “then you can’t shoot in the paint.”
Latrell shook his head. “Screw it. Whatever. Let’s see you try to rebound when you miss those 3-point shots.” Without another word he drove in to the basket and slammed another one home. “4-3.”
Manuel took the ball to the arc, turned, and without ceremony sank another 3-pointer. “6-4.”
Latrell looked at the ball bouncing under the basket. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!”
A couple other basketball players now joined Marshall off court.
“What’s up?”
“Latrell’s teaching this Mexican how to ball,” Marshall answered.
Latrell narrowed his eyes. “Shut up Marshall.”
When Latrell tried to drive on the basket, Manuel made a casual attempt to slow him down, but there wasn’t any reason to try too hard. The math was simple. He just had to continue hitting the threes, and he didn’t see a problem with that. Latrell dunked another basket, tying the score at six.
This time when Manuel took the ball Latrell didn’t hang back—he got into Manuel’s face and held his arms up.
Manuel knew what to do. He sprinted down to the baseline, stopped with a squeak of his Nikes, and pumped the ball. Latrell jumped to block the shot but Manuel didn’t shoot and Latrell’s momentum carried him on past. Then Manuel took his shot. He concentrated on the ball as it flew toward the basket. Swish. “8-6,” Manuel announced.
More players now came to watch the show. “Are you losing, Latrell?” One of them asked.
Latrell didn’t look at the speaker, but he pursed his lips and shook his head. He took the ball and dribbled. Latrell avoided eye contact with Manuel and stared at the backboard. Manuel could see the anger boiling underneath the surface. Latrell wanted to hit something, but in lieu of that, slam-dunking the ball again would feel pretty good. But as he stormed forward Manuel swiped the ball out. Latrell twisted to catch it, stumbled, and slid along the floor.
Manuel jogged to the ball, dribbled lazily, and then sunk a 2-point shot. “10-6.”
“Hey Latrell,” one of the other players said with a laugh, “Are you teaching this guy how to play ball or how to sit on your ass?” Even though it wasn’t funny, the boys all laughed.
Manuel looked at
them and saw they were enjoying the show. They didn’t care that Manuel was beating one of their own. Maybe it was because Latrell was a freshman. Or maybe Latrell was always cocky toward everyone and they were all tired of it.
“Okay...okay.” Latrell stood up. He smiled a smile that showed his large and perfectly straight teeth. There was no humor behind the smile and it seemed to Manuel to have more in common with a dog bearing its teeth than a real smile. “I’m done taking it easy on you.”
Latrell picked up the ball. This time he came forward warily, and when Manuel moved in Latrell turned and put his body between Manuel and the ball.
Manuel planted his feet, but Latrell pushed Manuel with his butt and knocked him back. It was charging, but this was street rules. Manuel had the strength of the Nephilim, but Latrell outweighed him by at least 50 pounds, and mass matters. Magic and physics, the magician Gordon had always taught Manuel, were two sides of the same coin. When a dump truck and a bicycle collide, the dump truck wins 100% of the time.
As Latrell forced him back, Manuel noticed the sweat staining Latrell’s jersey and he smelled the pungent odor of effort and fear. Inch by inch, Latrell forced him back into the paint, then Latrell swung around with his elbows extended. Manuel leaned backward to avoid getting an elbow in the face while Latrell jumped up and took the shot. Latrell’s momentum carried him forward and into Manuel, who was already off balance.
Manuel felt surprise to find himself sitting on his butt.
“Booyah!” Latrell said, standing over Manuel and looking down. He seemed to dare Manuel to stand up.