Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Prologue

25 Years Ago

It was late in the morning before Cecil realized something wasn't right.

He'd had his head buried under the hood of a '67 Firebird since around 6:00 am, doing a full rebuild on one of the sexiest engines he'd ever laid his eyes on. Missy and the kids were up at the lake for the month—the brood always went during August—and Cecil, who'd come back a bit early, was baching it for a few days while he caught up on a few loose ends like the Firebird.

But when he popped his head up at around 10:00, something didn't feel right. Mondays in August usually weren't busy, but at that moment, Cecil could've heard a pin drop in the garage bay. A quick glance at the clock told him it was too early for lunch.

He slopped some goop on his hands and wiped it free with a rag as he headed for the office. The tiny room was empty.

"Hey!" he called aloud in his usual rough but agreeable baritone. "Where the hell is everybody? We got work to do. Let's get hopping."

Nothing.

Something unpleasant filled his belly. Cecil had seven fulltime employees at his Brooklyn Heights auto shop, and each and every one was as dependable as a fine timepiece. They didn't just .... He leapt into action, jogging through the bay, back to their tiny loading dock, up to the parts closet, and finally out front.

No one.

And then a movement caught his eye, and he noticed people on the roof of the building across the way. Searching the length of the street, he saw people standing on the rooves of a dozen buildings, some shielding their eyes, but all staring silently toward the City.

No. Not silently.

The moment the sounds of sobbing reached him he knew ... he knew ... something terrible was happening. An eel suddenly twisted in his gut, and Cecil took the stairs to the roof four at a time, and when he emerged, he found a dozen people standing and staring north, some groaning in fear. The first person to look his way was Andy Tares, an employee and friend, a man he'd known for twenty years. Andy's eyes streamed with tears, but the man said not a word. He merely looked back toward the City as if imploring his boss to do something.

When Cecil followed the man's gaze, he saw what all present had been watching: The City was on fire.

It took the mechanic less than a minute to take in the picture, his terror growing with every second. It looked like the better part of Lower Manhattan was ablaze. And all he could think for that long moment was, thank God Missy and the kids are upstate.

And then he saw in the distance what the others could not and nearly let out a shriek.

Abandoning all pretense at normalcy, he turned and dashed for the stairs and was down the three flights in three light bounds. He stopped only long enough to try the phone—it was dead.

"Of course," he mumbled on his way out the front entrance. He'd wanted to call Missy to say—well. He also wanted to call Kyle. Both conversations would have to wait. "Angie! Angie! Angie!" he shouted up to the rooftop until a woman's head appeared. "When the phones are back up, call Missy and tell her to stay put. I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be back," was all Cecil said as he dashed down the road toward Camden Street.

How to explain all this to his friends and employees? There was no way.

Despite his fifty-some years, Cecil was a man of prodigious speed and strength, whose physical abilities were far beyond those of normal folk. Seconds before, on the rooftop, his keen eyesight had discerned something that others had not: there were figures streaking about amid the buildings and skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan, figures too small to be airplanes but far too large to be birds.