Gods of Manhattan by Al Ewing Read Free Book Online Page B

wasn't... this." He'd sighed, shaking his head. "And I wonder what'll happen if I ever make the wrong decision. What the consequences would be."
    John had just laughed and poured him another whisky. "You're a symbol, Doc. It's not an easy job."
    Doc had smiled, then made his excuses and got up to leave. John had given him a strong handshake on the way out, and a last piece of advice: "Keep wearing that shirt, Doc. People like the shirt."
    It was the last time they'd spoken. Two months later, in November, John had gone to Dallas and N.I.G.H.T.M.A.R.E. had shot him in the head to announce themselves on the world stage. Forty years later, Doc had only just managed to put them down for good, breaking their organisation until no stone was left on another stone. Even Silken Dragon, still beautiful, still deadly, still quite mad, had died in those final moments in Milan, despite all Doc Thunder's efforts to save her and bring her, at last, to trial - although they never did find the body, as so often happened with so many of these people, and a part of Doc knew that nothing ever stayed buried.
    Still, John could sleep a little sounder now.
    Doc was still wearing the shirt. It peeked out from the open lab coat - a light blue t-shirt with a yellow lightning bolt pointing down and to the left. The symbol of the Resistance against McCarthy, back in '54. It still meant something, even now. A lot of people flew it from office buildings instead of the old flag, although the stars and stripes still got wheeled out on state occasions.
    John had been right. Doc's job wasn't exploring lost continents or fighting insane scientists. It was just standing up and doing the right thing, and being seen to do it. Because there were a lot of folks who didn't, and the more of those there were, the more the average Joe might start thinking he didn't have a chance, that the only way to play the game and win was to play it with no rules at all, golden or otherwise. Screw the little guy, stamp him down. Hate the different ones. Why not? They're Them and you're Us and spitting on them might make you more Us, might win you some power. Tell any lie that'll serve your purpose, print them and distribute them to the people while swearing you only speak truth. Believe what you're told without question, or shrug, because what can you do? What can anybody do? The bastards run the world, we just have to live in it. What can you do?
    Keep thinking that way and soon you're looking in the paper at an article that says they're building a camp on the edge of town for all the people who are bad for the country, or bad for the company, there's no real difference anyway, and just keep looking the other way a little longer, friends, just keep nodding along, just keep shrugging, whatever, you're not in danger, you're one of Us and nobody's ever going to come for you, pal. Promise.
    It couldn't happen here, is what we're saying.
    Would we lie to you?
    Doc knew where that road ended. He'd seen it with his own eyes.
    So he wore his beliefs on his chest, and he always tried to do the right thing, and when he needed to stand up, he stood up. And because he was who he was, everybody saw it. And maybe someone took a look at him and realised that they could question what they heard, or they could step in when they saw something bad happening, or they could just try and treat people just a little better. Maybe just one person that day looked at him and thought: I should start trying.
    That was Doc Thunder's job.
    Right now, part of that job was to help the police solve a murder.
    "The shooting in Japantown?"
    Maya's voice. Entering the lab unusually early. Doc nodded, flashing her a brief, tight smile.
    "A gang member, executed in the street. There was a Blood-Spider card left on the body. Inspector West wanted me to check if the forensics matched his pattern." He sighed. "And they do."
    Maya nodded, frowning. "Shooting children." She shuddered. "Are they any closer to catching