The Martyrly Art of Awakening from Dirt Naps

I can feel the bullet ripping through my chest. Dang it. Got to stay conscious. At least until I’m safe from discovery. Clearly, I’m not ready for full armed robbery. I touch the bullet hole, fingers passing through the new opening in my outfit. One week out here doing the superhero thing and my dumb suit is ruined. My head is getting woozy. Probably not the best sign. Need a place to hide. To die in private. People sometimes get weird when you wake up from the dead. I see a dumpster. That’d be good. Bullet hole probably wouldn’t take more than an hour or two to fix itself. I use every effort in my dying body to roll into the dumpster. Not as much in it as I would like, I muse as my shoulder hits metal. Fortunately, that happened before I died. I pull the few things in there on top of me, to at least make it less obvious that there is a corpse in here, then, and only then, do I let go of the reins.

I should note, this isn’t my first death since that vacation back in high school. And the weirdest thing started to happen. Freshman year of college, I died of alcohol poisoning. I had managed to stumble back to my room before dying, of course, and my roommate barely registered my existence. If I were honest, the only reason I realized I’d died and not just passed out was that I woke up the next morning without the hint of a hangover. That led to some recklessness on my part if I’m totally honest. After all, I now had the perfect hangover cure, which meant drinking without downsides. Eventually my friends noted how incredibly unhealthy my drinking habits were getting, but by then it was too late. I’d already started to see a change. When I was technically dead, I wasn’t. My mind still churns, thoughts spinning around. Even some very basic proprioception. Almost like my brain is trapped in a dream while my body is fixing its problems. Which is why I know that my brilliant plan of ‘hide the body’ failed. I can feel myself moving, or being moved more accurately. Which means we get to have the fun conversation.

I feel the rush of air into my lungs and the blood pumping once more. I open my eyes and look around. There’s a guy, in a turtleneck, looking through a microscope for some reason. Doesn’t look like a morgue, so that’s a plus. There’s a digital clock on the wall, morgues don’t care enough about the time to waste the money. And the walls almost seem to be metal. Not being a morgue means less digital documentation of who John Doe might be, which means fewer things I’ll need to destroy. Slowly, I sit up, hoping to be quiet enough that the guy doesn’t notice. I’m pretty quiet, and yet he still notices. “The hell?” the man spits out as he spins around and grabs something, can’t recognize what it is. “But you’re dead,” he says, confused.

“I get that a lot,” I joke back. Then, after the joke doesn’t hit, I move on, “Does bring up the question though. This isn’t the morgue.”

The turtlenecked man glares. “That is not a question,” he notes accurately, though the way he says it screams paranoid.

“Where and why both apply, and in turn bring up who,” I say as I look around for my outfit.

“Not when?” he asks. He puts the weird thing down, which is a good start.

I shrug. “Well, I know that one. Around three a.m. Probably a little later than that because you weren’t super careful digging that bullet out. Not that I blame you, I was mostly dead at the time.”

“Impressive,” the man says.

“Don’t be too impressed,” I admit, “There’s a clock on the wall.” I gesture to the red lights saying 03:25. “Now, could we get back to the why and where?”

The guy sighs. “When it comes to vigilantes in this town, you really can’t trust the cops.”

I smirk. “So you’ve heard of me, strange man with a full forensic suite.”

He doesn’t smile. “Yes, and you’ve done some good work, but you’re definitely not ready for the big leagues yet,” he says.

I shrug. “Better me than someone who can’t wake up from a good old fashioned dirt nap,” I joke again.

This one leads to a slight chuckle. “I guess. How’d you track them?” he asks, “I’ve been trying to figure out where the outfit is going to hit for three weeks now, but I haven’t been able to find a pattern in when or where they hit.”

I pause a moment. Admitting the truth will hurt my hero cred, but if I lie that might actually cause real problems with the weird-detective guy. I sigh. “Well, I was at the library late finishing and sending in my last final, and the buses were cancelled, so I had to walk across town back to my apartment. And, as I passed the bank, a bunch of people were breaking in. So I pulled on my mask and rushed in, taking off my normal people clothes as I moved. I didn’t stop them stop them, but I interrupted their clever plan and they didn’t get away with as much as they’d clearly been planning on taking. And then I got shot.”

The turtleneck guy sighs. “So you don’t know anything. Great.”

“I know the make, model, and plate of the car they were using to get out of dodge,” I counter, “Assuming that would help you any more than the bullet I also got for you to analyze or whatever.”

He grabs a notebook and tosses it to me, adding, “Getting shot doesn’t count as good detective work. But the car’s information would help.”

I open up the pen and start to write. Admittedly, I don’t know the exact model of the minivan. Between 2007 and 2010, the car company didn’t change much visually. The engine noise wasn’t heavy enough to be the 2007 model, but the other three all basically sound the same as well, the difference was mostly the electronics inside. But I write that and the license plate down and toss the notepad back. “So, now do I get the who?” I say as I head over to put on my now bulletholed wetsuit that I decorated to make my suit.

“Secret Identities are important for a multitude of reasons. Suffice it to say, I’m a hero, like you. Albeit one without the same lack of concern over death, and one with more skill. And one who actually does detectiving. And one who’s suit doesn’t get ruined by a single bullet.”

I shake my head. “It’s not ruined. It’s badass. Get a few more of those and people will be like, whoa, that superhero’s fit is covered in bullet holes and he’s fine, is he bulletproof or something?”

“How do you think they’ll test that theory?” he asks back, “They’ll shoot you and you’ll die.”

I wave my hand to brush that off as I pull the wetsuit over my legs. “Again, why do you act like dying is such a big deal? I’ve found it really helpful over my lifetime.” I wince as I zip the wetsuit up over my burned back. The one scar I’ve never lost. Always the worst part about wearing the suit.

“Are you alright?” Turtleneck-man asks.

I groan. “I assume you noted the burn when you stripped my mostly dead body naked,” I said, “Well, they make doing the whole suit up not super pleasant. It’s why I mostly put my fit on in the morning and wear them under my normal clothes.”

He hands me a number. “This is my pager number. Next time you see trouble you can’t handle, text it with the basic info- where you are and what’s happening. I can get help to you.”

I nod, taking the number and shoving it into my neckhole. “Alright, Turtleneck-man,” I say, “Now, I need to go back to my apartment before my roommates get worried.” I pull my balaclava on over my head and start to leave.

“Don’t tell anyone about this place,” Turtleneck-man says as I leave. I walk out of what appears to be a warehouse. Okay, weird superheroes and their secret hideouts.

I run back to the scene of the crime. The cops are there, I note as I slink in the shadows. Fortunately, I’m not here for the crime scene. I’m here for the backpack and clothes I left in the alley across the street. As I’m picking up my backpack and pulling out my phone, a woman comes out of the shadows, waiting for me. “And who the hell are you?” the woman asks.

“An idiot, evidently,” I joke, artificially deepening my voice just in case.

“That’s a terrible fake voice,” she says, “I’m guessing you’re the reason that gang only got away with the cash boxes, didn’t make it into the vault proper.”

I squint my eyes, sizing her up. How does she know that? Doesn’t look like a criminal who might’ve known the crew that shot me. They were five-star hotel looking criminals, her outfit and vibe screams biker bar. “Cop or reporter?” I ask.

“Why should I tell you?” she presses back.

Under my balaclava, I smirk. “You probably shouldn’t,” I admit, “But it’s fun to talk about yourself, right?”

She chuckles. “Detective Claire Carver,” she says, then, with a smirk, she adds, “Your turn?”

I shrug. “Vigilante John Doe,” I joke. “But you can call me Martyrly.”

“That doesn’t sound like a name,” Detective Carver replies.

I shrug. “It’s not. It’s more of a description. And I like the Ys. It’s a letter, and a question.”

“How exactly is that a description?” she asks, “I’m not even sure it’s a word.”

I put my backpack on and laugh. “Why don’t you catch those outlaws and find out?” I offer, gesturing behind her. I start to look past her, opening my eyes wider and backing up slowly. She turns to look, and I dart off to the side, into the alleys, running away from the cops. Not that he suspects Detective Claire Carver to turn on him. Not yet, anyways. After a few turns and rushing through a couple alley ways, I quickly put on my normal clothes and take off my mask. Then I hurry back to my apartment.

As I unlock my door and try to quietly slip in, locking the door behind me. Unfortunately for me, one of my roommates, and my oldest friend, also is awake at this hour. Xavier, who came with me from high school to college, shakes his head. “What are you doing out so late?” he asks.

“You don’t seem to be asleep, either, Ex,” I counter.

He chuckles. “Well, I went out partying after finals, and we both know you’re far too sober right now to have done that.”

“I don’t really like parties,” I admit, “And drinking helps calm the nerves. And no, I had a paper due, well, today, and so I stayed at the library past closing to finish that and send it in. By then buses weren’t really running.”

Xavier nods. “Fair enough. You excited for winter break?”

“Nope,” I say as I pull the number out of my wetsuit and pull out my phone.

“Are you ready for winter break?” he wonders aloud.

I shrug as I make a new contact. “Also no,” I say. I type in the number.

“What’s that?” Xavier asks, looking at the crumpled up piece of paper.

I crumple it back up. “My new drug dealer’s pager,” I joke.

He shakes his head. “If you don’t want to tell me about your new girlfriend, you don’t have to,” he jokes right back. After a moment, he adds, “I’m going to assume it is the person who let you stay in the library because they don’t know you and you’re going to keep them on the line so you can keep using the library obscenely late.”

I shake my head at him, saving Turtleneck-man’s contact as ‘Not-a-drug-dealer Turtleneck’ in my phone. “I’m going to bed,” I say, “We can talk about my lack of love life in the morning.”

Xavier laughs. “We both know I won’t remember this conversation in the morning,” he jokes, “Only one of us never seems to get hung over.”