"VULCAN II: The Human Flame-Thrower"

"VULCAN: The Human Flame-Thrower"

12/6/1944

I.

"Give us a break, Red!" begged old Tim Gilmore. He was so upset that his chewed-up cigar stub fell from his mouth and he had to pick it up. "What crazy game are you playing THIS time?"

From other desks in the day room, seven reporters for the NEW YORK MESSENGER chimed in. For once, the clatter of keys being pounded on broken-down Underwoods fell still. None of the phones rang. Overhead, the slow turning fan tried to at least move some of the smoke around without noticeable effect.

And at her desk, Kelly O'Connor leaned back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap and gave everyone her most angelic smile. At twenty-four, she was the youngest person in that room by at least a decade and the only woman. That day, she was wearing a black skirt and matching blazer, with a white silk blouse that had a high collar to make her look even more demure. But the sassy expression in her green eyes and the smile at the corners of her mouth gave her away. She could not repress a chuckle any longer.

"Lay off, fellas," she said. "Let a gal keep some secrets."

Gilmore tapped the cloth-wrapped bundle that was leaning up against the redhead's desk. It was roughly circular, three feet across, and had been puzzling everyone for the past week that she had been bringing it in. Next to it was a canvas satchel about eighteen inches high, with its flap tied shut. "Have a heart, Kelly. We've always played square with you, haven't we?"

"Nope. Remember when I first started and you palookas sent me to the Battery to cover the submarine races? The cops sure got a good laugh when I asked them about that!"

"Well... okay, that was a hazing. All cub reporters get that. They get sent out to interview Washington Irving or to get some pictures of the El trains getting turned upside down for cleaning. We all been through that."

"Yeah," added Connelly the sports rewrite man. "I was told to find the Central Park guard who brings in the pigeons at night."

Kelly could not help grinning. In a little more than two years, she had won over all these crusty cranky old journalists. Most of them thought of her protectively as a pesky little sister. "Here, look at today's morning edition. Page three, with my byline!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Gilmore. "Another bit about that Vulcan fruitcake. The Human Flame-Thrower! I give up on these mystery men in their Halloween costumes. The Sceptre. The Sting. Jupiter Man. Buncha lunatics, you ask me."

Kelly almost added to not forget the Green Devil but caught herself. She already thought too many people suspected the truth about her double life and these were reporters, after all. They loved sniffing at clues and untangling mysteries.

"The difference is that Vulcan isn't a crimefighter like the other mystery men. And women," she said. "He's an arsonist and a thief, he's burned down at least six houses after looting them. It's just a miracle no one has been killed yet, but that sculptor Martin Hatton was burned bad enough."

Getting up from his desk and walking over, Lou Katz gave Kelly a mournful tsk noise. "I been reading your pieces, kid. I can see what you're doing. You're rattling the bars of a tiger's cage. You're poking the tiger with a stick and he's gonna bite yer little Irish nose off."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lou."

"Oh please! Do you really think it's a smart idea to rile up a firebug?" Katz persisted. "I swear, you got a double serving on sheer nerve but missed out when they were passing out common sense."

Kelly examined her nails with intense interest. "The boys in blue are spinning their wheels and getting nowhere with Vulcan. Time to draw him out. Maybe I'll get an interview with the Human Flame-Thrower, maybe with pictures of him shooting fire out of his mitts."

"I heard about that," one of the reporters grunted. "Two different witnesses swear they saw him do it. I don't buy it. It's some trick."

"Sure," Katz added. "When he gets nabbed, we'll find he has a tank of kerosene on his back and tubes going down his arms. He's got a racket going to scare people."

Kelly bit her tongue again. At close range less than a month ago, she had seen Vulcan in action. It was no gimmick. The man had some weird power and it had terrified her so much she had run for her life and laid low for a few days before her nerves had settled down. But Kelly was not one to be intimidated for long and she had determined to meet this Human Flame-Thrower again and teach him what it meant to tangle with the Green Devil.

As she opened her mouth to throw a wisecrack, screams from the hall outside made everyone give a start and rush to the door.

II.

Immediately, all the reporters stumbled back into the day room, tripping over each other in panic. A tongue of white-hot flame flicked out, barely missing the shouting men before it faded away. Looming up in the doorway was a bizarre figure with a fiery nimbus glowing around each upraised hand. A tall athletic man wearing the short skirt, molded leather breastplate and white linen cloak of a Roman legionary. His head was completely concealed by a crested bronze helmet with only a T-shaped slit through which not even his eyes could be glimpsed.

Scrambling up to their feet, holding seared arms and faces, the MESSENGER reporters were gasping in pain and fear. One grizzled veteran turned and yelled, "Run, Kelly! Jump out the window if you have to!"

"Kelly...?" hissed Vulcan. "You! You are the one threatening me in this newspaper."

Standing by her desk, Kelly O'Connor had slung the canvas satchel across her back, holding a nozzle attached to a thick black rubber hose reaching back into the top flap. Strapped to her left arm was a convex disc three feet across, covered by a sturdy white material. She showed no fear, only disdain. "And how did you get in the building in your Trick Or Treat gt-up? Don't tell me... you changed in the men's room. You did, didn't you?"

The helmeted voice rang out with a hollow, eerie echo. "Let those words be your last!" Vulan thrust his open right hand forward and a rapid burst of flame shot from it quick as lightning toward the waiting redhead. Kelly was already holding her shield in front of her. The fiery blast struck it directly and rebounded straight back at Vulcan. With a scream of unexpected pain, the big man slapped at himself but he was not on fire, only pained by his own power.

Kelly O'Connor laughed with glee and rushed toward him. From the nozzle she pointed, a pressurized stream of liquid rushed over Vulcan to cover him in a stinging coat. The costumed man began coughing and gagging at the acrid fumes from that liquid.

As Vulcan doubled up, the reporters grabbed him and dragged him down to the floor. All of them were over fifty and in poor shape. They would have been 4F if they had been eligible to stand before a draft board and they could not be sure the Human Flame-Thrower's powers were really ineffective. But they brought him down anyway.
Tim Gilmore hobbled over to the nearest desk and grabbed the phone to call the police.

Still holding the nozzle ready, Kelly announced, "There's plenty more juice in here if he sparks up again. I paid a bundle for the newest Pyrene extinguisher."

Still on the phone, Gilmore yelled, "Can someone open a few windows in here. I'm choking. That's some foul stuff, it's like the mustard gas from the Great War."

"Best carbon tetrachloride money can buy," Kelly grumbled as she hurried to comply. In fact, it was getting hard to breathe in the dayroom. As fresh air began to circulate from the windows, she went back and dropped into a chair. Although she wouldn't have admitted it, her knees felt weak. Seeing a jet of white flame coming at her had been terrifying, asbestos-coated trash can lid or not. "Whew," she breathed.

At the bottom of the confused jumble of bodies, Vulan was not resisting because his prolonged coughing fit left him helpless. The reporters had yanked off his helmet to reveal a broad, olive-skinned face with black curly hair and a classic Roman nose.

"Anyone recognize this bird?" demanded Gilmore, putting down the phone but he got only negative answers. The veteran got up, stuck a cigar in his mouth and bit off the end. "Goddammit, Irish! You put us all at risk. You were provoking this madman to come here after you. He coulda burned the whole building down with everyone in it."

"You don't sound like the tough newshawk I used to know," Kelly shrugged. "Think of the circulation numbers tomorrow. We scooped every rag in town. Or rather, I did."

6/16/2023