dochermes

"Gator God of the Feral Boys"

3/23/1948

Kuboweer=Okali Voodoo

I.

The silence of the pine woods hung heavy on Michael Hawk. Dark shadows seemed immovable as the weight of superstition that overhung this forgotten back-country. He had been forced to leave his Jeep a mile back. After leaving the hamlet of Chancellor, there were only back roads that at this time of year were best navigated on foot or horseback even today. Florida was way behind in the postwar building of highways.

Hawk quickened his pace. The dim trail wound tortuously between dense walls of giant trees. The mud road was impassable for a vehicle, choked with rotting stumps and new growth. Ahead of him it bent sharply.

Just under thirty, of average height but strongly built, Michael Hawk was wearing high leather boots, tough dungaree jeans and a short leather jacket over a flannel shirt. All his garments had been modified to include many small pockets and slits which held miniaturized tools and weapons. Everything from powerful pencil flashlights to smoke pellets to a spy camera the size of a finger were on his person for any possible contingency.

Hawk halted short, frozen to immobility. The silence had been broken at last by the unmistakable groan of a human being in agony. Only for an instant was Hawk motionless. Then he was gliding about the bend of the trail with the noiseless stride of excellent conditioning and long experience. A lifetime spent fighting wars and crime had hardened his nerves but he still had basic human feelings.

Hawk wore a double holster gunbelt, the left side holding a needle-barreled dart gun of his own crafting and the right side carrying a standard 1911 Colt 45 Automatic which appeared as if by magic in his right hand. His left involuntarily clenched the bit of paper that was responsible for his presence in that grim forest. That paper was a frantic appeal for aid. It was signed by Hawk's worst enemy, and contained the name of a woman he had not seen in years.

Hawk rounded the bend in the trail, every nerve tense and alert, expecting anything except what he actually saw. His startled eyes hung on the grisly object for an instant, and then swept the forest walls. Nothing stirred there. A dozen feet back from the trail visibility vanished in a ghoulish twilight, where anything might lurk unseen. Hawk dropped to his knee beside the figure that lay in the trail before him.

It was a man, spread-eagled on his back, hands and feet bound to four pegs driven deeply in the hard-packed earth; a bearded, hook-nosed, swarthy man. "Wilmer!", muttered Hawk. "Lathrop's servant!"

For it was not the binding cords that brought the glaze to the dying man's eyes. A weaker man than Hawk might have sickened at the mutilations which keen knives had wrought on the man's body. Hawk recognized the work of an expert in the art of torture. Yet a spark of life still throbbed in the tough frame of the man. Hawk's intense dark eyes grew bleaker as he noted the position of the victim's body, and his mind flew back to another, grimmer jungle, and a half-flayed outsider pegged out on a path as a warning to any who dared invade the forbidden realm.

He cut the cords, shifted the dying man to a more comfortable position. It was all he could do. He saw the delirium ebb momentarily in the bloodshot eyes, saw recognition glimmer there. Clots of blood caked the lower face. The lips writhed soundlessly, and Hawk glimpsed the bloody stump of a severed tongue.

The trembling fingers began scrabbling in the dust with dogged determination Hawk bent close, tense with interest, and saw crooked lines grow under the quivering fingers. With the last effort of an iron will, Wilmer was tracing a message in the characters of his own language. Hawk recognized the name: "Lathrop"; it was followed by "danger," and the hand waved weakly up the trail; then one final effort of the dragging finger traced "Mor—".

Suddenly the man was convulsed by one last sharp agony, the hand knotted spasmodically and then fell limp. Wilmer was beyond all pain.

Hawk rose, dusting his hands, aware of the tense stillness of the grim woods around him; aware of a faint rustling in their depths that was not caused by any breeze. He looked down at the mangled figure with involuntary pity, though he knew well how evil that man had been, an abusive brute had matched his master, Richard Lathrop. Well, it seemed that master and man had at last met their match in human fiendishness. But who, or what?

For a hundred years the Lathrops had ruled supreme over this back-country, first over their wide plantations and hundreds of slaves, and later over the downtrodden descendants of those slaves. Richard, the last of the Lathrop, had exercised as much authority over the pinelands as any of his autocratic ancestors. Yet from this country where men had bowed to petty tyranny for a century, had come that frenzied telegram that Hawk clenched in his coat pocket.

Stillness succeeded the rustling, more sinister than any sound. Hawk knew he was watched; knew that the spot where Wilmer's body lay was the invisible boundary that had been drawn for him. He believed that he would be allowed to turn and retrace his steps unmolested to the distant village. He knew that if he continued on his way, death would strikeat him suddenly and unseen. Turning, he strode back the way he had come as if cowed.

He made the turn and kept straight on until he had passed another crook in the trail. Then he halted, listened. All was silent. Quickly he drew the paper from his pocket, smoothed out the wrinkles and read, again, in the cramped scrawl of the man he hated most on earth:

"Michael: If you still love Brenda Brandt, for God's sake forget your hate and come to Lathrop Manor as quickly as the devil can drive you. Richard."

That was all. It reached him by telegraph in that Montana city where Hawk officially lived between his global trips. He would have ignored it, but for the mention of Brenda Brandt. That name had galvanized him to fly his private plane to Miami and from there to race in a rented Jeep and eventually here to this desolate mud road in the darkness.

Brenda Brandt had been the only woman who had ever broken through Hawk's hard emotionless shell to touch the heart beneath. Has he genuinely loved her? He thought so.

Replacing the telegram to a pocket, he left the trail and headed westward, pushing his powerful frame between the thickset trees. His feet made little sound on the matted pine needles. His progress was all but noiseless. As a child, he had been schooled by experts in many skills, including woodcraft. His uncle Robert had been determined to raise the world's premier criminologist and adventurer.

Three hundred yards from the old road he came upon an ancient trail paralleling the road. Choked with young growth, it was little more than a trace through the thick pines. He knew that it ran to the back of the Lathrop mansion. Perhaps the Feral Boys would not realize he knew about it and he could proceed unobserved. He hurried south along it, his ears whetted for any sound. Sight alone could not be trusted in that forest. The mansion, he knew, was not far away, now. As he glimpsed the Manor, a scream echoed out into the night. Hawk sprinted as fast as any athlete toward the building that loomed starkly up just beyond the straggling fringe of trees.

The young pines had invaded the once well-tended lawns. The whole place wore an aspect of decay. Behind the Manor, the barns, and outhouses which once housed slave families, were crumbling in ruin. The mansion itself seemed to totter above the litter, a creaky giant, rat-gnawed and rotting, ready to collapse at any untoward event. With the stealthy tread of a tiger Michael Hawk approached a window on the side of the house. From that window sounds were issuing that triggered all his instincts for danger.

Steeling himself for what he might see, he peered within.

( the rest of the story )

"Spawn of Draldros"


7/21- 7/22/1979


Dr Vincent Cafaldo looked from Hawk to the patient in the bed and back again. "Do you recognize him?"

Michael Hawk did not answer at once. He studied the young man who lay with flushed skin under the fluorescent lights. "I've never met him before. What's the story?"

At one in the morning, the emergency room at St Theresa's had its lights dimmed and everyone spoke in hushed tones. It was a quiet night and not all the beds were occupied. "It's a strange situation. This young man dragged himself into the emergency room an hour ago, struggling to remain conscious. While still in the lobby, he sank into this comatose state and has been there ever since. No response to treatment. Blood work offers no clues. Pupils are dilated, breathing is shallow, blood pressure low at 105 over 70. All we could do is give him an IV and keep him comfortable."

Hawk turned back to the doctor. "Any ID?"

"Nothing. No driver's license, no Social Security card. But he had a lot of bizarre items on him. I remember the last time we met, Michael. The TarJack case when we had the suspect here and you showed just as he was trying to escape with a hostage. You told me to call you if anything weird turned up here and I thought it was worth bothering you, even at this hour."

( the rest of the story )

"The Collars of Rimnor Kje"

9/22/1981

I.

In a silenced chamber deep beneath busy city streets, two huge beefy men watched their master with naked fear in their eyes. The Darthan sorcerer took one sip of the amber-colored wine from his cut crystal goblet, then regarded his distorted reflection on its surface with smug satisfaction. Rimnor Kje was tall and spidery thin, frail-boned with narrow shoulders and long-fingered hands. Like all his Race, his unpigmented skin was white as milk, as was his fine-textured hair which hung straight to his shoulder blades. The only trace of color showing on his body was found in the green irises of his oblique eyes.. eyes which held even more refined cruelty than was required of a Kje. His ears rose to distinct points.

All the luxuries he desired had been brought here to this real world. The throne he lounged upon was carved of ivory inlaid with veins of green jade but it had soft cushions to make him comfortable. Ornate silk tapestries hung on the walls, an ebony figure of the Dread Draldros stood on a pillar, delicate bronze chimes rang even with no wind present. At his right hand stood a pedestal bearing shallow bowls of dried fruits and seasoned nuts, as well as his decanter and goblet. Kneeling by his feet was an exquisite Eldar damsel whose resistance had been broken so that she would pleasure him at once on command, no matter who was present. She bowed her head, letting the golden hair fall down to cover her face.

Rimnor was in good spirits because he had spent an enjoyable afternoon in the torture chambers below them. For days now, he had been teasing and taunting the captive from Androval. By nature, the Melgarin were brawny, good-natured creatures who made excellent subjects for abuse. Lately, Rimnor had been experimenting with a salve of his own devising, the antithesis of an anesthetic... Rimonr's lotion made its subject more sensitive to pain, to the extent that a light breath on bare skin was as agonizing as a white-hot blade being applied. When the Melgar collapsed into pleading and begging with no pretense of pride left, the Kje had ended the session. Best to give the guest a day to recover his nerve before beginning again.

But he had left Maroch for a purpose. Rimnor could not return to the sacred isle yet. He glanced sternly behind him at his bodyguards. They were Chujiran slaves raised from infancy for their task, skilled with many weapons, kept muscular and fit to a fanatical level. Both wore soft leather boots, cloth leggings and tight-sleeved tunics over which two halberds crossed in an X to support the scabbards of long-bladed knives. He had renamed them Blossom and Petals with typical Darthan humor. Responding to his gaze, the guards knew that their alertness was being checked and they stood up taller, gripping the hilts of their weapons.

In the wall facing him, a door panel slid aside and an old man leaning on a staff walked in with the precision of someone who has fallen a few times and is wary of falling again. He was not a Dartha, but a Human like the guards. His hair was white and thinning, his back bent inside his coarse dark robes. Approaching the throne, he sank awkwardly to one knee and bowed his head.

"Shantul, you may speak without being granted leave," Rimnor said in his silky tones. "Your years of service as my steward have earned you that much."

"Thank you, my lord," the old man responded. He rose with great care, using his staff as a lever. "The prisoners have been prepared."

"Very well," the Dartha said. "Have Grum bring them before me. Emira, depart." Obeying his words, the Eldar woman rose to her feet and hastened through a doorway hidden by a tapestry.

"As you command," said the old steward. Tucking the staff under one arm, Shantul clapped his hands twice. Stepping through the doorway were three captives who had been stripped of their clothing and dressed in ragged tunics which reached to the knee. Around the neck of each was a flat band of the red metal Gremthom. As the prisoners entered the chamber, an immense bulk loomed up behind them. Grum was a Fighting Troll, seven feet high and wide enough that a Human could stand behind him and not be seen. Two tusks jutted up from a prognathous jaw, his conical skull was hidden by a coarse black mane and his eyes glowered under a protruding brow ledge. The Tunnel-Dweller carried an iron cudgel in one thick-fingered paw and his massive muscular form wore only a red kilt suspended from a leather belt. The huge brute stood behind the captives, slapping the heavy head of his club into the palm of his other hand with a repeated thumping.

One of the prisoners was a young woman, not much over five feet tall, with dark blonde hair hanging loose to the middle of her back. A man standing beside her was about sixty years old with shaggy grizzled hair and a weathered face, but still in good athletic shape. It was the other man who held Rimnor Kje's attention. Only a few years over the age of twenty, he was lean and intense with pale grey eyes under feral black brows. Those eyes met the Dartha's venomous gaze without flinching.

"Knights of Tel Shai," Rimnor Kje said with barely repressed glee. "You come here not as warriors nor as champions, but as mere bait to lure one of your fellows to his destruction."

( the rest of the story )

"Sea Star"

I.

[5/12/2018]


"I called Jeremy at home. He's on his way," Sable said. She stepped out of her office into the wide front hall of the KDF headquarters building. The walls were mostly taken up by shelves packed with ancient books, with esoteric items interspersed among them including bronze statuettes, wavy-bladed daggers, one skull of an unidentifiable horned animal and a nicely framed oil portraut of a sour-faced Puritan dressed all in black. But, in a corner back toward the door to the kitchen, a sturdy wooden stand held a fish tank which bubbled as pumps circulated the salt water. Standing at chest level, the tank had unusually thick walls and a folding metal top which was kept locked into place.

For the first time, Demark Jin noticed strips made of a pale metal ran along the edges of the tank, and that a finely-crafted wheel of that same metal formed part of the lock which held the tank closed. Ensalir. Silver charged with protective gralic force by the immortal Eldarin themselves. Why would ensalir borders be necessary? The woman from Ulgor had an unfriendly expression on her face even when resting, but now the cloudy blue eyes were actively sullen and angry. At only five feet three, with short bristling white hair and a wide pug face, Jin was not what most people would consider attractive but her ferocious presence made her hard to ignore. Now, she swung around to face her captain.

"I wanted to ask about this earlier, Sable," she said. "Most of these creatures in the tank are indeed from Ulgor, as Jeremy always told visitors. The hermit crabs that build their castles from pebbles, the seahorse with fangs. Even that luminous squid with the transparent body. But I had never seen a sea star like this one. It seems dead. The eye is clouded over."

Coming up next to her partner, Lauren Sable Reilly peered into the tank. Jin knew that her captain had enhanced perception and could see and hear beyond what normal flesh and blood organs could achieve. Lying on its side in the gravel at the base of the tank was a orange creature with a central body large as a person's hand and five thick appendages. In the hub of the beast, a single red eye was glazed and unseeing.

"That thing always watched me when I came near the tank," Jin said as if deeply offended. "Its eye moved. At first, I thought it was amusing but the beast got on my nerves. It stared as if it was aching to get out of there and attack me. Sometimes I thought I should simply stab it with my bone knife and solve the problem."

"It's good you didn't. Finally dead. By natural causes, too." Sable stood and placed a hand on the Ulgoran's narrow shoulder. "There is a strange story behind that tiny animal, Jin. But then, this building houses many thousands of artifacts, each with a strange story of its own. It would take years to explain them all."

Demrak Jin shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. "I do not understand. Tell me more."

"I don't see why you can't learn about the case. It just has never come up before." Sable gave a final hard stare at the dead creature in the tank and then led her teammate toward the open office door across the hall. "Let's have a seat. It all began when the first KDF team was getting started, almost forty years ago..."

( the rest of the story )

"Silver and Stone"

(12/31/1972)

1/14- 1/15/1982


[REVISION: The origin of Simon Cohen has been completely changed and all mentions of it have to be rewritten. He actually was an aging Kabbalist and disgraced Rabbi who teamed up with Alchemist Lee Hutchins' help to permanently placed his consciousness into a stone Golem of their making. He became his own Targhul.]

I.

By ten-thirty, Hutchins had finished the Southern Comfort and felt a bit better. He could still research alchemy and write about it, even if those Tel Shai fools had given him a mental block against practicing it. After seeing a few weeks of him on good behavior, they had even loaned him some rare books on the subject from the library that Kenneth Dred had left. He had sketched a solid outline for his definitive work on Velkandu, gralic alchemy, and he was ready to start writing in earnest.

Walking slowly around his apartment and turning out the lights, he felt he had gotten off easy. When he had created those Other-men, he had been associated with the Ulgoran wizard Li Tung and some form of sinister influence had obviously been at work. He had never been able to create the magick effects before or since that he had when Li Tung was coaching him. Hutchins did not think of himself as a bad person, maybe just a weak one easily swayed by bad company and the KDF had obviously agreed. After all, he had heard rumors of how their enemies tended to just disappear and never been heard from again. But the KDF had not done anything like that to him. No, their telepath had just put an edict in his mind against any more alchemical experiments.

In the doorway to his bedroom, Hutchins paused to sadly look back over his apartment. So much was gone. There were still stacks and piles of books and manuscripts but none of the esoteric solutions and powders he had labored so long to create. Gone now. He had managed to hold on to only one alchemical construct that the KDF had by chance overlooked. On a small table by itself, under a glass dome, was a dark grey rock the size of a human fist. Even now, when light hit this rock, flecks of red and gold and blue flickered wildly.

This was the Stone of Malberon, the great talisman sought by many but fabricated by very few. Velkandu created its magickal potions by infusing gralic force into the ingredients, something only made possible by the Stone. Hutchins could no longer utilize the talisman and its potency lay dormant but so many years had gone into its making he could not bear to give it up. Struck with self-pity, he went to bed and the summer heat and the liquor put him to sleep at once. Hours passed. A little after one, the door opened to the soft clink of a picked lock and a big man in dark clothes stepped silently within.

Using a pencil flashlight, the intruder spotted the Stone of Malberon, refracting its multicolored lights in the dimness. It was not too late for Simon Cohen to turn away and save himself. But the lure of that great talisman drew him as it had so many others over the ages. He carefully lifted the glass dome and set it aside, taking the Stone in his grasp, and now it was too late for him. He had taken his destiny in his hand.

Hutchins awoke with a gasp. The occult link between him and his creation was still potent. He had no weapons in his apartment. Wearing only the bottom half of an old pair of striped pajamas, he plunged out of bed and through the doorway, one hand flipping up the light switch.

Simon Cohen raised his revolver but did not fire. He was a bit over six feet tall, stout and sturdy with a thick waist. His teeth flashed from within a black beard. "This prize deserves a new master, fool."

"Put that down! I know you, Cohen. I never thought you would sink to this."

The warlock snickered. "You can't use this treasure! Why let it sit idle, Lee?"

"I'm warning you. Put it down."

"Do what thou wilt," Cohen said and extended his arm to aim his gun right at the alchemist.

"Grelok take your soul! May you turn to stone!" screamed Lee Hutchins.

The ancient curse came naturally to Hutchins, but he did not forsee the Stone would rouse and obey its master. A nimbus of brilliant gralic force burst from the talisman, swirling and crackling around the warlock who held it. Red and gold and green flared for a timeless moment and Cohen howled in despair and agony. Then that moment passed and the long nightmare began. Hutchins suddenly understood what had happened, as did his longtime rival. "Damn you," Cohen grated with the words scraping his throat. His finger tightened on the trigger but, instead of firing, the revolver cracked and fell apart into metal shards. Only the grip remained in his hand.

In growing horror, Cohen glared down at his hands. His skin had become hard, granular, the color of granite. When he flexed his fingers, a crystalline nature showed at the joints. The change was taking place faster now. His shirt split across the shoulders, the buttons at chest and wrists popped off, the waistband of his trousers broke and his pants tore open. His clothes hung in tatters. In seconds, his entire body had expanded visibly, taller and thicker. Cohen squeezed his eyes shut, thiking this could not be real. But when he opened them, deepset now under a protruding brow ledge, he could not help but believe.

It hurt to speak, as the vocal chords scraped against each other. His last words were, "What did you DO to me?"

"The Stone," Hutchins mumbled. "It transformed you- silicon carbide. Great Jordyn, you're turning to stone. I never meant-"

The monster tried to speak, to roar its rage but the change had gone too far. He could only make a low grinding rasp. Shaking his bulky head, he angrily threw away the Stone. It whistled through the air to imbed itself deeply in the plaster wall. Hutchins tried to run for the door to the hall, but the beast swung a knotted fist the size of a bowling ball. With the crunch of bones breaking, the alchemist spun across the room to slam hard into a bookcase, knocking it over and lying motionless of the debris.

The Stone Man stood where he was, massive chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching. The brilliant mind of the warlock clouded and grew dim, but it knew something was very wrong. He suddenly felt he had to get out of there. If only he could think more clearly...

Out in the hallway, three young men returning from the neighborhood bar were arguing about politics when the door to apartment 3G exploded outward, entirely off its hinges, slamming down to the floor. A huge grey hulk crashed through them, brushing them aside without even noticing them. As they sprawled and tried to get up, they heard thumping steps booming down the stairs.

( the rest of the story )

"Take the Honey and Run"

10/22/1962

I.

"What happened to the assassin who was following us?" asked McKenna.

Standing close by him on the crowded station platform, Lisa Po turned her head in a half-circle, making her waist-length black hair swing behind the motion. She was a remarkably beautiful Chinese woman in her late twenties. Tall, slim but with impressive curves in her white linen dress, she had delicately shaped lips and a short straight nose in a heart-shaped face. Her oblique eyes were a luminous jade green, like those of a cat. Green eyes in Chinese were rare but not completely unknown. "The Winter Snow fool, you mean?"

"Yeah. He kept giving himself away the past few days by looking away whenever I spotted him." At thirty-four, William McKenna was a trim, fit-looking man a shade over six feet tall and weighing just one hundred and eighty pounds. He was well dressed in a lightweight charcoal grey suit with narrow lapels and a black knitted silk tie over a white shirt with buttoned down collar points. McKenna's Scots ancestry on both sides was easy to see in his thick black hair and blue eyes, the straight nose and thin-lipped firm mouth. Above the outer edge of his right eyebrow, a thin white scar reached up into his hairline. Like Lisa, he kept his eyes moving.

"Perhaps he is merely being more careful, beloved." Lisa carried her own small valise, letting McKenna lug the two substantial suitcases around. The platform was swarming with well-wishers and family seeing travelers off, so someone occasionally got close enough to threaten to bump into her and she had so far managed to avoid that..

"I suppose," McKenna grudgingly admitted. "I hope he hasn't been replaced by someone better at his trade. I liked that our friend didn't get too close for comfort."

The familiar shrill whistle of the train whistle signaled it was time to board. Two elderly couples were ahead of them, debating some detail of where their luggage would be stowed. McKenna placed one of the suitcases down and unbuttoned his suit jacket. Under his left armpit in a diagonal shoulder holster was an M1911 automatic. Reliable, accurate, a reassuring piece of black metal he seldom allowed to be far from his reach. He did not expect the inevitable attempt on their lives to be tried here, with so many witnesses and more than a few police officers visible, but one never knew. He would be relieved when they were safely out of public exposure.

Was he being slack in his alertness? Could he have been more watchful? McKenna habitually reproached himself. The past two days with Lisa had left him slightly dazed in a sensual fog from so much lovemaking. That would be fine if he was on leave but...

The attendant touched his red cap and relieved him of the suitcases. McKenna gave Lisa a light supporting touch on the elbow as she stepped up into the open door of the sleeping car where they had their cabin. He himself paused for the merest second as he put his foot on the lowered metal steps, and one more time his eyes flicked back.

There. By the line of cars and taxis. That face was gone as soon as he spotted it, but it had triggered all sort of alarm bells in McKenna's mind. Where had he seen that man? A wide, strong-featured face with deep furrows from long exposure to the elements. Shaggy medium-brown hair. If he had only had a full second to get a better look, he was sure he could have identified the man. And in the shadowy world where William McKenna lived, every face which provoked such a reaction had to be considered a likely enemy.

"Come, dear, there are people behind you," Lisa called down gently.

More troubled than before, McKenna got aboard the Pegasus Line luxury train. He had two more days at least with Lisa before they would arrive in DC and he had to let her go. Under any other circumstances, he would have been giddy at the prospect but, knowing the Winter Snow killers were out there....

In the line of cars which had been left empty by the crowd on the platform, the man who had been spotted by McKenna opened the driver's door of a huge ugly canary-yellow Chrysler and examined the form behind the wheel. The corpse of the Winter Snow assassin had its eyes closed, no blood showed from any visible wound. Hawk propped the man up carefully, tilted the head back and placed the killer's fedora over its face. With luck, passers-by would assume this was merely someone taking a nap until the Pegasus Line was far enough away.

Michael Hawk was in his middle forties but his weathered face made him look considerably older and the habitual sour expression did not help that impression. Knowing he might have had a real duel on his hands, earlier he had removed his tie and left the top button of his shirt undone. Now, as he strode quickly up the steps onto the platform, Hawk straightened himself up. His overnight bag had already been stowed aboard. Hopping up onto the rear of the last of the four sleeping cars, he was sure he was not in line of sight of the first car where the two people he were shadowing might be watching. So many windows between them were filled with riders leaning out to shout farewells and declarations of undying love that he felt sure he had not been spotted.

As soon as the door closed, the attendant blew a whistle. In the distance, a wave from the station-master was returned by the engineer. By then, every door had been tapped by an employee to prove it was secured and no one was going to fall off as the locomotive moved. The engine belched a huge cloud of steam into the night air. The great machine began to roll forward on the start of its long journey across five states. Entering his cabin, Hawk did not even notice the plush furnishings which included carpeting, carved mahogany shelves for belongings, a print of a storm-tossed ship at sea and a sideboard with glasses, crushed ice and one bottle of bourbon, one of scotch. He dropped heavily onto one of the two comfortable padded benches facing each other. No one else realized how many real killers were on this train.

( the rest of the story )

"Cold Dark Waters"

3/11-/14/1981

I.

He came up out of the ocean, lurching from the surface into the moonlight and stumbling onto the shore. Two unsteady steps he took, before dropping to his knees and sagging to lie face down onto the cold sand. He was a tall man, slim but fit, dressed in a tight suit of a rough grey material that covered him from collar to foot. The man tried to rise again, but failed and lay panting before passing out completely. Across his back was a flat sheath of carved ivory which held a long stabbing knife of sharpened bone. The man's short bristly hair looked white under the moon. As he sprawled unmoving on the beach, two short fleshy horns could be seen on at his temples, giving him a demonic aspect.

It was just after midnight when a white Mercury Marquis slowed on the beach road and pulled over. The driver got out, peering down at the prone figure before getting a flashlight from the trunk and making his way down to get a better look. Jim Schoeber was sixty-one and overweight, and it took him a few minutes to get to the downed man. The bizarre outfit and weapons, the fleshy horns on the man's head, all fascinated him. The skintight suit had small triangular scales that meant it was made of sharkhide. The stranger groaned and stirred. Schoeber took a pulse and found it strong and steady. He rushed back up to his car and went along the beach road to where a phone booth stood near the exit to the highway. Schoeber called the number of a building on East 38th Street.


Legally, he should have called the police or at least an ambulance. But Schoeber was one of a hundred people in the New York area who owed a debt and who paid it back by reporting anything weird or inexplicable. Two years earlier, his daughter had been abducted by a maniac named Samhain. While the police did their best, it had been a man named Jeremy Bane who had located Samhain, pushed the psychotic killer off a roof and brought Schoeber's daughter back home. Bane had refused a reward. All he wanted was for Schoeber to let him know if he ever spotted anything supernatural or occult. Now was his chance to repay Bane.


After speaking into the phone for a few minutes, Jim Schoeber got back in his car and made a U-turn to head back to where he had spotted the strange man. Just retired after thirty years on the job, Schoeber was enjoying staying out late and not having to get up at five-thirty every morning, which is why he had been driving around aimlessly by Long Island Sound. Parking the big Mercury in the same spot, getting the flashlight out again, he trudged down toward where the man in the sharkhide outfit was still lying. The light from a street lamp just reached the man.

Schoeber paused as a powerful wind sprang up and whipped the freezing winter air in his face. A huge dark shape passed overhead in complete silence. His heart skipped a beat and he gaped as he saw a black helicopter with no lights or identifying logos descend and settle on the beach not twenty yards away from him. The four rotors slowed and stopped. Schoeber stared in fascination as the hatches opened with a hiss of pressurized air being released and two men emerged.

One saw him and waved for Schoeber to join them. Heart pounding with excitement, the retired machinist made his way down the beach and recognized the famous Michael Hawk from his pictures in the newspapers. The wide weathered face with the drooping mustache, the shaggy brown hair heavily sprinkled with grey... it was a familiar face to the public. Hawk had captured enough serial killers and kidnappers and escaped convicts over the decades of his career as a manhunter. He was wearing a brown coat with a fur-lined collar and a Stetson, but he would have looked like a cowboy in any clothing.

Emerging with Hawk was a slightly taller man, with short black hair and an expressionless face. This one was wearing a black jumpsuit fitted with many pouches and pockets. He knelt by the prone figure and seemed to be examining him as a paramedic would.

As they drew near, Hawk addressed him in a Montana accent. "Jim Schoeber, right? I spoke to you a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know if you know who I am. I owe Jeremy Bane my daughter's life."

"I heard about that. Samhain. Bane asked you to report anything bizarre you saw instead of paying him a reward, right?" Hawk snorted in amusement. "It's a good idea. You've done something important tonight by bringing this man to our attention. Come on over."


They approached where the other man was trying to revive the stranger from the ocean. Hawk said, "What's the lowdown, Len?"

Leonard Slade did not look up. He was taking readings on a small electronic device. "He is alive and will recover shortly. Exhaustion is the main problem." The man glanced up to turn probing dark eyes at them. "Jim Schoeber. Thank you for calling us. Jeremy will be pleased with you."

"Who is this guy?" the retired machinist blurted. "What's he doing on the beach in the middle of night in early March? It's freezing out here."



Hawk answered slowly. "You might call this fellow an illegal alien. He has no business coming up on our shores. We're going to turn him over to his own people." The manhunter gestured for Schoeber to go back up to his car. "I'd suggest you go home and not mention this to anyone. Bane will visit you in a day or two and explain as much as he can."



Leonard Slade had opened the back hatch of the helicopter and carried the limp man over to it as if lifting a bundle of empty clothing. He strapped the unconscious stranger in the back, sealed the hatch and then went around to the pilot seat. The overhead rotors began to slowly turn. As Schoeber reluctantly backed away, Michael Hawk went to get in the co-pilot seat. "Thanks again!" he called. "You did the right thing."



The CORBY lifted straight up, but there was little backwash. Somehow the craft seemed to be moving faster and more smoothly than it should have. In a second, the black helicopter was lost in the overcast winter night. It swung around, heading northwest and skimmed silently high overhead.



Within the CORBY, the only illumination came from the subdued blue and red lights on the instrument panel. Strapped in the co-pilot seat, Michael Hawk checked all the status dials and gauges. Everything seemed fine. "So, Len. What's the story on our guest back there?"



"I identified him at once," the Trom Monitor said in his usual even tones. "Atron Ke, the Gelydra. His detailed description is in our files from when Jeremy fought him twice before."



Hawk scoffed. "Those Gelydrim. I never really believed they were real. Men who lived at the bottom of the ocean.. it just seems impossible."



"They are a variant of Human, modified by Darthan sorcery ages ago. I am gratified to have an opportunity to examine one. Atron is a male mammal, with some cartilage substitute where bone would be in a Human. He has functional lungs as well as gill slits on the sides of the throat, and I believe he can switch back and forth as needed. My projection is that he is much stronger than a typical Human, more resistant to extremes. I want to run some tests on his eyes and his cardiac systems."



"Fine with me," Hawk said. He glanced behind him where the Gelydra slumped on the back bench. "What the heck are those things on his head? They look like horns."



"Sensory organs. They emit sonic pulses which echo back for Atron to interpret. I interpet their function as used in dark or murky waters."



"Like dolphins and whales, hey?" Hawk said. "Sounds logical. He's a right interesting fella."



"Coming in on headquarters," Slade told him. "I am going to decelerate sharply."



Hawk was already strapped in but he held onto the curved bar of the hatch to steady himself. The CORBY came to a sudden stop and dropped straight down so abruptly it seemed to be falling but it landed lightly inside a hangar. In those few seconds, the copter had sped over midtown Manhattan, cut its speed to zero and descended neatly through the opening in the roof of the ten story building on 38th Street. As soon as the landing gear touched down on pressure plates in the floor, the huge overhead panel slid shut again to cut off the night sky.



They were in a high-ceiling, brightly-lit chamber. The walls were lined with metal cabinets and workbenches and supplies. One corner held a table with a few folding chairs but most of the floor space was kept open. As the CORBY settled and the rotors stopped, a man in black stepped through the door into the hangar.



At only twenty-five, Jeremy Bane carried himself with an intensity that gave him the authority of a much older man. Six feet tall and gaunt, he was wearing his usual black outfit of slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. The pale grey eyes were alert. He stepped forward as the hatches of the CORBY hissed open. "What have you got for us?" he asked.



Stepping out, Slade replied casually, "Atron."



"Really!" Bane said. "I wasn't expecting to meet him again. Atron the Destroyer. Is he okay?"



The Trom reached into the back compartment and picked the heavy Gelydra up in his arms as if it was no effort. "I observe over-exertion with no permanent damage but a full exam is indicated." With that, Slade carried his burden through the open doorway to where the elevator was located.



Bane turned to where Michael Hawk was just climbing out of the copter. "So, that WAS Jim Schoeber who phoned us? I thought so."



The manhunter unzipped his jacket and draped it over one of the folding chairs, with his Stetson on top of it. "Yep. One of your army of observers came through."



The Dire Wolf gave the faintest of smiles. People had to know him a long time to realize he was not completely deadpan. "The elevator is coming back up. Let's join Len in the medical ward and see what he comes up with." They stepped through the door leaving the hangar and had to go down a flight of stairs to reach the elevator. The hangar had originally been the roof of the building until Bane had ordered it enclosed. Descending to the ground floor, the two KDF members walked down the front hall. Ahead of them was the small foyer, to their right was the reception room. To their left, the door was open and light spilled out into the hall.



II.



This emergency ward held two regulation hospital beds, able to be raised or lowered or tilted as necessary. The lights were very bright, and the air cool and dry. Every inch of the walls was taken up with gleaming electronic equipment designed by Slade himself. It took a few minutes of study to identify the purpose of some of the devices. A sink with a paper towel dispenser was the only apparatus instantly recognizable. Just inside the door were mounted boxes of latex gloves and cotton face masks, but they did not need them in this case.



Slade had Atron stretched out on one of the beds, and was unfastening the hide cords which held the sharkhide outfit on. Under the glare, it could be seen more clearly the Geldyra's stiff bristly hair and bony face were not quite Human. "He is breathing normally," the Trom said.



Stepping up, the Dire Wolf attached a clear bag of saline solution to a hanger and stuck a needle in the back of Atron's hand to attach it. "I'm starting an IV. He's amphibious, so he gets dehydrated faster than we do." Satisfied with that, Bane swung a vitals monitor over to stand by Atron's head. "We don't need to attach leads with him this close," he said. "Let me calibrate. There we go."



Watching from a few feet back, Michael Hawk slid the bone knife from its ivory scabbard. The edge was sharp enough to shave with he decided, a two foot length that came to an angled point. The grip was wrapped with sharkhide as well. The Manhunter placed the weapon out in the hall on a bench, out of reach just in case. Atron wore a cuff of carved walrus ivory on his left forearm but Hawk left that.



"Readings are up," Bane said. "Let's see. 129 beats per minute, blood pressure 160 over 123, temperature inside mouth 83 degrees."



"All normal for one of his Race," Slade observed.



"I guess. I'd hate to have readings like that." Bane picked up one of the restraint cuffs that hung down over the side of the bed. "No. I don't think strapping him down is a good idea, do you?"



"We would just have to replace the straps after he broke free," the Trom observed humourlessly. "I think we have some time before he regains consciousness. Thirty to forty minutes."



The Dire Wolf headed for the door. "All right. Let's assemble over in the reception room where we can hear if he starts acting up." Bane walked across the wide front hall and opened the door to a room where visitors were shown. Against the right hand wall was an oak desk, sitting under a huge hand-painted world map from 1937. The wall facing them as they entered had two curtained windows, and a long leather couch, with a low coffee table scattered with newspapers. Against the far wall were waist-high shelves containing reference books, and on top of that case was an illuminated fish tank.



Six comfortable leatherbound chairs were scattered about. Bane pulled one over by the couch and seated himself. He used the desk for his detective agency but didn't sit behind it for KDF meetings because he felt it would mean treating his teammates as clients. Michael Hawk went over and started a coffee pot, while Slade lowered himself to the couch. A second later, a little blonde woman hustled through the doorway.



Cindy Brunner was just over five feet tall and just over one hundred pounds, a slim young woman with dark blonde hair pulled back in a thick ponytail. She was wearing snug white jeans and a red corded sweater she was still adjusting as she hurried over to take a seat. Cindy had been asleep when the call from Jim Schoeber had come in, while Bane had been still up and reading in the conference room. It was the activity of the various minds that had stirred her to wake. Her telepathy picked up on her teammates' thoughts as if overhearing snatches of conversation. "So! Atron again, eh?"



Bane said, "Yep. Talk about trouble. Everytime he shows up, it means bad news. Mike, I don't know if you've read all our files yet. One of my earliest cases for Mr Dred was acting as bodyguard when Atron came to the surface world. Mr Dred tried to interview him for a book he was researching, but Atron went berserk and beat the tar out of me before he was persuaded to leave."



"What?" said Hawk. "Atron beat you up? I wouldn't have thought anyone could do that. Not easily, anyway."



"Oh that. I was young and had no training. I hadn't even started Kumundu then. Today would be a different story. Anyway, last year just around this time, I was fighting an Ulgoran warlock named Li Tung. He got me in a tank filled with water and released a Malak. You haven't met them, they're basically a tiger shark with arms and legs." Bane leaned back and frowned. "I was keeping the damn thing back with my daggers but I admit it was going to be tricky to kill something like that. Atron burst in. He had been tracking Li Tung on his own, they had a vendetta going on. Between us, we killed the Malak and got out. Li Tung had escaped in the meantime and Atron said he would come back some day to resolve our mutual debt. Maybe that's why he's here."



Cindy glanced at the doorway. "Brainwave surge," she said. "He's waking up."



As the KDF members watched, the tall thin form of Atron Ke appeared in that doorway, fastening the thongs to close his outfit. He carried the sheathed horn knife in one hand. The Ulgoran still had the needle taped to the back of his wrist but he had unhooked the IV. "Greetings!" he called out in a bizarre accent that sounded vaguely Hungarian. "I see you have brought me here and treated me well, and for that I thank you."



The Dire Wolf came over to offer a hand and led the Gelydra to a spot on the couch. "You look better than you did a few minutes ago. Your Race bounces back fast."



Atron turned his pale blue eyes on Bane. Their expression was hard to read at best. "It is not easy for me to come here seeking help, Dire Wolf. Proud I am, too proud for my own best interests perhaps."



"You can talk freely here," Bane said. "Just tell us what the situation is."



"Perhaps some of you do not know of Ulgor, 'the Mountain Under the Sea,' which is my home. At the end of the Darthan Age, Jordyn sundered the world and splintered off the adjacent realms, each behind its own barrier. Ulgor is one of those realms. We were placed deep beneath the ocean of our realm, with our City transported there bodily. The Darthim had changed us from so-called 'normal' Humans. We have gills as well as lungs, we are adapted to crushing water pressure and cold depths. Each of us is born at the same time a shark hatches, we have the spirit of the shark within us."



Cindy moved her chair a little closer, skimming the surface of Atron's mind without probing deep enough to get his attention. He glanced over at her movement and she smiled sweetly.



"For ages, little changed. Time seems to move more slowly in the adjacent realms than here. Have you noticed that? We had our civil strife and our battles with the creatures of the deep. Two hundred years ago, a Sulla Chun stirred beneath our City, we had not known such a horror was buried there. A generation of monsters and madmen ran amok, but in time they died out and calm returned. Then there was the invasion from Androval and the occupation for a decade. The Melgarin will pay for that yet. During that occupation, I was born as the Sulla Chun convulsed beneath the city. Its fell energy swept through me even as my father lifted me overhead to proclaim my name. Both my parents died at that moment, but I survived and thrived. Perhaps it was that exposure which made me stronger and hardier than other Gelydrim! Certainly I suspect it was the exposure which tainted me with fits." Those opaque blue eyes glowered. "For know that all my life I have been prone to attacks of berserker rage..."



Not unkindly, Michael Hawk asked, "What brings you here now, though?"



Atron's head snapped up. "Quickly then. Let me explain. Some four hundred of my folk broke off from our city. They were tired of the oppressive rule of Gimkul San. The heavy taxes, the constant labor at monuments to vanity, the public lashings. Our group went a day's swim away and established a fresh start. New Ulgor! With herding of fish and cultivation of edible seaweed and time for crafts and art. I went with them. I was weary of the duels and feuds which took so much of my time. I abdicated the rank of Warlord and was happy to be just Citizen. But Li Tung would not have it so."

"Li Tung being the warlock we fought together," said Bane. "What about him?"



"He has gathered an army of subhuman creatures. Shapeless blobs within suits of false-flesh. The Other-Men. Somehow he is breeding them faster than they can be slain. With Demrak Sum as their general, the Other-Men are wearing down our defenses. And our leader, Geruw Cas, has been captured by them. Courage is not enough, skill at arms is not enough to triumph. I knew I must go to those who know many forbidden secrets of the Midnight War, and hope that you might aid us."



Jeremy Bane stood up and came to stand next to the distraught Gelydra. "So this is not a civil war, your people fighting among themselves? This is a sorceror attempting to conquer a colony to which he has no right."



"Yes! That is exactly right! And I have tarried here too long!" Atron leaped up with such tigerish quickness that everyone gave a start. "I must return, now, this very moment!"



The Dire Wolf laid a restraining hand on Atron's arm, disregarding the outraged glare. "Hey. Take a second. We can bring you home in our CORBY much faster than you possibly swim, right? Right?"



"Yes," Atron admitted. "That is just good sense. But we must leave now."



"One thing first. We fought these Other-Men ourselves, here on land. They're golems of false-flesh. The only alchemist I know who can craft them was named Lee Hutchins. I suspect he's supplying these monsters to Li Tung in exchange for something. You following? You will return to New Ulgor, Len there will pilot the CORBY. But some of us here will track down Lee Hutchins and stop his little game."



"... and by doing so, halt the flow of Other-Men attacking my colony. Yes! Very good! You are no fool, Dire Wolf."



"I like to think so." Bane faced his team. "Steve is on his way. He was up in Westchester. I think logically Len and Steve should be the team to accompany Atron home. You both can fly, which underwater will translate into swimming faster than the enemy. Mike, Cindy and I will remain up here to locate Lee Hutchins and stop his golem factory. That guy! He's always trouble."



"Where's Khang? Or Larry?" asked Cindy.



"Your guess is as good as mine. The last I heard, Larry was out west. They haven't answered the Blue Alert, and I don't think a full Red Alert is called for. Ted is on overnight duty at Temper Memorial Hospital. If they turn up, they can pitch in, of course." He turned to Atron. "I remember you ate regular Human food without trouble. You came a long way here without stopping, so maybe you'd want to get some food and drink inside you before we get going."



"The kitchen's at the end of the hall," Cindy told him. "Come on, I'll show you. We've got lots of macaroni salad with chicken I made myself..."



The Dire Wolf turned to find Hawk shaking his head with a grin. "That gal..."



"She knows how to calm down even someone like him," Bane agreed. "I'm going to get in the field suit. As soon as Steve arrives, we can launch." The Dire Wolf spun and trotted up two flights of stairs to his private room on the third floor.



III.



Ten minutes later, Black Angel came down lightly on the roof. With his artificial wings spread, he lowered his legs and alighted easily without a stumble. The streamlined black jumpsuit with red trim had been designed by the USAF and it was not clear how Weaver had managed to retain use of it after his discharge. He never explained the circumstances. As he straightened up, the wings folded flat to his back with a faint hum of the tiny motors mounted between his shoulders.



As he approached one corner of the roof, a metal panel slid back to reveal an opening with a set of concrete stairs leading down a short well to a door. Weaver moved down these steps, through the door and into the hangar where the CORBY sat. He always caught his breath at the sight. He had been a helicopter pilot for nine years and the sight of the advanced Trom jetcopter still fascinated him. He had worked with Leonard Slade on a few of the modifications but he freely admitted most of what made the CORBY work was beyond him.



Steven Weaver unlocked his fibreglass helmet with the long rearward crest and tucked it under one arm. He was a lanky American black man with a thick mustache and a face that seemed friendly and accessible until you caught the thoughtfulness in the deepset eyes. Weaver entered the elevator and descended to the ground floor, emerging just as Bane was coming down the staircase.



"Evening or morning, whichever," Weaver said.



"Good to see you, Steve." The Dire Wolf was now wearing the black outfit of boots, pants and waist-length jacket, with its own inner layer of Trom armor. He was carrying his own helmet, with a retractible visor, and an airgun was holstered at his left hip. "We've got something interesting going on..." He filled Weaver in on the situation as they walked over to the reception room. Leonard Slade and Michael Hawk on the couch, relaxed and ready. Cindy had changed into her own tailored field suit identical to Bane's. And Atron stood tense in the center of the room, visibly eager to get moving.



"Atron, Len and Steve here will return with you to New Ulgor. The plan is for them to find where Geruw Cas is being held and free him. With him as a visible inspiration, the Gelydra should feel renewed spirit." Bane then gestured to himself. "Meanwhile, Mike and Cindy and I will locate Lee Hutchins and bust up his golem assembly line. Without the constant reinforcements, the enemy will not be able to outnumber you so easily."



The Gelydra was fidgeting, eager to get going. "We should go now. Right now. Who knows how the fighting is going?"



"All right," Bane said. He handed Weaver a short metal baton and a leather bag. "Steve, here's one of the boomsticks we talked about. Twenty-five resonance caps. Escort Atron to the hangar. Len is already warming the CORBY up. We'll be leaving in a car. Good luck!"



weaver went with the Gelydra into the elevator and rode to the top floor. They emerged and went up one short step of stairs into the hangar. The CORBY's rotors were turning slowly, and Slade could be seen in the pilot seat checking the systems. Weaver thumbed the keypad to open the co-pilot hatch and ushered Atron into it. "You sit up here," he said. "With those wings, I need more room. I'm going on the bench in the back compartment. As everyone was strapped in, Leonard Slade raised the CORBY to knee level and retracted the landing gear. "Stand by," he said.



The Trom slid open a panel by his head to reveal a pale blue gem in an incongruous silver setting. He pressed a hand to it and exerted his formidable concentration. Blue light filled the hangar, swirling silently, and when it faded, the CORBY was gone.


Hawk did not wear one of the field suits, and Bane did not press him. The manhunter did put on the flexible Trom armor under his regular clothing, though, and he stowed various KDF gadgets in his pockets. Following Bane and Cindy, they went through the back panel of a walk-in closet by the front door and down steep concrete steps to a narrow walkway between the arsenal and the vault. At the end of the walkway was a plain wooden door. Bane opened it, flicked on the lights and stepped into the underground garage. It was big enough to hold two cars, and there was a workbench with tools.



"What do you think?" he asked. "The Buick Regal or the Mustang?"



"Hell, the Buick. More room," said Hawk.



Cindy Brunner snatched a set of keys from a hook on the wall. "I call driver. I never get to drive." She slid behind the wheel of the dark grey Buick and started it up. Hawk got in the back and Bane took the front passenger seat, holding his helmet in his lap. Cindy started up the concrete ramp with its sharp turn to emerge through a sliding metal door onto Lexington Avenue.



( the rest of the story )