The little girl, her golden locks covered in dirt, stepped forward and placed her small, warm hand reassuringly on Caraway’s cheek. “Be brave, Onkel John,” she said in heavily accented English. “Father is with us.”
Caraway’s smile broadened, she was so strong for one so young. He reached over and lovingly wiped a smudge of dirt off the girl’s forehead. “I know, Nancy. I know.” Standing up, he tried to ignore the sharp pain shooting up from his popping knees. Heroism was a young man’s profession, and it had been a long time since he had been a young man. She told him to be brave, but brave was just another word for stupid. He cocked back the hammer of his revolver. “Okay, let’s get out of this damned country,” he growled, stepping out into the wreckage and—hopefully—toward the way home.
• • •
THE SCREAMS and shouts were deafening, a wave of sound that sent a chill down her spine. It felt so unnatural… So wrong. A hundred faces surrounded her, a thousand eyes watched her, and they could be anyone. Jean’s fingers itched for her gun; instead she only found a sweat-damp hand as fingers interlaced with hers. Now was not the time for guns.
Now was the time to smile and bow.
The curtain rose, the stage lights blinding. The audience clamored to their feet, applauding with renewed passion as flowers flew onto the stage. She looked to her left and then her right, meeting the eyes of her costars. They were drinking in the glory, though the crowd cheered her name—her stage name, at least—their applause erupting as she stepped forward. To the world, Jean Parker took a bow, a smile spreading across her face, as beautiful and as false as her name on the marquee. Jean Farrell meanwhile fought back a scream.
This was all she ever wanted, to stand in the spotlight. She took another bow, another, then one last time; unable to understand why all she wanted was to slip back into the shadows.
• • •
“DAMMIT,” Ken Clayton muttered as he raced down the darkened pathway, jumping over the jumbles of machines and equipment that littered the ground. He could hear it chasing after him, slicing the shadows like a knife. “Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.”
Fifteen people had been killed, each death more gruesome than the last, leaving the police baffled and the newspapers seething. Ken had sworn not to get involved, going so far as to write himself a note and placing it by his alarm clock to remind him every day that it was simply not his problem. His hero days were over. He took every distraction he could find, every job he was offered, every drink he was handed; but there was always that itch, like a mosquito bite at the back of his head, begging to be scratched. It was stupid—so very, very stupid—but one day he bought a pistol, put on a shoulder harness and started wandering the night searching for clues.
All of which had led him here, the last place he’d ever look.
Ken glanced back over his shoulder as the creature shot out from the rafters with a cat-like hiss. Its fangs—two long, sharp white canines, vibrant in the darkness—extended out from the gum line as its pale white hands gripped Ken by the collar. Ken fell backwards onto the ground, stars exploding behind his eyes when his head smacked against the cement, the air rushing out from his lungs.
“Be calm, young one,” the monster whispered in its child-like voice, stroking its soft, icy fingers against Ken’s cheek. It was soothing and sweet like the faded memories of a first love’s kiss. All Ken needed to do was close his eyes and relax. “It will all be over soon.”
Ken’s body stiffened, remembering where he was. “The hell it will,” he snarled as he drew his pistol and fired into the creature’s abdomen, an explosion of heat and blood. The monster screamed a horrific shrill that nearly shattered Ken’s eardrums as it flew back into the darkness, maroon plasma spilling out into the air.
“Silver bullets,” Ken said with a grin. “Ain’t that a bitch?”
“How do you resist me?” the creature croaked from the shadows, the steady drip-drip-drip of blood flowing out from the bullet wound, trickling down to the ground.
“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve faced bigger monsters than you,” Ken said, a confident smirk curling his lips as he peered into the shadows. “And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”
God, how he missed this.
“Do not mock me, meat!” the creature wheezed. “I have lived for over three hundred years! I have tasted the blood of—”
Ken rolled his eyes, aiming into the darkness. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. What is it with you supernatural types, always yammering on about how old you are, how many people you killed? Are you trying to impress me?” he asked as he followed the sound of dripping blood, his eyes straining through the shadows. “Honestly, how impressive can you be when you will never stand over four feet. I mean have you ever even ridden a rollercoaster?”
“Insolence!” the creature shouted from behind him.
Ken whirled around and fired, narrowly missing the monster as it ran away down the narrow corridor, a blur in the dark.
“Oh, you’re not getting away that easily,” Ken grumbled as he made chase.
• • •
PUTRID WATER, filled with trash and lumps of God-only-knew sloshed past Gary Brown’s knees. A horrid smell attacked his nostrils, while the distant echo of dripping water surrounded him. He could still remember the last time he was in a sewer and all the pain and loss that was associated with it. He aimed his flashlight over the ancient arched brick and mortar above him, before pointing it toward the beautiful blond wading through the filth ahead of him. Even down here in the shit and piss of the city, she gave him butterflies. And they said their marriage wouldn’t last.
“Darling,” he said, his voice reverberating back around him. “Remind me again, why is it that Dumont gets to rub shoulders with the President of the United States, while we get stuck with sewer duty?”
“Because,” Evangl Stewart-Brown replied, flashing him that humored yet exasperated smile she only gave him, “he’s Jethro Dumont.”
“And why, exactly, does that mean we have to be knee-deep in sewage?” he asked, avoiding a suspicious-looking clump of brown that seemed to be moving. “If I had wanted to drudge through a week’s worth of Washington’s excrement I would have gone into politics.”
“Look at you, babe, almost making satire,” Evangl commented proudly.
Gary tried to tramp down his satisfied grin. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No offense, sweetheart, but of the three of us, Dumont’s the only one with enough clout to get himself next to Roosevelt without raising suspicions. And if the Green Lama is right—and he usually is—then the Fifth Columnists might be trying to take out the President tonight. Dumont can stay close should the Fifthers try anything funny,” she responded, moving deeper into the sewer tunnel. “Plus, Dumont practically bankrolled Roosevelt’s re-election campaign in ’36.”
“And they say the rich ain’t progressive…” Gary sighed. “Look, I get that Dumont’s a Big Shot, but I still can’t quite figure why the Green Lama works with him. Sure, he’s a ‘Buddhist,’ but in name only! Hell, he’s practically scandal personified! He’s slept with every girl between New York and Hollywood, even Marlene Dietrich. He’s practically a gigolo! Why Jean Farrell stays with him is beyond me.”
Evangl paused and rolled her hand around as she struggled to find the right response. “He’s just so… so… Jethro Dumont!”
Gary crossed his arms. “Now you’re just trying to make me jealous.”
She held out her hand, a narrow wedge between her index finger and thumb. “Only a little,” she said with a sideways grin.
Gary chuckled. “If he was so ‘Jethro Dumont’ why didn’t you marry him like your mom wanted?”
Evangl shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a guy with a broken nose and unruly hair. Besides, ‘Evangl Dumont’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” She stopped and pointed her flashlight up at a grimy metal ladder. “This is us.”
Gary grimaced as he slid his hand across a muck-covered rung. “You sure?”
“Nope,” Evangl said as she started to climb up the ladder. “Only one way to find out.”
“Have I mentioned how much I hate this?”
“A couple of times.” She looked down at him with that beautiful smile. “Come on, this doesn’t bring you back to when we first met, fighting the Crimson Hand?”
Gary cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t remember being knee-deep in shit.”
“Gary Brown!” she cried in ersatz shock. “If your mother heard you!”
“She would’ve said it was an improvement,” he said with a sad smile and began climbing after her.
• • •
“PULL UP, Helen!” Caraway shouted, his head hanging out over the wide, impossible darkness as he wrestled with the Nazi solider, cold air rushing past as the plane barreled toward the ground. He watched as his gun slid across the deck and out into the sky. His head was spinning, his stomach threatening to wretch; it was all he could do not to throw up all over the deck. “Pull up!”
“Geht nicht, John! Es geht nicht!” Helen screamed, struggling with the controls; the children strapped into their seats, silent in terror.
“Try harder!” Caraway snapped, as he kneed the Nazi in the crotch. Dammit, he thought, where was Rick Masters when you needed him? He grabbed the Nazi by the collar and threw his fist, but the punch went wild as the plane banked hard to the left. Caraway fell back and the Nazi was on him, pulling him in for a hard knee to the gut. Caraway let out a growl of pain when his eyes caught the soldier’s handgun, still in its holster.
Helen pulled back on the controls, sending the plane into a steep climb, tossing Caraway and the Nazi solider toward the back of plane. Well, at least she pulled up, he mused as his body hit hard against the metal siding. The sharp tang of iron hit his tongue as stars exploded behind his eyes. The Nazi came crashing down, screaming as his right shoulder shattered with a nauseating snap!
This was his chance. Spitting out a bloody wad of phlegm, Caraway dove at the Nazi, his fingers brushing against the ice-cold metal of the Lüger, begging to be fired.
“IT LOOKS like congratulations are in order, Miss ‘Parker,’” the director, Jason Fluegge, said as he flopped a copy of the Broadway Tattler down on Jean’s vanity. “Or should I say ‘Mrs. Dumont.’”
“Oh jeez,” Jean groaned as she read over the bold headline “JETHRO DUMONT TO WED JEAN PARKER” that sat above the flattering—and more than a little revealing—photo of her. “Where the hell did you get this?” she asked, tossing it back at him.
“Hit newsstands this morning, love,” Jason chuckled as he looked over the front page. “I may know someone who works at the printers. I must confess, I always wondered if Dumont would ever settle down. Sure, he’s dated every woman on both sides of the Atlantic, but he’s a Buddhist, so who knows if he even, you know...”
The corner of Jean’s lip curled up. “If there’s one thing Jethro Dumont is not, it’s celibate.”
“Look who’s been getting the milk for free,” Jason exclaimed. “Anyway, if he did get hitched, I always thought it was going to be Vivien Leigh, but I guess you’re… attractive enough.”
“You’re sweet,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Hate to burst your bubble though. If Jethro’s popped the question he hasn’t told me, at least not yet. Besides, just because it’s in black and white doesn’t mean it’s true. Remember when they were saying Erin had married Howard Hughes?” She indicated the blonde actress at the other side of her shared dressing room.
Erin gave Jean a vacant look of confusion through the mirror. “Yeah, but I was only sleeping with him,” she retorted in a nasal voice. “And he would always make me shower three times before and after we did.”
Jean fought back an exasperated sigh. She loved her costar, but… Good Lord. “Right, so why then should that be any more legitimate,” she said with a dismissive wave at the tabloid.
“Because, you’ve been living with Mr. Dumont in sin,” Jason said, poking Jean in the shoulder.
“Thank you, Mom,” she retorted. “Does this mean I can’t come home for Christmas?”
“Only if you come back with a rock on your finger,” Jason said with a laugh. “A big one. A real big one. I want you to make the Rockefellers jealous.”
“I’ll let Jethro know, though after all we’ve been through together, I think we’re both a little off rings.”
Jason frowned in consideration. “Mm, how progressive of you.”
“You know me, always looking toward the future,” she said offhandedly as she tossed her last bit of make-up in to her purse, the metal cap of her lipstick clinking against the metal of her pistol. “You heading out, Erin?”
“Yup,” the redhead replied as she lit a cigarette.
“Great, I’ll walk ya home. Nine tomorrow, Jas?”
“That’s Nine A.M. That means in the morning, Erin.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the blonde objected. “That only happened once.”
“Night girls,” Jason said with a small wave as they exited, then as the door swung closed behind them: “You! Who told you could carry that? Put that down! Don’t look at me like you don’t speak English, put it down!”
The street was beginning to empty, the last of the Broadway audiences making way for the city’s late night revelers. The night was cool, the clouds overheard portending rain, the autumn breeze raising goose pimples on the back of Jean’s neck. It always felt cold to her these days; even the warmest days left Jean feeling frigid, as if the world had fallen beneath a shadow and would never see the sun again. Even Jethro, her one ray of light in the darkness, could sense it. Something bad was just beyond the horizon. Not just another war, but something worse, something… other.
There were a few audience members waiting outside the exit, a pen and paper held out expectantly. Jean usually tried to avoid her fans as much as possible—not that she didn’t appreciate them, she did—it just felt odd after everything she had done in her life that people were celebrating her for acting. But she put on a smile and signed every one; a big, loopy “J” followed by scribble and a stylized “P” with more scribble.
“How do you like living at the Boarding House?” Jean heard herself ask Erin after they were clear of the crowd.
“’S’all right,” Erin said with a shrug. “Thanks again for setting it up for me. Rent’s cheap as heck, but Ma Smith’s a little off her rocker, y’know? She sometimes acts like she’s two different people.”
“Heh. You have no idea,” Jean said with a cryptic smile. “I remember when I first moved in, there was this whole to-do with the Murder Corp—” She cut herself short, her ears pricking up to the sound of a high pitch warble coming from the nearby alleyway. “Did you hear that? Sounded like screaming…”
Erin shook her head. “I didn’t hear—”
“Help me!” a woman’s scream echoed out. There was no question this time. Jean’s hand instinctually fell to her side as she began to rush forward.
“Wait, Jean,” Erin whispered, tugging at Jean’s sleeve. “Come on. It’s not our problem.”
Jean gave Erin a silent look of reproach as she pulled her arm free and sprinted down the alleyway, drawing her pistol out of her purse.
“Crap,” Erin groaned, chasing after her.
• • •
The creature tightened its hands around Ken’s neck, watching Ken struggle with genuine interest, as if witnessing a form of death he had never seen before. Ken’s blood screamed for oxygen and somewhere in the distance, Ken could hear singing and the clang-clang-clang of a dancing man in a metal suit. Or maybe it was just his gun falling down in the darkness beneath the rafters.
“Your blood is not worth the taste,” the creature whispered. “I will watch you die and I will enjoy it, yes. And afterwards, after I’ve placed the trail of death to your feet, they will all say it was you, all of my tastes, all of my deaths. Ken Clayton, the Hollywood Horror
.”
Ken grunted something through his teeth.
The creature leaned forward. “What was that, my lovely?”
“You talk too much,” Ken growled as he grabbed the monster by the head and pressed his thumbs into its eye sockets.
The monster screamed, releasing Ken’s throat as it fell back. A snarl touched the top of Ken’s lips as he dragged the creature by its tiny head toward the bright glow of Fresnel lamps. He dug his thumbs deeper into its eyes. Blood trickled down his hands. “All I ever wanted was a normal life. Sure, acting isn’t the most traditional of lifestyles, but I never said I was traditional. I just wanted to come out here, close my eyes and pretend the last few years never happened. But no, you had to come into my town and mess everything up.”
The singing was louder now, a woman and two men singing about a “Whiz of Wiz.” That was supposed to be him out there, Ken thought bitterly, dancing and crooning in chorus, but here he was, in the dark, fighting monsters. He reached behind his back and unsheathed a wooden stick, the end shaved down to a point.
“Release me!” the creature warbled.
“Will you… please… shut up?” Ken barked as he drove the stake through the creature’s heart.
The creature fell backwards off the rafters, one of the hanging wires twisting around its neck, swinging it through the fake trees. Its small feet just brushed the tips of the faux grass as it erupted into flames.
• • •
“Fifth Columnists” was never their official name—despite theories to the contrary, most underground terrorist organizations rarely ever give themselves formal titles—but even so, Fifth Columnists is what they were called, a group of American and German saboteurs intent on aiding the Nazi cause of world domination. Their efforts had been mildly successful, at least up until they had faced the Green Lama, and since then, they had become a shadow of what they once were, a smattering of fanatics struggling to regain some aspect of their former glory. Their headquarters—or at least the cramped basement wallpapered with maps and diagrams—stood as a testament to their soiled hopes of a world ruled by the Führer; and now thanks to Gary and Evangl, it smelled like a month’s worth of Washington D.C.’s feces.
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 2