The Green Lama: Crimson Circle

by Adam Lance Garcia

  On this night, Murdoch had pounded back a bottle of absinthe, the green fairy taking him on a winding, back alleys tour of the city until he somehow found himself in an abandoned office, the tables and chairs draped with dusty cloth. He wasn’t certain how he got in, whether the door was locked, or why his hand was bleeding and covered with glass, but here he was, all alone. For reasons he was too inebriated to understand, Murdoch began to pull the cloths away in large flapping motions, and it wasn’t until the last cloth hung in his bloody hand that he realized where he was.

  A small microscope sat on the lab table, the glass slide broken in three uneven pieces. He looked over to the door, the few remaining letters on the shattered frosted window reading “ISON VALC.”

  “Well, of course,” Murdoch said with a slightly manic smile. “Guess we can’t take it all back, can we?”

  He slumped to the floor and waited for an answer that would never come.

  • • •

  BETTY DALE made her way up to the roof, tightly clutching the two-lined note. Her knees ached as she took the last four steps before the rooftop door, the lock jammed open so reporters could run out and grab a smoke under the sun. It was late now, so she doubted anyone would still be up here, and if there had been, she was certain her mysterious pen pal would have scared them away. Betty pushed open the door with her elbow and stepped out into the frigid night. A powdery cloud of snow drifted by and Betty pulled her coat in.

  “All right, I got your message,” she called out, holding up the note with the small “Om” symbol at the bottom. “You can cut the standing in the shadows thing you people like to do.”

  A dark hooded figure stepped out of the night, green cloak flapping in the breeze. The outfit was streamlined, a green, hooded cape over a green leather jacket; form-fitting green pants and high, flat boots. Twin jade-line pistols sat snug in hip-hugging holsters.

  “Word’s been getting around about you,” Betty said with a half-cocked grin. “Had to tell Jaconetti you were just a myth, but he’s convinced you’re real. Plus, I guess this answers where you’ve been hiding the last few weeks. Keeping off the stage and getting in some training?”

  The Green Lama remained silent.

  “I figured you’d go to Caraway first before you came to me.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t?” the Green Lama said in reply.

  “Picking up where he left off?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but vigilantes are a dime a dozen in this town, what makes you think we need you?”

  “You might have noticed most of them are a tad bit extreme.”

  “Aren’t those guns?” Betty asked, gesturing to the jade line pistols.

  “Rubber bullets,” the Green Lama replied. “No more children seeing their mothers killed.”

  Betty shrugged. “But maybe extreme is what we need. Maybe the people need someone who doesn’t hug the line.”

  “What we need is balance. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  “Like the new outfit,” Betty said with a nod. “Design that yourself?”

  “Tsarong helped a bit. Monk’s robes weren’t exactly me. Plus, I didn’t want to run around looking like a colorblind Santa Claus—and you wouldn’t believe how they get in the way.”

  Betty laughed. “I’m sure he would appreciate you saying that. But, we’re not talking about the most important thing. Why are you here?”

  “I need you to hide me in plain sight. I don’t want to be a myth. The world needs to know the Green Lama is still out there. Whether it’s so they can fear the monster or remember the hero doesn’t matter. The Green Lama lives on.”

  “Are you giving me an exclusive?” Betty asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “So long as it gets done, you can call it whatever you like, Dale,” the Green Lama said dryly, turning toward the shadows.

  Betty gave the Green Lama a quick salute. “You can count on me, ‘Tulku.’ And, hey, no more train stunts, all right? That was pretty bush-league, especially for you.”

  “Least I didn’t follow a monster down into the sewers.”

  Betty smirked despite herself. “You be careful out there, Jean.”

  The Green Lama looked back and smiled. “Wouldn’t be fun if I was.”

  • • •

  THE OVAL OFFICE was colder than Barry had expected, or maybe it was just the season. Outside snow began to fall, snowflakes drifting languidly left and right before they deigned to finally fall to the ground. He shifted in his seat, careful to keep the thick manila folder on his lap from falling to the ground. As a scientist focusing on the applications of atomic energy, the assignment had come as a bit of a surprise, but when the White House called, you answered. His sister probably would have rolled her eyes at that and made a comment about “patriotic mumbo jumbo,” but Barry would never say no to his country. It was why his discoveries had been so worrisome. Based on what little hard evidence they had found, it appeared that the men behind the horrors he found were doing it for God and Country.

  “Dr. Dale, sorry to keep you waiting after all the trouble you took to come down here,” the President said as he rolled into the office. Barry stood immediately, having not heard the door open, but Roosevelt waved him back down. “Sit, sit. I can’t get up for you, no reason for you to get up for me.”

  “No trouble at all, Mr. President,” Barry said as he returned to his seat, smoothing out his suit.

  “I assume you know why you’re here,” the President said as he moved behind to his desk.

  Barry nodded, his grip on the folder unconsciously tightening. “The events in New York and Black Rock.”

  “It’s a damn mess is what it was,” Roosevelt said as he lit himself a cigarette. “There’s too much going on abroad, we don’t need to start worrying about threats within our borders.” He took a drag and blew out a thin column of smoke. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Barry slid the file over to Roosevelt.

  “They called themselves the Collective, which isn’t the most original title in the world, but I don’t think they were really interested in being creative. We don’t know where they pulled their funding from—it certainly wasn’t anything you authorized—but they put millions, perhaps more, into their efforts. The mountain facility had technology that’s decades ahead of anything we have floating around, things I don’t think we even thought were plausible. There were hundreds dead, some staff, some civilians who had been kidnapped for various purposes. We’re still trying to identify all the bodies—it will take us some time—but we can confirm Dr. Frank Pelham, otherwise known as the Crimson Hand, is dead. Some of the staff escaped and we’re working to track them down. Dr. Murdoch, who was noted as assisting the Green Lama’s associates, has been helpful in all aspects.”

  “Has the Intelligence Service Command weighed in?

  “The ISC has denied any knowledge,” he then hesitantly added, “but I have my doubts.”

  Roosevelt mulled this over as he looked over the various diagrams and schematics. “Can we use any of it?”

  “Most of it was destroyed—which is probably for the best, if my sister ever found out about this stuff she’d plaster this all over the Herald-Tribune… But we did find some interesting ideas on atomic power.”

  Roosevelt looked up through his glasses. “Beyond what the S-1 Uranium Committee told me?”

  Barry nodded. “A lot more interesting.”

  “Hm,” the President sounded thoughtfully. He carefully closed the file, letting his hand weigh down on the cover. After a moment he asked, “Do you think you can put it to good use?”

  A small smile formed in the corners of Barry’s mouth. “Only one way to find out, Sir.”

  • • •

  THE WIND picked up, tossing a strand of Jean’s fire red hair across her face. Just as Betty has surmised, Magga and Tsarong had put her through weeks of training. It had been grueling, trying to fit in to a number
of months what Jethro had done over a decade and there was still so much more to learn. Every bit of her body was now tightly wound muscle, her natural figure concealing strength and skill that could take down a grown man.

  Jean brushed her hair out of her eyes before she ran her hands over the pistols at her hips, jade-lined handles pointed back. She was almost certain Jethro would frown on them, but as she had told Tsarong and Magga several times, she was done taking the radioactive salts. As much as she loved the idea of supernatural strength and healing, after everything she’d experienced, the negatives simply outweighed the positives. And despite all her training in hand-to-hand, she was always a better shot than a brawler.

  Jean gazed down at the city below, a smile curling her lips. It had seemed so absurd when Magga and Tsarong had approached her all those months ago, but the more she thought about it, the more she had realized she had been heading down this path all along.

  She pulled the hood over her head and the Green Lama whispered: “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”

  • • •

  THE TREES rattled from the wind, swirls of snow wisped from the forest floor like smoke. Army trucks ran up and down the mountain, moving like ants. Guards were positioned throughout the forest, their rifles at ready for anyone who might break the perimeter.

  But none of them saw Jethro.

  Slipping through with footsteps like whispers, Jethro made his way up the side of the mountain like a shadow on a moonless night to the ruined cabin, the metallic faux wood twisted like dried-out pasta from a half-finished dinner. Shifting his knapsack to his chest, Jethro snaked through the narrow opening that had once been a door and slid down the rocky incline into the scorched remains of the Facility. He pulled out a flashlight, and swung it in a large arc over the vast subterranean space. The air was still filled with smoke and the smell of burning metal and bodies. Jethro didn’t move to cover his nose or mouth, or to look away from the blackened corpses that lay scattered throughout, forcing himself to take in every sensation. Charred objects crinkled beneath his feet like leaves in autumn.

  He eventually made his way down to the very bottom of the Facility; it had once been the cold storage that had imprisoned him and the other test subjects. In the center of the room was a pure white scorch mark with the black shadow of a man that stretched out until it loomed large over the wall.

  Jethro reached into his knapsack and pulled out a small program, the words “The Association of American Magicians” across the top, and four spaces below that, “Theodor Harrin—Illusions” in bold, block letters. “I never meant to forget you, Theodor. Never meant for you to suffer the way you did. You deserved better and I hope… I hope that you can forgive me.”

  Jethro tucked the program back into his knapsack. He knelt down and touched the shadow burned into the floor and smiled sadly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Goodbye, Harrison. Despite what you may have thought, you were a good man. I saw in you someone who strived in everyway to help others. Someone who created miracles, only to see them corrupted, and that is something I truly understand. I wish I could have been there for you in your final moments and I… I am sorry.”

  Jethro swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and looked up into the shadows. “Gary…” he said, his voice cracking momentarily. “I made you a promise, to you and Evangl both. A promise I had every intention of keeping. I thought I could find a way to make you whole again; to give you back what Pelham stole. That together, we would find what it was that poisoned us both and find a way to destroy it, but…” Jethro let out a long, shuddering sigh. “You were the first to join me on this journey. You put your faith in me, as I had put my faith in you. You showed me there was a way out of the darkness, that there was good in all of us… That it is possible for anyone to find redemption. Om! Amitabha Hri. But, more importantly… You were my friend.” A small, somber smile formed on Jethro’s chapped lips. “Thank you, Gary Brown,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

  Jethro Dumont stood and took one last look at the darkness before he turned away and went searching for redemption.

  • • •

  THE ELEVATOR rose up from the bedrock, pale bands of white light cut through the lift’s grating as it made it way past sublevel fourteen, thirteen, twelve… Alpha adjusted his collar, the scarred, sagging skin around his neck itching from the starch. He rolled his eyes up at the seemingly endless shaft above and tapped his foot impatiently.

  Several decades ago, when the Collective was little more than a group of men meeting in saloon backrooms while the trains were being built, Alpha and his compatriots had planned out a grand scheme for America. Together they set in motion decades of the world’s history, killed thousands—including a president and an Archduke—to ensure their machinations came to fruition. For a while it had been a glorious success and now it was all coming apart at the seams.

  He took a breath and felt his lungs tighten. He pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it, speckling the white fabric with blood before folding it back up and stuffing it away. The elevator trembled to a stop and the doors rolled open to the conference room in sublevel one. The nineteen remaining members of the Twenty-Two stood up from their chairs in unison, their various Greek letter pins and signets glinting in the darkened room. Alpha gave little thought to the empty chairs.

  “Calling to order the one thousandth-and-twenty-fourth meeting of the Twenty-Two,” Beta called as Alpha walked to the head of the table. The group remained standing until Alpha was seated, at which point they all sat as one.

  “Our current projection for America’s full involvement in European hostilities is nineteen-forty-two,” Sigma said without preamble, “perhaps earlier if the Sino-Japanese War spreads east across the Pacific. The current political make-up of Congress is too isolationist to take action without a direct attack from the Axis countries.”

  Alpha nodded slowly. That was two years too early. “And what are our predications on that?”

  “Seventy-three percent chance,” Theta replied.

  “Cost of life?”

  “We are still processing out estimates,” said Upsilon, “but without the use of enhanced soldiers, we forecast over sixty million people—military and civilian—will be lost. Roughly over two-point-five percent of the world’s current population.”

  Alpha tapped his manicured fingers against the metal table. “And the whereabouts of the Green Lama?” he asked sharply.

  The silence that answered was deafening.

  Alpha snarled a frown. “Nothing?” he asked the room. “We have crumbled nations and we can’t find one man in a damn green robe?! How are we—”

  Alpha felt the laughter before he heard it, a rolling, scratchy snicker that sounded like nails digging into flesh. The group looked nervously into the shadows, but saw nothing. Alpha pushed himself up onto his feet, his old knees suddenly feeling weak.

  “Show yourself,” he demanded. “You will not frighten us with cheap theatrics!”

  “The man you call the Green Lama is not one you should ever underestimate,” the laughing voice said from the darkness. “I have seen him defeat gods.”

  Alpha coughed into his handkerchief. He could see the silhouetted form of a man standing just off in the corner. “Who are you?”

  The stranger chuckled to himself, as he walked along the darkness. “They always ask that.” He smiled—his teeth impossibly white—and wagged his finger. “But that’s the wrong question.”

  “What’s your name?” Alpha asked, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  “Name?” The man coyly pressed his hand to his chest. “Oh, well, I’ve gone by so many. It would be difficult to choose just one. Samael, Loki, Harlequin, Mephistopheles; one for every time and place. Names have such power. Much like the Green Lama himself, so many faces, so many names… But what should you call me? I confess I haven’t thought of any for this time. In my most recent life I was known as Alexei, but, perhaps we should call me who I am, stop de
nying the truth of what I am. So, please…” He stepped forward, his olive skin cracked like desert stone. “Call me Nyarlathotep.”

  The Green Lama Chronology

  Bold indicates Moonstone Publication.

  1923 – 1933

  "The Case of the Final Column" by Adam Lance Garcia (Flashbacks)

  The Green Lama: Unbound by Adam Lance Garcia (Flashbacks)

  1935

  The Green Lama / Black Bat: “Homecoming” by Adam Lance Garcia

  The Green Lama / Secret Agent X-11: “Eye of the Beholder” by Adam Lance Garcia

  “Case of the Crimson Hand” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “Croesus of Murder” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  1936

  “Babies for Sale” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “Wave of Death” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  1937

  “The Man Who Wasn’t There” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “Death’s Head Face” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  1938

  The Green Lama: Horror in Clay by Adam Lance Garcia

  “The Case of the Clown Who Laughed” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “The Case of the Invisible Enemy” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “The Case of the Mad Magi” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “The Case of the Vanishing Ships” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  “The Case of the Fugitive Fingerprints” by Kendell Foster Crossen

  The Green Lama: Scions by Adam Lance Garcia