Suicide Squad

by Marv Wolfman

  Her fingers felt the cord, and she slowly wrapped them around it.

  Good. She got a firm grip. Perfect. Next step, bring it into the open. She inhaled and slowly lifted her arm.

  The ground around her began to shift. She stopped.

  Slow, June… much slower. You do not want to fall. She waited a few minutes, pushed back her fears, then she once again lifted her arm up out of the hole.

  There was the top of the rope.

  She was almost home free.

  Then the hole gave way, and she plunged into the blackness.

  THREE

  June was certain her head was going to explode. She held her temples between thumb and forefinger and gently massaged them to ease her pain. It wouldn’t go away. She slowly opened her eyes. Her helmet light was still working, and she saw…

  Skulls?

  There were hundreds of them. Human and cave bear skulls, cemented together by crystalline deposits. How long had they been here, she wondered, but then she was hit by more important questions.

  Where is here?

  How long have I been here?

  And how the hell did I get here? At that she remembered falling. I’m alive. So it wasn’t a long drop.

  She must have been unconscious, but for how long, she wondered. A haze still obscured her vision to some degree.

  She forced herself to her feet, and felt the blood drain from her face and upper body. Her hands were cold and wet. She steadied herself until the chill faded and she could take a few steps without her legs buckling. Moving closer, she studied the skulls, frightening yet riveting.

  Wickedly beautiful.

  The haze dissipated, and she saw an immense altar carved from the cave walls. It was bear-shaped; a large urn was held in each paw. One was shaped like a man. The other a woman.

  She was drawn to the female urn and compelled to pick it up. Then for some reason she didn’t quite understand, she broke its wax seal and removed its lid.

  That released the black.

  Shadowy wisps flowed from the jar and spread through the chamber. Her helmet light showed trails of black fog dissipating behind it like a comet’s burning trail, as its—head?—drifted toward the back of the cave. Then, in the pitch, she saw eyes.

  Frightening eyes.

  Animalistic eyes.

  Glowing. Staring at June.

  The eyes belonged to a person, barely visible until she aimed her helmet light. It was a frail woman, only partially of flesh and bone. June looked closer and saw that she was also made of smoke, and fog, and mist.

  June knew who she was.

  Enchantress.

  She heard the woman speak, but she wasn’t certain if the voice was spoken aloud, or echoing somewhere in her mind.

  “We’ve both been waiting our entire lives for this, haven’t we, June?” Enchantress asked. “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes,” June replied aloud. “From my dreams.”

  The black fog that was Enchantress drifted toward her, then reached out and held June’s face in amorphous, cold hands.

  “I am more than a dream, June. I am your destiny—and you are mine.”

  June pulled free and tried to run, making it to a tunnel, but the shadowy wisps followed and grabbed her legs, pulling them out from under her, forcing her to fall hard to the ground.

  She struggled, kicking the cloudy wisps, but her feet slammed through them, like the intangible trails of smoke they were. She cried out as she fought.

  “Let go of me.” But they wouldn’t. They pulled her back over the stone path. She turned, twisted, and tried to escape again, but they refused to let go.

  “Stop fighting us, June.” Still Enchantress’s voice was coming from the smoke. “This has been your destiny since before you were born.”

  Then they were back in the chamber, and Enchantress was waiting for her. The wisps dragged June next to the witch, then dissipated back into the dark.

  “It is so exciting,” Enchantress continued, as if she had not been interrupted. “Worlds are going to open up for both of us, and now that I have brought you here, you must let me in.”

  June didn’t respond, nor did she try to resist as Enchantress’s face nearly touched her own.

  “I must be whole again,” the shadowy figure said as the smoky tendrils entered her prisoner’s nose and mouth.

  June Moone inhaled, and the two were one.

  FOUR

  It was expected to be a peaceful night.

  There hadn’t been any riots for more than a week. No newbie had been ushered into the exercise yard to wait for his hazing to begin. No crazy somehow conjured a shiv that he knew belonged in the gut of yet another of the certifiably insane. Even the unseasonably mild weather was cooperating. So, atypical as it was, this was turning out to be a very good night indeed.

  Until explosions tore up the exercise yard. Guards positioned in Arkham Asylum’s observation towers vainly searched for the source, but all they could see were patients, drugged out of their minds, numbly wandering the unexpected war zone—uncertain if the explosions were actually happening or were just some new and ridiculous hallucination, an all-too-familiar by-product of their high dosage meds.

  They learned the truth the hard way.

  Paramilitary thugs in gas masks and protective armor descended on ropes dropped from helicopters hovering unseen in the shadowy clouds. Even as they descended, they targeted the helpless guards, effortlessly turning them into instant corpses.

  The few defenders who managed to survive ran for cover. Entering the hospital, they ducked behind overturned beds. Inmates were still strapped into them, and they were screeching for help that wouldn’t be coming.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” one of the guards hissed to a patient hanging from the bed, his straps starting to fray. At the top of his voice he was singing songs from an old Broadway show. “I said shut up,” the guard grated. “Believe me, you don’t want to let those killers know where we are.”

  “I did, I do,” the inmate said in a voice that was barely coherent. “You think if they see me, maybe they’ll take me with them? I’d like them to take me to a restaurant. You know, one that serves hamburgers and French fries and has ketchup in bottles—not in those little paper thingies that don’t hold much. You think they’ll take me to a restaurant?”

  “They’ll put a bullet in your head, you idiot,” the guard muttered, still keeping his voice down. “And mine too, if you don’t shut up.”

  “Bullet in the head? That sounds good, too, but I’d reallyreallyreally prefer a restaurant.”

  Finally the guard smashed his elbow into the inmate’s head, knocking him unconscious. He then closed his eyes for a moment and prayed that the thugs—whoever the hell they were—hadn’t heard the exchange. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again.

  One of the soldiers was there, staring at him, a gun pressed to the guard’s heart.

  Mercifully, he never heard it fire.

  * * *

  The thugs moved quickly though cautiously through the halls, taking down anything that stepped in their way, not distinguishing between guards or asylum prisoners.

  One of them, the commander, unhooked a radio from his belt.

  “She’s here somewhere,” he said. “Fan out.” On the move again, he held his automatic in front of him. Straight up, not turned at a ninety-degree angle. Almost looks cool in the movies, he mused, but it’s a great way to break your wrist. Then he said, “And don’t forget, Frost and the boss want her breathing.”

  * * *

  The steel door to the medical wing was bolted shut from inside. Five pouches of C-4 plastic explosives removed the obstacle. Jonny Frost, easily six-foot-four, emerged from the chaos and effortlessly held up his find.

  “Got her, boss,” he said to a tall, muscular figure standing in the shadows. “Just where you said she’d be.”

  The Joker stepped out from the dark. He was tall and lean, with bright green hair, and ripped like a mixed-martial-arts
fighter. Metal-capped teeth glinted in the light. He studied the beautiful young psychiatrist.

  “Doctor Quinzel,” he said, “how nice of you to join us. You’re looking… good enough to eat. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m strictly vegan. At least today.”

  Quinzel squirmed in Frost’s grip, but he held firmly onto her. “Time for a little electroshock therapy,” Joker said, then added, “Frost, do me a favor, will you? Dump our pretty lady on the table.”

  The mercenary threw Quinzel onto the exam table then strapped her into place. Joker removed his prison shirt, carefully folded it, then placed it to the side.

  His extraordinarily pale skin was covered over with dozens—maybe hundreds—of insane tattoos, showing from head to foot. An eerie wide grin was inked on his right forearm while a parade of laughing “HA-HA-HA”s crept up his chest to his left arm and under his tangle of emerald hair. Dozens more were carefully placed along his side, back, and legs, filling nearly every open space.

  He saw Quinzel staring at him, confused. He gestured toward the shirt.

  “The government spent a helluva lot of money buying us thrift store rejects, so I’m not going to potentially dirty it with your blood. Come on. Do I look like a barbarian?”

  Harleen Quinzel’s eyes reflected her fear. “Please don’t. Please. I did what you said. I helped you.” She tried to struggle free, but the straps were designed to hold a 400-pound madman.

  The Joker fell back. His eyes rolled into his head as if he simply couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He shook his head to clear away his confusion, then stuck his face inches from Quinzel’s own.

  “You helped me?” he repeated. “You helped me? By scorching what few dead, faded memories I had into a sizzling knot?”

  “That was prescribed,” she pleaded. “Everything said it was the best possible cure for you.”

  “For my what, girl? A cure for my genius? My insanity? My ability to do bird calls? Or maybe you mean it was to help cure my bad back? You know I got that digging graves for that basketball team I kidnapped, way back when.”

  She stared at him, obviously confused. He leaned closer to her.

  “Doctor Quinzel, do you know that for years and years they kept playing against this one other team. Only this one other team, and guess what? They lost every single game. Every. Single. Game.”

  The Joker sighed at the thought.

  “Anyway, where was I? Oh. Right. At some point don’t you think even a total idiot would say, ‘Maybe we should play a different team,’ or better, that ‘God’s telling us we should quit basketball and go into business selling, I don’t know, aluminum siding, maybe?’ What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she responded. “Please don’t make me. Please let me go.”

  “Let you go?” Joker said. He scratched his chin as if he was thinking deeply, then he gave her a huge smile. “Let you go? That is an idea, but when it was my turn to get my brains scrambled, you didn’t let me go, did you?”

  “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

  Joker understood. “I know. I’m sure you thought electrifying my brains was the best way to fix all my many problems. But I’ve got to ask you a question, Doctor. Did it ever cross your itty-bitty brain that maybe you could spend just a little extra time and come up with a better solution than churning my gray matter into instant pudding? What do you think, dearie? Would taking a little more time have proven a better way to go?”

  “Maybe. Sure. Why not?” Quinzel stammered, more than willing to agree with anything he said. “I mean, if that’s what you think. I was just trying to do the right thing.”

  He flailed his arms, his hands waving back and forth, puppet-like, uncontrolled, as if the hinges that held them to his wrists had broken.

  “Doing the right thing, huh? You tossed me into a black hole of rage and confusion. Is that the medicine you practice, Dr. Quinzel? Is that ‘doing the right thing’ for all your special patients?”

  He held a leather strap in one hand, and with the other traced a long, sharp pinky nail along her lips.

  “Now I’m throwing you into the same black hole,” he said as he stroked her face with the leather strap then rested it over her closed mouth. “Open up, doll,” Joker said as he pushed the strap between her lips. “And bite hard. This is so you don’t break those perfect porcelain-capped teeth when the juice hits your brain. You’ll thank me later.”

  “You say you didn’t want to hurt me,” he continued as she complied, “yet you did. And I insist I don’t intend to hurt you, but you know what? Sometimes hurt happens.” He stepped back, then gave a wide smile and laughed his approval. “You are so going to be my Mona Lisa, and I, for one, could not be more proud.”

  * * *

  Frost handed him the two paddles that had been sitting on the small steel instrument table. He made a show of smearing them with conductive jelly then placed them on her temples.

  Quinzel knew what was coming, and his slow, deliberate moves only prolonged her horror. When he smiled at her… with that awful, gleaming, murdering smile… she screamed through the ball and leather strap.

  “Forget you ever met me,” he giggled, but she knew she never could.

  Harleen Quinzel was in love with the man.

  She convulsed as 450 volts seared through her brain. Her face contorted in impossible agony. Her teeth ground into the rubber. Joker was right—if he hadn’t stuffed the ball into her mouth, her teeth would have cracked as she smashed them together.

  The psychiatrist writhed in agony. She was mewling with pain, yet somehow asked for more. Pain and pleasure. More pain than pleasure. More pleasure than pain.

  Until she heard the machine suddenly go dead. Her teeth stopped chewing the rubber ball, which was almost completely shredded into ragged strings, and then her body went slack. A single tear fell from her open eyes.

  Goodbye, sanity.

  Hello, madness, my old friend.

  * * *

  Joker let the last remains of her tears get sopped up in her laboratory smock then exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. He set aside the paddles and took a set of street clothes from Frost.

  “Good lookin’ lady, boss,” his aide-de-camp said. “She really liked you.”

  Joker slipped on the newly pressed shirt, buttoned it then checked himself out in the med-unit mirror.

  “It would never have worked,” Joker replied. “She kept trying to fix me.”

  Frost took his Glock and screwed it into Quinzel’s ear.

  “Who said you were broken?”

  Joker slipped on his diamond-shaped ‘J’ pinky ring, then he smiled… Not an ordinary smile. Not a smile to make someone laugh with him. No. This was “The Smile.” The corners of his mouth slid up his face into a vast, deadly rictus, metal teeth flashing. This was a hyena’s smile.

  A smile that could kill.

  It was a smile Frost had seen before. One that frightened the hell out of him. He holstered the Glock, then the two of them left the med lab.

  Outside, the commander of Joker’s paramilitary force stared down at the asylum’s warden, lying on the floor, rolled up in an embarrassing fetal position, knowing full well that at any moment he was going to be killed. The force were all dressed in costumes. Weird. Bizarre. Twisted costumes. The better to frighten you with.

  Panda Man, wearing a panda face mask, sported a large heart on his chest with the words “Friends forever” on it. Goat Head Priest sported an actual preserved goat’s head which he wore over his black priest robes and rosary.

  Crying Baby Man was dressed in a security man uniform while wearing a crying baby mask over his face. Eyeball Man was in a red janitor’s outfit—almost normal except for the large eyeball mask that covered his entire head.

  Finally there were Shark Heads one and two—two linebacker-sized bruisers wearing black and white shark head masks, also dressed in full black suits, with ties over white dress shirts.

  Weird. Bizarre. Twisted
costumes. The better to frighten you with.

  The commander put his gun to the warden’s temple.

  “Bang!” he said.

  He laughed as he gestured to his men that they were done. Then they all walked away, taking with them the inert form of Dr. Harleen Quinzel, leaving the warden alone and lost, whimpering on his office floor.

  FIVE

  Floyd Lawton, dressed in coveralls and carrying a toolbox, happily hummed his favorite television theme songs as he turned right on Kanigher Avenue, then sauntered down Courthouse Alley, past the ever-present gauntlet of Gotham City’s homeless.

  He gave them each a sympathetic smile, one that seemed to say “I’ve been there,” as he tossed out fast-food coupons that promised the hungry recipients a warm meal.

  They cost him nothing. He’d stolen them, and they would help thin out the crowd as the hungry hurried to get their hot but not quite so tasty Tex-Mex burritos. His generosity wasn’t so much a good deed as a necessity. The fewer people watching him during his setup stage, the better it was.

  For them.

  He watched them scramble for the coupons. One or two managed to grab a couple. A veritable feast was in store for them. He saw a woman with a baby in one of those sling carriers try to pick up a coupon, but some guy pushed her aside and took it instead. Lawton flashed on his own daughter, Zoe, as a baby… then moved on.

  Nobody said life was fair.

  He had a job to do and no time to waste.

  Yet he flashed on Zoe again. Damn. He reached into his pocket and took out his last two coupons and tossed them to the woman.

  “Lose these, you’re screwed,” he said as he walked off. She grabbed them and rushed for her dinner.

  Halfway up the block he stopped at the stone ledge he had scouted the day he took the job. He looked up to see the once-grand courthouse at the end of the street, then fit a thick steel plate into its pre-sized niche as planned. He tapped the “on” switch to the small camera drilled into the plate and grinned as its green light flashed.