by Barry Reese
Tommy couldn’t stop thinking about the lurid newspaper accounts of men and women—cops, criminals, some of no importance at all—being found lately with their heads lopped clean off. Not only were they being slaughtered but worst of all to Tommy, the heads had never been found. It was all so spooky that it was almost enough to make a guy forget about what had happened at Pearl Harbor only a few weeks before…
“You look a little jumpy.”
Tommy squealed like a little girl and spun about, growing angry as Lou began laughing at him. Lou was in his fifties, some thirty years Tommy’s senior, with a receding hairline and a beer belly. But Lou had taken Tommy in, helping him get his feet wet with the other lowlifes in the city… and for that, Tommy had been grateful. Not that he remembered that at the moment. “What the hell?” he bellowed. “I coulda popped you one!”
“With what? Your finger? You aren’t carrying a piece tonight, remember?” Lou laughed again. “Look, we’re almost done. Go get the car and bring it down here.”
Tommy turned and walked away, muttering under his breath. He heard Lou stepping back inside to relate the story to Wally and Tommy’s ears began to burn. They treated him like some kid… but he bet he’d bedded more girls in the last year than Lou and Wally combined. And Tommy had iced two guys a few months back, which made him feel like a man… but had earned him gun restriction from Lou. ‘You’ve got an itchy trigger finger,’ the older crook had warned him.
The sound of footsteps echoed once more and Tommy nearly tripped over his shoes. He looked around but saw nothing but a thick fog that had seemingly sprung up out of nowhere, wrapping its tendrils about his legs. Before his widening eyes, the fog rose to waist-level, thickening as it did so, until it looked like pea soup.
Through the haze, Tommy saw a man approaching. The figure was tall and thin, wearing what looked like an old-fashioned traveling cloak with hood. The stranger was holding something long in both hands, its end curving dangerously. Around its dark-garbed right bicep could be seen a red band, a white circle in its center with the infamous symbol of the swastika emblazoned upon it.
Tommy began to back up, fear suddenly seizing him. That thing the man was holding looked like something out of an old story or off a country farm. It was a scythe, he was sure of it. Again came to mind the news accounts of men and women being beheaded.
“Mongrel scum,” said the approaching figure, the words nearly lost in the steady clomp-clomp of booted feet on cobblestones. The man spoke with the faintest hint of a German accent. “If you had any sense, you would have taken your own life years ago. You are an abomination to humanity; a mockery of a man. There is no place for you in the New World Order.”
Tommy started to scream but his words were cut off when the man stepped through the fog, scythe raised high. The stranger’s face under the hood was enough to chill even a hardened killer’s blood for it was completely devoid of skin. What lurked there was the face of death itself: a skull in whose hollow eye sockets burned an unholy light.
Down came the scythe blade and in one swift motion Tommy’s head flew free.
* * *
“Where the hell’s the kid?” Wally wanted to know. He and Lou were standing just outside the smashed window that had let them into the professor’s house, several large sacks stuff full of priceless artifacts. Wally was a painfully thin man in his mid thirties, with a sharp nose and beady eyes. He proudly wore a small tattoo of a swastika on one shoulder, though it was hidden from sight on this cold night. A stern believer in the racist Aryan policies currently being spouted in Germany, Wally had never thought much of Tommy, whom he considered a mongrel because of his Mexican heritage. “He’s a good for nothing, Lou. I warned you.”
“He’s coming,” Lou said with a trace of irritation. The older man pointed into the fog, where the headlights of their sedan could now be seen turning the corner. “Give him a bit of peace,” Lou pleaded. “He’s a little idiot but he’s good for doing all the things we don’t want to do.”
Wally grunted, moving to stand next to his companion. The car seemed to be drifting silently towards them at a greater speed than was necessary. “What’s he doing? Coasting down here?”
Lou stepped in front of the car and raised his hands. “Maybe he can’t see us in the fog.” Lou waved his arms but finally had to jump out of the way as the car sailed past, crashing with a loud thump into a light pole.
“That jackass,” Wally hissed. “He’s gonna wake up the whole neighborhood!”
“Something’s wrong with him,” Lou said, noting that Tommy’s body was slumped over the steering wheel.
Wally moved forward, planning to beat the snot out of the punk for ruining their scheme—and the car. But as he got closer, with Lou at his heels, he began to slow down considerably. There was blood inside the car: a lot of it. And Tommy’s head seemed to be missing. “He’s dead… somebody killed him.”
Lou stared at the scene, all the color draining from his face. “Who could have done that…?”
A rustle of fabric from behind him made Lou look over his shoulder. There he came face-to-face with a skull faced entity brandishing a weapon of death.
The blade slashed through the air, connecting with flesh and bone. Wally felt the blood spray across his back and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He turned just as death came upon him.
The killer remained standing over them for a moment before retrieving each of their heads. He then opened his cloak and slipped each of them into a hidden pocket. If anyone had been watching, they would have sworn that the heads vanished completely as they were dropped into the storage place, for there was no more sign of them. They neither weighted down the Reaper’s garment nor did they cause any change in the appearance of the cloak.
The Grim Reaper then moved over to the bags of stolen goods and lifted them easily. The fog was as high as his shoulders now, rendering him virtually invisible. He opened the bags, carelessly tossing aside scrolls, statuettes and other priceless artifacts. He cared for only one thing and when he found it, an audible sigh of satisfaction came from beneath the form-fitting contours of his skull mask.
He was no denizen from beyond, this Grim Reaper, though he was certainly far from normal. He held up a model of a human skull, carved out of clear quartz crystal. The Grim Reaper studied it in detail, noting how perfectly formed it was… it was a work of art, one whose beauty went far beyond the norm. He knew there were several similar things scattered across the globe, but only a few were what were known as the Greater Skulls. Those three possessed powers far beyond the others, many of which could do little more than aid in divination or intensify emotion. The Greater Skulls were capable of so very much more…
Up close, the Grim Reaper could tell that the Skull had been carved with total disregard to the natural crystal axis and there were no signs of metal tools being used. Having been chiseled into rough form using diamonds, the skull had then been shaped through grinding and polishing with sand, over a period of approximately 300 years. Like all the Greater Skulls, maintained a permanent temperature of 70 degree Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius).
The skull began to glow with an inner light and the Grim Reaper laughed softly.
The Fuehrer would be pleased.
CHAPTER II
Visions of Horror
January 11, 1942—The Davies Plantation
Max Davies stared at himself in the full-length mirror, noting that he still appeared in very good health for a man who was nearing his 42nd birthday. He still bore a head full of wavy black hair, his olive complexioned skin was in good shape (aside from a myriad of small scars he’d accumulated) and there was not an ounce of fat on his well-toned body.
But the eyes gave it away.
His had been a tough life, forged in the fires of having seen his father gunned down before him. On top of that had come painful visions of future crimes, crimes so horrible that Max had felt compelled to build himself into a living weapon against those who would strike at the innocen
t.
Max adjusted his tie before turning away from the mirror and pulling on his coat. He could hear Evelyn out in the hall, fussing with their son William. The little boy, who would turn three this year, did not have any interest in wearing his own suit.
“Need any help?” Max asked, stepping out into the hallway. From the look on his wife’s face, he had chosen the wrong tack to take.
“No,” she said frostily. “We’re doing just fine. Can’t you tell?”
Max cleared his throat and knelt to pull William close to him. He couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Evelyn as she stood up. She looked lovely in a cream colored gown that clung to every one of her amply inviting curves. Her auburn hair was pulled back, leaving just a few ringlets to dangle about her bare shoulders. “William,” Max said, drawing his eyes back so that they locked with his son’s. “What’s wrong, son?”
“I don’t want to,” the boy said. He had inherited his mother’s hair color and eyes but the features on his face were all Max’s.
“If you’re well behaved at the wedding, we’ll have Nettie and Josh whip up some ice cream. How’s that?”
“Okay!” William answered with a grin. He let his father finish getting him dressed and then took off down the hall, yelling to Nettie that he was going to get ice cream.
“You spoil him,” Evelyn said, though there was no ire in her voice.
“He’s a good boy,” Max responded with a shrug. He kissed his wife on the cheek and whispered “You look ravishing.”
“Down,” she laughed, pushing him away gently. “I just got my hair and makeup the way I want it.” Her face took on a serious cast and she lowered her voice so that Nettie wouldn’t hear. The old black woman was almost like part of the family, which was why Evelyn didn’t want her to overhear. “Do you think McKenzie’s doing the right thing? They barely know one another!”
He couldn’t argue with that sentiment. One of the Davies’ best friends was Atlanta’s police chief, Will McKenzie—he was, in fact, the namesake for our little boy. But just a few months ago, he had been kidnapped by a German agent calling herself the Iron Maiden. In the end, the Maiden—whose real name was Kirsten Bauer—had fallen madly in love with McKenzie and he’d reciprocated. Their whirlwind romance had led to Max pulling more than a few strings to get her accepted in the United States, without having to spend a day in prison. Thanks to her in-depth knowledge of Hitler’s inner circle, she’d proven her worth to the government already. Now that America was officially in the war thanks to Japan’s cowardly attack in December, she would no doubt be called upon again soon.
“McKenzie’s a grown man,” Max pointed out. “He’s old enough to make decisions for himself about who he’s going to be with.”
“How can he want to marry her?” Evelyn continued, looking confused and more than a little angry. “She tortured him, for heaven’s sakes!”
“Maybe he figures it was good practice for marriage,” Max said, quickly dancing out of range of her answering slap. “Just joking, my darling!”
“I’m serious. I think he’s rushing into this.”
“I know… and I’m worried, too. But he and Kirsten seem happy with one another. Let’s just wish them the best and not condemn their marriage before they’ve had the chance to make it work.”
Evelyn smoothed down her dress and nodded, though she looked thoroughly unconvinced. Max knew he was very lucky to have found her; she was supportive of his vigilante activities but she never hesitated to point out when he was going astray. She was his rudder in the choppy seas of life.
Evelyn caught his attentive stare and blushed. “What?” she asked, looking self-conscious.
“Nothing. You just… look wonderful.”
“I love you, too.” Evelyn kissed him gently on the cheek and took his hand.
* * *
The wedding took place on the green grasses of Max and Evelyn’s home, a fully restored former plantation property. Max served as the best man, smiling at his friend’s uncharacteristic nervousness. McKenzie was a handsome and normally gregarious person, with dark hair and eyes; His bride just as attractive, with long blonde hair, green eyes and pouty red lips.
Many of their mutual friends were in attendance and Max managed to find time to speak to many of them: the always mysterious avenger named Benson, who had managed to help the Peregrine smooth out his problems with law enforcement; the Russian superman Leonid Kaslov and his associates Benjamin Flynn and Libby Raines; the enigmatic Ascott Keane; and the blind lawyer Tony Quinn.
During the reception, Max managed to find a few moments alone with McKenzie, who had that kind of wide-eyed deer-in-the-headlights look to him that all men have on their wedding day. “So where are you two going for your honeymoon?” Max asked.
McKenzie let out a long sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Can’t say. Kirsten would kill me. She wants us to get away from everything for a few days.”
“Good for her. Look, don’t worry about things back here. You’ve got a lot of good men on the force… and I’ll be around to make sure nothing gets too far out of hand.”
McKenzie nodded, pushing his hands deep into his suit pockets. “That killer struck again last night. Killed three men. It looks like the guys were in the middle of breaking into a house when the killer came upon them.”
“So he’s a vigilante now?” Max asked, adopting a pensive expression.
“Not sure about that. The house belonged to a guy named Stephen Gaines. He’s a history professor at the University. According to him, there’s only one item that’s missing. I think the killer took it.”
“What was it?”
“A crystal skull. It was recovered from an archaeological site in South America about six years ago. Gaines bought it at auction a few months ago.”
“Is it worth much?” Max asked, wondering if greed might provide an explanation for the crime.
“A fair mint to the right people, yeah. But the professor says it might be something else: according to local legend, that skull is a mystical artifact. On its own the skull is dangerous enough, according to the believers… but if united with its two twins—they’re called the Greater Skulls, it’s capable of destroying the world.”
Max grunted. “So it looks like the killer might be looking to grab the others, as well? Any leads on where they might be?”
“Not a clue.” McKenzie put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “But I figure you can find out while I’m out of town.”
“So nice of you to think of something to keep me busy,” Max deadpanned. Growing more serious, he lowered his voice and said, “I hope this works out for you. I really do.”
“Thanks, Max. I know that some folks think I’m crazy for doing this… but I love her. And I think she loves me, too.”
“That’s the most important thing.” Max looked up to the sky, where the sun was beginning to sink low behind the pine trees. The air was brisk on this January day and there was something of a melancholy feeling that clung to every detail. It had been that way for Max ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor, when he had realized that his fears over the growing war in the Pacific and in Europe were all too real. As the Peregrine, he’d clashed with enough Nazis in recent years to know exactly how dangerous their agenda could be… and now the nation was going to find out for itself.
Max started to voice some of his concerns to Will when suddenly a pounding settled in the base of his skull. It grew in intensity until it felt like someone was driving a nail straight into his brain… and it was a painful sensation that was all too familiar.
Haunted since childhood by visions of the future, Max had tried in vain to banish the things from his life. He had finally settled in to a benign appreciation of the awful gift he possessed.
Gritting his teeth, Max felt the world sway around him. He reached out blindly for McKenzie, who caught his arm to hold his friend upright.
In the darkness of his mind’s eye, the Peregrine began to see
images appear:
Three crystal skulls, side-by-side. All three were glowing with an inner light that was almost blinding. Standing above and behind them was a figure straight out of myth: the grim reaper, cloaked and hooded, the bones of his skeletal face just barely in view. In his hands was held a long, dangerous looking scythe. The images then swirled, as if someone were disrupting the scene with a brush of their fingertips. Max wondered idly if that wasn’t the case—his father, Warren Davies—was the one directly responsible for these visions, sending them to Max across the void separating the living and the dead.
The scene shifted, to reveal the face of a man that the Peregrine knew very well. He had never met him personally, of course, but Adolf Hitler’s visage was growing more infamous by the day. It haunted newsreel footage and was already inspiring fear and hatred amongst many Americans. Due to the freshness of the Pearl Harbor tragedy, there was more dislike for Japan in the States than for Germany at the moment, but Max felt certain that would change over time, giving all members of the Axis at least equal footing as villains. Max saw Hitler reaching out to grasp a crystal skull, his voice ringing out in German. Max, who could speak numerous languages fluently, heard the leader of the German war machine speak as clearly as if they were in the same room together: “Inform our allies that we have won. No one will stand against us now…”
Hitler’s image faded, replaced by a horrifying vision that seemed to stretch on for miles. America’s heartland, reduced to dry dust and a barren landscape… here and there Max could see bones of animals and humans sticking up from the earth. It was a nightmare given perfect form.
When Max blinked hard, the images were gone, having taken less than ten seconds to fully appear in his mind. He found McKenzie staring at him in concern.
“It happened again, didn’t it?” McKenzie asked, having witnessed his friend’s episodes before.