by Barry Reese
Werner stared at the Peregrine, smiling through the blood and pain. “Destroy the Peregrine. Destroy him!”
Max felt a sudden stabbing pain in the very core of his being. It was awful enough to drive him to his knees, filling him with a strong desire to vomit. His heart ached and his brain pounded. It felt like his entire being was being crushed in a vise.
The Peregrine strained to stand but could not. For an awful moment, he thought the end had come: the prophecy of Nyarlathotep would never come to pass; his son would grow up without a father.
But then his private mantra came to him, offering strength: When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!
Max felt a renewed surge of energy, bolstered by thoughts of his wife and son. He had not lived a lifetime filled with adventure and danger just to die in the home of a death-garbed Nazi.
“Don’t listen to him,” Max whispered between clenched teeth. “Do what I want…”
The skulls, driven by some alien intelligence, seemed to hesitate. The pain lessened in Max’s mind and Werner felt their power fluctuate.
“No!” Werner exclaimed. “You belong to me…”
We belong to no one. We are old, older than you and your kind. Bound to these skulls we are, bound to do the will of those who summon us. But belong to no one! Never!
Max almost smiled at those words, for they sounded full of righteous indignation. That meant there was a chance that the skulls could be turned against the Nazis.
“He thinks of you as tools, nothing more,” Max continued, exerting every ounce of his will. He telepathically projected his own desires, trying to bend the skulls’ power away from him and directly towards Werner.
The Grim Reaper rushed the Peregrine, pressing his hands around the hero’s throat. He had dispatched with the scythe, tossing it to the floor. “Kill him,” Werner hissed. “Obey me…”
The Peregrine wrapped his own fingers around the neck of his enemy. The two men struggled against one another, each engaging in a battle on two fronts: physical and mental.
The skulls seemed to flicker back and forth between them, uncertain as to which to follow. Max could have sworn he felt the skulls examining him, every mental inch, in an attempt to weigh him against Werner. He had no idea what criteria they would use to choose their master but Max felt strongly that if they went based on simple force of will, he would win out.
In the end, for that reason or for some other unexplainable one, the skulls decided exactly that. Werner Richter’s brain exploded inside his head, the full power of the Greater Skulls brought to bear against him. Blood spurted from his shattered nose and flecked his lips, his hands loosening their grip on Max’s neck. Werner fell against the Peregrine’s shoulder, all his visions of glory and godhood passing away in an overwhelming ocean of red.
Epilogue
January 20, 1942—New York City
“What did you do with the other two?” Kaslov asked as he placed the crystal skull in a lead-lined box. After closing and locking the lid, the box was placed in storage in a large walk-in closet, filled with oddities the Russian had collected over the years.
“One of them is in Atlanta, in my Nest,” Max said, watching his friend. “The other… I asked Ascott Keane to look after it.”
Kaslov stared into his friend’s weary features. “You did the world a very big favor, Max. Those skulls… if they’d found their way into Hitler’s hands… I shudder to think what he would have done with them.”
“I almost kept them, you know.” Max pushed his hands deep into his pockets and looked contemplative. “I thought about all the criminals I could take care of just by thinking of them. I could have taken out Hitler, Mussolini…”
Kaslov moved closer, lowering his voice. “You did the right thing. No man should play at being God. Not ever.”
Max thought it over for a minute and then nodded. “I hope this war doesn’t last so long that I regret my decision, Leo. I really do.”
THE END
CATALYST
An adventure starring the Peregrine
By Barry Reese
CHAPTER I
Death in Flight
October 14, 1942—London, England. 4:30 AM
Bane Industries, London
Neville Burke shuffled the papers on his desk, before placing them in a manila envelope and filing them away. His thin, gaunt features were drawn even tighter than normal tonight… for he had made a costly decision, one that he had agonized over for many long months.
Bane Inc.’s former CEO, John Langley, had become a pawn of the Nazis during the late Thirties—and he’d pushed Bane down an ever-darkening road. Through him, members of the Bane family became interested in Fascism and the burgeoning Reich. Toxic waste dumping, trafficking in various illegal animal trades and much more had become part and parcel of how Bane did business. Even after Mr. Langley had died in the midst of the Blitz (killed by the same Nazis he desperately wanted to be a part of), the ravenous beast that had become Bane continued on its merry, sadistic way.
“I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much.” Neville rose and crossed the room to his window. It was a beautiful London night, with just enough of a nip in the air to make you feel alive. The Blitz which had terrorized London was now over a year in the past, and the city had begun to return to a sense of normalcy, though Neville thought it would never be the same again. Over 43,000 people had been killed, the majority of them in London itself. It had been a time of pure terror… even now, with Hitler’s attentions focused elsewhere, there were still occasional air raids from the Germans, everyone was still jumpy when it came to watching the night skies.
Neville pushed against the glass, feeling it give way before him. He stood at the precipice, hung between life and death. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
Closing his eyes, Neville allowed himself to fall forward…
Into a world far less evil than the one he’d known.
* * *
October 15, 9:05 AM
Nathaniel Caine took a puff on his fag, trying to ignore the fact that he was soaked to the bone. He held an umbrella over his head, but it was tattered to the point where it afforded little protection for anything but his smoke. “Give me his name again.”
“Neville Burke. Age 42. Been employed with Bane for about 15 years, worked his way up from mail room clerk to the bloke with the biggest window office.”
“It was the death of him, poor chap.” Nathaniel flicked his fag away, letting it fall sizzling into a puddle. He knelt beside the corpse, pulling back the sheet that protected what remained of Neville Burke from the elements. He hadn’t fared well in the fall, as his head had split open and forced one of his eyes right out of the socket. The rest of him looked more like a broken marionette than a human being. “I hate this kind of thing, Charlie. I honestly do.”
Charlie nodded, pushing his wide-brimmed hat back a bit. He was far rounder than his partner, having never broken himself of a childhood love for sweets. He had a Flake bar in his pocket even now, set aside for an afternoon snack. Charlie saw his friend run a hand through his longish brown hair, which was a bit more than regulation allowed for. Nat’s skills were such that his superiors turned a blind eye to the dress code violation. “You’re good at it, mate. The lord Jesus has given you a gift.”
Nathaniel looked up into Charlie Gamble’s open, round face… he resisted the urge to hurl expletives at his dear friend. Charlie had no idea what Nathaniel’s life had been like, ever since the events of August 13th and 14th had taken place. “Gifts” were what many people called their newfound abilities. To Nathaniel, it was a curse of the lowest order. “I don’t think Jesus had the least bit to do with any of this, Charlie. I really don’t.”
Truth be told, Nathaniel had no clue about where his powers came from. On August 13th and again on the 14th, instruments in London had detected a massive spike in cosmic ray radiation. The cause was still unknown and probably always would be… but some
people began to exhibit unusual side-effects in the days and weeks following. Nathaniel, unfortunately, was one of them.
Nathaniel had spent the better part of five years with the London police force, most of them patrolling the worst areas that the city had to offer. Since the strange lights in the sky last month had altered him, however, he’d become a much more important ‘face’ for the department. They wheeled him out for all the big cases now, utilizing his unusual abilities to solve crimes for the economic elite… people like Neville Burke
Nathaniel’s fingers came to rest on Neville’s cheek. The skin was soft and somewhat rubbery, with a congealed texture that made Nathaniel’s stomach churn. He fought the urge to draw away. Contact was necessary.
It came quickly, as always. A sudden rush of coldness, one that sapped away all the heat and life from Nathaniel. He greedily sucked in air, his eyes flashing white and pupil-less as the power overtook him. He was no longer the simple young man from Birmingham, whose drive for success had taken him away from the family’s historical vocations in railroad work.
He was something else.
Something changed; something altered. Whatever those Cosmic Rays really were, they had become a catalyst for change within Nathaniel’s body.
Images flashed through his mind’s eye, bombarding him with little details about the man who lay before him. He saw lost loves, secret shames and the tiny joys that fill the lives of everyone, great or small. He knew Neville Burke in that instant, in an intimate way that he could never express with mere words.
And he saw the horror that had driven the man to take his own life.
“There’s another world,” he whispered, and his voice was so filled with dread that Charlie took a step away from him. “Another earth… just like ours. It’s being powered by… an angel. Red… Blood… Pain… God, there’s so much pain…”
Nathaniel yanked his hand away, just as a hideous image of a massive swastika filled his vision. He saw/felt/heard the fires of creation… and he felt his heart pounding away in his own chest, the moment of pure transcendence almost too much for him.
“You okay, Nat?” Charlie knelt beside his mate, moving a shaking hand towards Nathaniel’s shoulder. He never quite made contact, but his voice gave full evidence of his concern. “It was worse this time, wasn’t it?”
“It was bloody awful,” Nathaniel confirmed. He wrapped his arms about himself, oblivious to all the other officers. His eyes were still wide open and filled with white; tiny bursts of air coming from his mouth as he talked. “I need to see this bloke’s office, Charlie. Right now.”
CHAPTER II
The Pawns of Evil
October 14, 1942—Just outside London
The apelike Girse and the legless giant Bostiff moved through the darkened warehouse, the only sounds to be heard the rhythmic thump-thump as Bostiff dragged his massive girth across the floor. The two men were as evil as they came, both servants to an even greater threat: the international criminal mastermind known only as Doctor Satan. Their service to the dark lord frequently led them to travel outside the United States, and this time he had brought them to England . Nether understood why, but they never questioned their master.
But the ones pursuing them wanted answers and would stop at nothing to get them.
Girse looked at Bostiff as they neared the door. Outside was waiting their roadster, which would speed them to safety. But how to reach it…?
“Hello boys,” a woman purred from their left. Both men turned to see a sultry auburn-haired beauty step into view, moving around one of the many crates that dominated the interior of the warehouse. As one of Satan’s many hiding places, the site was filled with occult objects and weapons, none of which the unfortunate Girse or Bostiff knew how to use.
The woman who addressed them wore khaki pants and a white blouse, a small waist-length leather jacket over her arms and shoulders. Leather gloves and a small bird-like mask that fit over her eyes and nose completed her attire. She was in her early thirties and almost painfully lovely, but there was something in her manner that promised pain if she were provoked into action.
“Go away,” Girse grumbled hoarsely. The man had simian features and a hunched back, which had rendered him unattractive to the fairer sex his entire life. As a result, he held both a fascination and distrust of all beautiful women. “Or we’ll hurt you,” he warned.
“That’s no way to speak to a lady,” the woman replied. Evelyn Davies sprang forward in the blink of an eye, driving one booted foot under Girse’s chin. The blow caused his teeth to smash into each other, pinching his tongue in the process, blood spurted from a corner of his mouth.
Bostiff chose this moment to rush the door. He felt no real loyalty to Girse, despite the fact that the apish figure was the closest thing to a friend he would ever have. When it came to survival, Bostiff’s first loyalty would always be to himself.
With surprising speed, Bostiff reached the exit and flung it open. The car was in easy view, illuminated by the full moon that hung bloated in the nighttime sky. Behind him, Girse cried out as the woman continued her assault, but Bostiff never looked back as he dragged himself with his callused hands to the car. Despite his lack of legs, he was confident he could drive the vehicle far enough to escape capture. From there, he would contact Doctor Satan…
A sudden blow to the side of his head sent Bostiff toppling over onto his back. He shook his head to try and clear it but his vision remained blurred for several seconds and his ears. When his eyes cleared, he saw a familiar figure standing above him, a glowing yellow dagger held in a gloved hand.
It was the Peregrine, the Atlanta-based vigilante who had crossed paths with Doctor Satan during the Bleeding Hells affair. The Peregrine was a tall, athletic man in his early forties, with wavy black hair and a Mediterranean tint to his skin. He wore a long coat that flapped in the breeze over a well-tailored suit and tie. His famous bird-like mask helped hide the truth from the world: that he was actually well-known socialite Max Davies.
The Peregrine knelt at the side of the legless monster and brandished his blade a bit closer to the villain’s face. “Where’s Satan? Tell me and I swear that I won’t hurt you.”
Bostiff spat in the Peregrine’s face, the phlegm landing with a sickening sploot on Max’s right cheek.
The Peregrine sighed and wiped away the disgusting fluid with the back of a glove. “Okay. We’ll play it your way, then.” Max shot out an arm and spread his fingers over Bostiff’s eyes and forehead. The villain thrashed about, reaching up with his powerful arms to try and pry away the Peregrine’s grip. Unfortunately for him, the Peregrine had already called upon the mental powers he possessed. Max had gotten remarkably better at this sort of thing since he’d undertaken specialized training a few months ago and the Peregrine was increasingly willing to employ his special gifts of telepathy and telekinesis in his war on crime. The use of such left him fatigued, however, so he never planned to use them wastefully.
Plus, touching minds with the likes of Bostiff was distasteful to say the least.
Max saw a rush of images, most of which he tried to brush aside as quickly as possible: a litany of sins, both real and imagined, filled much of Bostiff’s mental space. Max felt his stomach churn as he saw countless lives ruined by Doctor Satan and his henchmen. Satan had killed Leopold Grace, one of Max’s best friends… an act that had led to the Peregrine swearing to bring the murderer to justice.
The Peregrine zeroed in on the things that had brought him to London: the series of odd murders, all centering around employees of Bane Industries. Max had learned through his connections in law enforcement that Bostiff and Girse had been seen at several of the murder scenes. He’d followed them to England, knowing that their demonic master couldn’t be far away.
The Peregrine caught sight of his quarry, now: he saw Doctor Satan, looking as evil as his namesake in blood-red clothing and a long, flowing cloak. A horned hood was drawn up, hiding the villain’s true features fro
m the world. Satan was speaking to Bostiff in the legless crook’s memory, speaking with the same derision that he always used when addressing his underlings:
“Bane is up to something… something that I can use, if I can find out all the details. Here’s a list of men and women who know about the Un-Earth project. Find them—make them talk! And if they won’t give you the information we need, kill them!”
The images faded, replaced by ones of Bostiff and Girse confronting the people on the list. They received virtually no information, other than confirmation that something “big” was happening with whatever this Un-Earth was. Max saw them finally getting the name from a higher-ranking exec: Lamar Bane. Doctor Satan had paid a visit to the man’s home, only to find it empty and showing no signs of having been occupied in recent times.
Bostiff and Girse had been sent to the warehouse with orders to wait for Satan’s arrival… but Max knew with dread certainty that Satan would never come here now. Somehow, he would sense what had happened to his henchmen.
Pulling away mentally, the Peregrine continued to hold Bostiff in place. The legless villain had ceased struggling now, having been pushed into submission by the power of Max’s mind. The Peregrine pulled off the glove of his right hand and revealed a signet ring, a blood-red stone on its surface. The stone bore the image of a bird in flight and it glowed as it neared Bostiff’s forehead. The thug seemed to awaken as it touched his skin, the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils. He screamed as the mystic stone branded him for life. Before he passed out from the agony, Bostiff heard the Peregrine muttering words that had become feared throughout the underworld: When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!
When the deed was done, Max stood up and pulled his glove back into place. He heard Evelyn approaching and turned to face her. “Girse?”