Götterdämmerung

by Barry Reese

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Spreading Darkness

  Tony Quinn’s life was defined by a great and powerful lie.

  Scarred by a criminal, the well-known attorney’s face was now lined with horrific scratches across both eyes, as if a jungle cat had let loose with a deadly attack. In the aftermath of this, Tony had been left blind. Morose, he’d thought that his pursuit of justice had come to an end until a secret operation had given him a new lease on life.

  Receiving a double eye transplant from a murdered police officer, Tony had discovered that not only had his normal vision been restored but that he now possessed perfect night vision. His other senses were enhanced as well, giving him uncanny hearing, amazingly sensitive touch and a superhumanly accurate sense of smell.

  Realizing that he could accomplish even more than before, Tony adopted a double life. During the day, he continued to pretend to be blind, operating as best he could within the legal system. No matter how good of a job he did as a lawyer, however, he occasionally saw criminals slip through the cracks.

  As such, at night he donned a black bodysuit equipped with crepe-sole shoes and thin nylon gloves with rubber tips for better gripping ability. Under his armpits, he wore holstered .45 automatics and around his waist was a utility belt containing a wide variety of tools and gases. A black hood completed his disguise and hid his identity. Anyone who came across his dark path knew him only as The Black Bat, the spectral avenger of the night.

  The next few months sent ripples through the underworld. The Black Bat became one of the most feared entities in New York, smashing criminal rings at every turn and coming to blows with police officers that considered his vigilante activities to be worthy of suspicion. The Black Bat’s silhouette was now a familiar sight for all those who lived in the shadows, evoking terror in some and comfort in others.

  Aided by a gorgeous blonde named Carol Baldwin, whose father had donated his eyes to Tony; a former con man named “Silk” Kirby; and the hulking Butch O’Leary, The Black Bat’s crusade was an increasingly successful one.

  A confident smile played across the Black Bat’s lips as he thought about Carol and the way their relationship had developed. He often gave pause to reflect on the many strange paths his life had taken, having long ago decided that only by studying the past could one forge a new future.

  Studying the past actions of a thug like “Slim” Malone had allowed the Black Bat to predict that upon receiving his freedom from the state pen, the goon would head straight into the shadowy underworld of New York City, looking for work. That had proven to be the case and Slim had spent the last two weeks ingratiating himself back into the mob.

  Slim now stood in a darkened alleyway behind a nightclub called The Flying Dutchman, from which the sounds of debauchery and music drifted into the night. Slim lit a smoke and leaned against the brick wall, enjoying himself immensely. As soon as that busty brunette, Mindy or Miranda, whatever her name was, got off shift as a dancer, Slim was going to ask her to have a drink and maybe head back to his place. She’d been making doe-eyes at him all night so he thought he had a good chance to score with her.

  A cold, deadly voice came down from above, freezing the blood in Slim’s veins.

  “Back to your old habits, I see.”

  He knew that voice, for it had kept him awake nights at the state pen. It was the voice of the man who had put him away.

  Slim swallowed hard, tossing away his cigarette. He looked upwards but could see nothing save for the twinkling of stars. And then there was the briefest of movements, the rustle of a cape, and the Black Bat had dropped from the rooftop to land in a crouch before him.

  The vigilante’s right hand shot out, his fingers gripping Slim around the throat. The Black Bat lifted him off the ground, applying enough pressure that Slim struggled to breathe.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” the criminal gasped, trying to pull the Bat’s hand away so he could take a breath.

  “You were involved in that heist at O’Reilly’s Pub,” the Black Bat hissed. “Don’t deny it. The other boys have already fingered you.”

  Slim gave up the fight. He gave a quick nod and muttered an obscenity. The Black Bat smiled coldly and let the man drop to the ground. He landed in a heap at the vigilante’s feet.

  “You want to know where we fenced the goods we stole?”

  “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Slim. Your buddies said you handled the sales.”

  Slim started to answer but for some reason, his words were strangely distorted to The Black Bat’s ears. The world seemed to suddenly grow unstable, as if a powerful earthquake were shaking the ground beneath his feet.

  Slim stopped talking, staring at the hero in confusion. The Black Bat was swaying like a drunk, his hands reaching out to stabilize himself. Slim rose to his feet, torn between a desire to flee and the realization that now was his chance to off the scourge of the underworld.

  His hand snaked into an interior pocket of his coat, where it found the hilt of a knife. He paused, wondering if this were some sort of setup but finally his cowardice won out. He dropped the weapon back into his pocket and spun about, his legs churning as he bolted from the alley.

  The Black Bat, meanwhile, slid to his knees. His head was pounding and his senses, enhanced beyond those of a normal man’s, were being overwhelmed by a baffling array of sounds and smells. He gasped as images began to fly past his mind’s eye. He saw a man with a fleshless face holding a glowing crystal ball… and he saw a woman clothed in red and black, struggling to get to the obvious madman. A cacophony of screams made The Black Bat realize that somehow the terrifying figure was using the crystal ball to absorb his own madness and then share that with the world around him. He was killing innocents with the power of his own insanity!

  A powerful word slammed into his brain: Sovereign.

  Suddenly, it was all over and Tony Quinn was left alone in the alley. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just finished running a marathon.

  Looking around, he saw that Slim was gone. While he was disappointed to have lost his prey, he knew how lucky he really was. He would have been helpless to defend himself had Slim chosen to attack.

  He thought back to what he had just seen. Sovereign. Was that a reference to Sovereign City? Under normal circumstances, he would have taken off to investigate this but he had an important case beginning in the morning that he simply couldn’t miss.

  Perhaps he should reach out to one of the other heroes that he’d encountered in recent months: Thunder Jim Wade, Leonid Kaslov or even The Domino Lady. He’d even heard tales of a skull-and-crossbones type known as The Black Terror….

  With grim determination, The Black Bat fell back into the shadows, allowing himself to vanish from sight. Even if he couldn’t handle it on his own, he would do what he could to make sure that justice was done.

  * * *

  The Next Morning

  Leonid Kaslov was of Russian descent, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a white handkerchief perched dashingly out of his breast pocket and a golden ring set with a pale red stone shone on the little finger of his right hand. His teeth were pearly white and very regular, helping give the impression of a man who came from impressive stock.

  Kaslov was further blessed with a washboard stomach and remarkable grace, making him an easy target for the wandering eyes of women. Though he appreciated the interest, he rarely returned it with any real fervor. He was dedicated to his work and he found that romance had a way of distracting him from the things to which he had dedicated his life: namely, the betterment of mankind and the exploration of the unknown.

  In pursuit of those two goals, Kaslov had spent years honing his body into physical perfection and had mastered numerous sciences. Newsworld magazine had named him Man of the Year twice in the last decade, making him one of the most famous men in the nation. His most recent award had been announced just last week at a star-stu
dded press conference in Manhattan.

  He entered his office building, nestled between two other businesses. Elizabeth “Libby” Raines was seated behind the desk in the lobby, her blonde curls hanging in ringlets around her shoulders. She looked up with a smile, her blue eyes twinkling as she took him in. Her ample curves were barely contained by a tight sweater and, despite his lack of interest in the opposite sex, Kaslov was attentive enough to notice that she leaned forward in greeting, obviously hoping to catch his eye.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kaslov. An attorney by the name of Anthony Quinn is waiting in your office. I just gave him a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you, Miss Raines.”

  Leonid moved into his office and before the door was even shut behind him, he felt the cold barrel of a gun placed against his temple. He reacted with astonishing speed, ducking down while seizing hold of the hand that held the gun. He gave a twist and hurled Tony Quinn across the office, noting with pleasure that the seemingly blind attorney executed a perfect acrobatic flip that left him upright.

  Quinn hurled the gun with pinpoint accuracy, nailing Kaslov across the chin.

  Wiping away a streak of blood from the wound, Kaslov was nonetheless able to block Quinn’s next attack, which consisted of a roundhouse punch.

  The two men grunted as they exchanged a series of blows, each strike showing the marked difference in their fighting styles. With Tony Quinn, it was all about brute power and force, while the much larger Leonid Kaslov utilized a martial arts style that had been taught to him in the Orient.

  Quinn stepped back, panting. His hands were going numb from striking Kaslov’s thick torso. It was like punching a frozen slab of beef. His eyes were hidden as he said, “I can’t believe you’d strike a man wearing glasses.”

  Kaslov relaxed and both men adjusted their ties. “Mind telling me why you put a gun to my head?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t going soft since being named Man of the Year.”

  “I appreciate the concern. Did I pass muster?”

  “And then some.” Tony dropped down into a chair. He waited until Kaslov had taken his customary spot behind the desk before adding, “Miss Raines looked especially attractive today.”

  “You’re blind, remember?”

  “I’d have to be to not ask her out. What’s your excuse?”

  Kaslov sat back and studied his friend. “Why are you here, Anthony? It’s not like you to make a social call.”

  “You and I have worked together on enough cases that I feel comfortable coming to you with this but I wouldn’t admit to it to anybody else.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be. I had a vision last night.”

  The Russian leaned forward with interest. It wasn’t like Tony to speak of spiritual or supernatural matters. “Tell me about it.”

  Tony did, leaving out no detail. As a trained lawyer, he was a master at remembering and delivering testimony. When he was finished, he waited for Kaslov to digest all that he’d shared.

  “You’re not alone,” Kaslov answered. “I was reading through a series of newspaper clippings last evening. Psychics the world over are reporting such things. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that the rash of suicides in Sovereign might even be related.”

  “Do you think this could be the end of the world?”

  “Only if we don’t take the warning to heart and do something about it.” Kaslov opened a drawer of his desk and took out an atlas. Several pages within were marked by strips of paper that stuck out the top of the book. “I was planning to journey to South America, actually. According to what my contacts are telling me, a series of Aztec statues have come to life and are terrorizing the populace of several small towns. It’s probably not related to the central threat that your visions referenced but I think we’re seeing an upsurge in supernatural events as a side-effect.”

  “Maybe you should abandon that trip and head to Sovereign instead.”

  Kaslov considered it. “No matter what, those poor souls down in South America need help. With your permission, I’d like to send a full write-up of your vision to Doc Daye. He’s already in Sovereign and is probably well equipped to handle something like this.”

  “He’s out of town. I checked.”

  “In that case, Assistance Unlimited seems like a good option. I haven’t worked with Lazarus Gray before but from all accounts, he’s a good man.” Kaslov glanced at Tony and asked, “I assume that you’re not going to Sovereign yourself?”

  “I can’t. The Gilbert murder case begins today.”

  Kaslov nodded. He wasn’t going to mention it to Tony, but he’d heard from others with similar stories: Ascott Keane and Ravenwood had both sent him warnings that something unusual was occurring. “I appreciate you coming to me with this. When all is said and done, we should get together and compare notes.”

  “Assuming the world isn’t about to go down in flames,” Tony muttered. “That man I saw, the one with a skeleton face… he was insane. Utterly. I believe he’d kill every man, woman and child on earth if he could.”

  Kaslov stood up, his handsome face set with stony determination. “Then let’s make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll make sure that Assistance Unlimited knows that if push comes to shove, you and I will do everything we can to help. Is that all right?”

  “You know it is,” Tony replied. “I hate to sound pessimistic, it’s really not in my nature. It’s just that what I saw… I’ve never had an experience like that. I’m not even sure why I would. I’m no mystic!”

  “Your natural senses are greatly enhanced,” Kaslov countered. “It could mean that the so-called ‘Sixth Sense’ exists in a slightly evolved state for you, as well.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a one-time thing, then. I’m not sure I could stand having those things on a regular basis. I think it’d drive a man insane.”

  * * *

  Bob Benton wasn’t quite human.

  Oh, it wasn’t just the enhanced strength and bulletproof skin that made him different from the rest of humanity. It was his origins.

  He was an artificial man, grown like a plant. He had been intended to be a super-soldier, a warrior who would both inspire Americans and strike terror into the rising tides of the enemy.

  His garb was mostly black with a skull-and-crossbones motif. This had been carefully crafted by the men and women in charge of the project. The pirate-style boots and overall design would appeal to the roguish spirit inherent in many Americans while simultaneously implying that he was a figure of death to those he fought.

  To complete his creation, he’d been mentally fed a false life. He had initially believed himself to be a simple chemist who had gained his powers through the use of “Formic Ethers.” According to his memories, he had a girlfriend and a kid sidekick, but these had been mere fantasies. After an adventure alongside Lazarus Gray5, he’d not only gained knowledge of his true past, he’d also broken free of his captor’s control and used their own technology to bring his friends to artificial life. They had no knowledge of what they actually were and he planned to keep it that way. Tim and Jean were good people and what did it matter if they’d been born of flesh or science?

  Currently, he was crouched atop a rooftop, a cutlass held tightly in his right hand. He usually preferred to go into battle with nothing more than his fists but there were times when he knew that he might need something a little more… severe.

  He was fairly certain that tonight would be one of those times. Lately, he’d been encountering crime that was a little more… mysterious… than usual. Where he most often fought gangsters and would-be criminal masterminds, he’d encountered Satanists several times as of late. All of them were babbling about the “end times” and the return of dark gods.

  His most recent battle had been with a slovenly gentleman who’d called himself The White Worm. The Black Terror had learned that The White Worm was supposed to meet a witch called Cassandra outside a dive bar called The Blue Labyrinth
and he’d taken it upon himself to attend in The Worm’s stead.

  Down below, Cassandra stood waiting in an alleyway with four men at her side. The goons were poured into their suits, muscles visibly bulging. The Black Terror could tell that they were packing heat, as well. He spotted the telltale signs of guns holstered under their jackets.

  Cassandra was quite a sight, the hero had to admit. Tall and curvaceous, she had wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a beauty mark just above the right corner of her mouth. She wore a white dress that shone like moonlight in the gloom and when he heard her speak, her voice sounded like the tolling of church bells.

  “The Worm’s late,” she said. “Something’s not right.”

  One of the men grunted and replied, “I don’t see why we need him. He’s only good for bringing in cash from his whores and booze. We could replace him easy enough.”

  Cassandra’s pretty face twisted into a grimace. “Don’t speak of such things in front of me!” she warned. “I’m a lady, remember?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  The Black Terror shifted. He’d heard enough to confirm that this was the woman he’d been looking for. The White Worm had made it clear that Cassandra knew what was going on and why the entire town had been acting crazy lately—hell, maybe even beyond this town, if the news from Sovereign could be believed. A rash of suicides? That was enough to bring goosebumps to The Black Terror’s flesh.

  Throwing himself off the roof, The Black Terror allowed his cloak to billow out behind him. He landed in a crouch and, before the stunned goons could even comprehend what was happening, he launched himself at them. He seized the nearest of the men by the throat and threw him at another. The two men’s bodies collided with the force of a freight train, their heads slamming audibly together.

  The third man was felled by a brutal uppercut that sent teeth flying from between bloodied lips and the final fellow was silenced with a kick to his midsection that rendered him unable to do more than gasp for breath and clutch his wounded stomach.

  The entire battle—if it could be called that—was over in seconds.