by Неизвестный
The lead snake-man was forty yards away when he shoved the stock of the Winchester into his shoulder, gripped the barrel with his left hand, aimed over the front site, and with his right hand, squeezed the trigger. Shooting at a moving target while at a full gallop was pure foolishness. He aimed for the monster’s broad, greenish scaly torso.
His bullet hit it in the face. The snake-man collapsed hard directly in front of its companion. Unable to stop, the remaining human reptile fell over the one and both elongated bodies became entangled.
Three-Feathers gave a prayerful thanks to his ancestors and rode past the hellish beings spurring his horse to greater speed. As he did so, he spared one glance over his left shoulder to see what reaction his attack had instigated. He saw dozens of German troopers jumping into a armored personnel carrier, as another of the snake-men was fumbling to get the front gates open.
In a matter of seconds, that truck and who knew what else would be on his tail. The Range Rider put away his rifle, leaned over his horse’s neck, and kicked at her ribs, urging her to run like the wind. The hills and safety were a mile away. If he could reach them he had a chance.
If not…?
The second the front tower exploded, Hunter Noir and Mr. Mask slid away from the crest of the ravine, lowering themselves further out of sight. As soon as the sirens had begun blaring, activity throughout the camp had heightened. Then with the booming vaporization of the guard tower, all hell had broken loose.
Removing his hat, the master spy pushed his head up behind a bowling ball-sized rock and peeked around it. Both rear tower personnel were frantically moving the overhead spotlights back and forth from the inner courtyard to the ground beyond the fence. Fortunately the Kliegs’ twin white beams were angled in such a way that they moved directly above the ravine, and it remained hidden in the shadows as did the two commandos.
Hunter watched as several rear Quonset hut doors sprang open, and from them emerged startled men and women. They had to be the refugees of Adobe Wells, and they were shaken by the explosion and desperate to learn its meaning. But the second they were out in the open, the tower guards began firing down at them. Their gunfire stopped short of the ragged prisoners, wanting only to stop their exit from their metal barracks. Then a squad of rifle-wielding soldiers accompanied by another set of snake-men arrived on the scene and brutally began herding the panicked mob back into their respective huts.
A few Nazis used the butts of their weapons to club those prisoners daring to resist. One thin, bearded fellow managed to punch a guard, break free of their ranks, and make it into the open yard. There he looked around crazily as both spotlights fell on him. Too late, he realized his folly. Crying out in anguish, he bolted for the fence, only to have one of the snake-men go after him, claws extended. It fell upon the fleeing man just as he reached the wire. It bit into his neck from behind, as its long sharp claws tore his body apart. Blood squirted everywhere, and what had once been a living, breathing man was reduced to pieces of lifeless meat in a matter of seconds.
A woman screamed at the horror of it. In the end, it deflated their will to resist. The German soldiers were able to force them back into their prisons without further trouble.
Hunter Noir rolled over onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to blot out the vicious murder he’d just witnessed. When he opened his eyes again and looked to his side, Mr. Mask was staring back at him, his hands gripping his machine gun. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, the hybrid warrior used his right thumb to make a slashing motion along his own throat, indicating to his companion what was in store for their enemies.
Yet they had all agreed it would have been suicide to attack simultaneously, because they were so few in number. Rather, the strategy they were following was to let the Nazis and Martians believe the Range Rider was a crazy lone assailant. That meant lying low in the aftermath of his daring attack, until the enemy assured itself there was no further threat to their base and resumed their routine status.
The toughest part of the mission for both Hunter Noir and Mr. Mask would be waiting in the dark. Hunter had decided they would wait a full twenty minutes before making their own move.
Glancing at his wristwatch, Hunter Noir was happy to see the twenty minutes had elapsed. He signaled Mr. Mask, and once more they crawled up the embankment to their former positions. There, Hunter adjusted the M1 carbine and began to point the muzzle end up at the tower to their right. As expected, things had calmed down within the compound. The sirens had been shut off and the only irregular sounds they could hear were coming from the front of the station. The spy assumed the Germans were busy cleaning up the debris of the destroyed tower, and he was happy for the noise they were making.
He took a final look at Mr. Mask and nodded. It was time to move.
He closed his left eye and looked over the rifle’s front sight, at the German soldier and the Martian occupying the small square tower. Again, his luck held, as both were standing with their backs to each other, scanning different areas. The Martian was facing him, as he held his breath and then gently squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot cracked, and the Martian cried out and fell forward over the railing. By the time his human counterpart had turned around, Hunter had put the Nazi in his cross-hairs and fired a second round. Again, he hit his target. The German fell backwards out of sight.
Of course the shots had alerted the team in the other tower, and they were now twisting their .50 caliber machine gun about, trying to find the source of the two single shots. It would be a matter of seconds before others would arrive on the scene. They had no time for mistakes. Hunter Noir twisted his body, and this time he shot at the massive spotlight, shattering it into a millions pieces.
At the same time, Mr. Mask had jumped up and raced to the wire fence. With the two guards dead in one tower and their light pointed away from the compound, and now that Hunter had taken out the second light, Mr. Mask was barely visible in the backglow. Still, he was completely exposed.
From his army belt, Mr. Mask took out a pair of bolt-cutters and began snipping his way through the thin wire fence.
Even though unable to see him clearly, the tower sentries opened fire with the big machine gun, firing wildly along the fence in the hope of hitting whoever was attacking. Seeing the heavy weapon’s muzzle flashes, Hunter, now on his feet, fired back at them. His second shot elicited a scream. The machine gun was silent for a moment. It was enough time for Mr. Mask to push open a huge section of the cut fence and, in a crouch, move through it. Hunter came up right behind him. Both knew their continued survival depended on what transpired in the next few minutes.
Firing his Tommy Gun at the Martian left alive in the guard tower, Mr. Mask raced to its base while Hunter Noir covered his back. When the Quonset doors popped open again as he’d expected they would, he was quick to identify himself.
“All of you, I’m an American agent working for the Federal Government,” he yelled just as a handful of Nazis troopers came charging around the corner. Hunter emptied his rifle magazine into them, then tossed the weapon aside and yanked free his .45 automatic and Mauser pistols. Bullets zipped past him, but he turned sideways, offering the Germans a slim target. He dropped the last three men with deft marksmanship.
By now, a full dozen men and women were huddled in front of the curved metal buildings, unsure how to proceed.
“Don’t just stand there,” he barked. “You men grab their weapons. Me and my pal can’t do this alone!”
As to emphasize that point, the Martian tower sentry materialized again and began working the .50 caliber gun. Death rained down on them, and several of the civilians fell from the deadly volley. Hunter turned to the tower and fired both pistols at the muzzle flashes again, but the Martian had ducked down to fit a new ammo belt into the weapon’s breech.
Where the hell is Mask? Hunter thought, hoping the frightened group before him would find their courage before it was too late.
Several men rushed to the bodies of the dead Nazis and began grabbing their rifles and hand guns, much to Hunter’s relief.
Looking past them at the base of the tower, he could just make out Mr. Mask’s figure as he worked on one of the support columns. Hunter saw a tiny match flame and then sputtering sparks. His ally had just lit the fuse to a pack of TNT sticks now taped to the stanchion.
The half-breed then started running from the tower as fast as his long legs would carry him, only to run full-tilt into three snake-men who suddenly appeared from around the corner of the last hut. They all converged on Mr. Mask, surrounding him on three sides.
He whipped up his submachine gun and fired point-blank into the nearest monster as it rose up before him, his slugs tearing through its chest.
Some of the now armed men began to take pop-shots at the snake-men, but Hunter stopped them. “Don’t, you’ll hit my friend!” They looked at him in confusion. “The big guy in the gas-mask!” he added.
Before the confused men could fully comprehend his words, another squad of soldiers, some of them half-dressed, entered the fray, having come from their giant bivouac tent. They were led by a square-jawed captain, screaming orders at the top of his lungs. Hunter knew enough German to know he was telling his men to kill everyone.
Hunter Noir extended his arm with the Mauser in it and called out, “Hey, Fritz!”
The angry Nazi looked up, and Hunter shot him in the heart. He fell to his knees in surprise, his mouth forming a big O, and then he collapsed onto his face.
“Keep at ‘em!” Hunter cried, encouraging his ragtag army. The real battle had just begun, and it was anybody’s game at this point.
Meanwhile, Mr. Mask was still facing off against the remaining two snake-men. They had ceased moving in on him when he’d drilled the third one. Confident, he turned his machine gun on the pair only to have it suddenly jam up. The fiendish beasts realized his weapon was broken and once again lunged forward. Throwing the useless Thompson at them, Mr. Mask back-pedaled away from them while clawing to pull the machete from its sheathe.
Suddenly the dynamite exploded with a massive concussion, and the ruined brace began to crumble. The entire structure started to topple. At this, Mr. Mask spun around and ran for all he was worth.
At the same time, more German and Martian troops had arrived in the courtyard as the tall hybrid raced by them. They saw Hunter Noir and his men, and they began to open fire. At which point, the two frantic snake-men plowed into them. Then the entire guard tower, like massive forest timber, dropped on all of them, crushing them into the ground.
Hunter Noir couldn’t believe their dumb luck. The massive structure, made of wood and steel, had flattened the remaining snake-men and most of the enemy force. Those that were not dead were crying and moaning under the twisted, broken debris that covered them. Without hesitation, Hunter and the escaped prisoners approached the pile and methodically shot all those still alive.
Mr. Mask came up to stand beside Hunter as more men and women exited the other Quonset huts and gathered around them.
“Who the hell are you people?” one gray-haired man asked, holding a smoking German rifle in his hands.
“We’re government agents,” Hunter Noir repeated. “We’re here to help you escape.”
“We’ll I’ll be hog-tied,” the man chuckled, and then he stuck out his hand. “I’m Clem Randon, and on behalf of all of us, thanks.”
“No time for thanks just yet,” the spy cautioned, shaking Randon’s hand. He recognized the name; he realized this had to be Darcy’s father. He slipped the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the emaciated Randon. “There’s a dozen hand grenades in there. Pass them out among your people. We’re going to make our way to the front gate. The rest of the Huns and their alien masters will be waiting for us.”
“Understood. Mister, we’re with you all the way.”
“Good, then let’s move out. You men with the weapons go first; women and children stay behind us.” Hunter signaled Mr. Mask to take point, and the big Martian Killer jogged to the front of the group and started down a wide alley between two of the corrugated huts. The others followed.
The Nazis and their alien allies were in total disarray when Mr. Mask and his group of escapees came rushing into the open space where the massive canvas tents stood. The remaining front tower immediately opened up on them, as did a handful of soldiers stumbling out of the tents.
Not wasting a second, Mr. Mask pulled a hand-grenade from his web-belt, yanked out the pin, and then taking two long strides, tossed it high into the air at the tower. The deadly pineapple soared upward in a curved arc and disappeared in the confines of the cramped wooden structure at the top. A heartbeat later, the interior exploded, hurling both the human and alien gunners out like discarded rag dolls. Both were dead before their bodies smacked into the ground.
With this last tower knocked out of commission, the refugees’ zeal was doubled to destroy all the Nazis and Martians and gain their freedom. With Mr. Mask and Hunter Noir fighting with them, the group pressed forward until a fire erupted from the tent to their left. Black smoke spiraled from it, and soon, soldiers on fire emerged, screaming in agony. Hunter and his people mowed them down mercifully.
At the same time, the American spy spotted white-coated Martians exiting the remaining camp and racing to the front gates, in a vain attempt to escape into the desert. He pointed to them and ordered a squad of his people to give chase. “Don’t let them escape!”
He then raced to the remaining tent in time to see Mr. Mask pull back the folded flap and toss another grenade inside. The resulting explosion propelled two dead soldiers into the courtyard, and then the tall hybrid commando entered the brightly lit interior.
Hunter Noir ran into the tent only to be blocked by Mr. Mask who had come to a sudden stop upon viewing the enclosure. There, in front of both of them, was a wide cement ramp descending into what looked like an underground bunker.
Hunter grabbed Mr. Mask’s left arm and stepped alongside him. The giant fighter, who had acquired a German-made MP 40, looked at his bandaged comrade, his opaque gas-mask lenses hiding his eyes eerily. Hunter Noir held up his twin pistols and grinned, “Together.”
Side by side they continued down the ramp into a long concrete laboratory, brightly lit with overhead halogen lights. It seemed to go on for several hundred yards in all four directions, and Hunter realized the concentration camp was nothing but a camouflage to conceal the base’s true purpose. All around them were giant glass tubes connected to chemical vats. Inside them were all manner of obscene horrors with vague human shapes. Amidst these various liquid-filled booths were operating tables, on which naked men and women has been strapped and then cruelly dissected.
“Dear God in heaven!” Hunter Noir gasped, his eyes refusing to believe the twisted horror everywhere he looked. There were more snake-men being grown in nearby vats, while in others he looked upon what appeared to be giant spiders with human heads.
BLAM!
Hunter’s fedora ripped off his head, the bullet missing his scalp by inches.
He twisted around, dropping to a crouch, and squeezed off half a dozen rounds into several Nazi officers wearing lab smocks. From other areas, Martians, similarly attired, were scrambling toward them, armed with scalpels and whatever other implements they could find.
One of these wore a red jacket adorned with all manner of medals. Upon seeing Mr. Mask, he shouted, “YOU!”
Hunter looked up at his friend. “An old acquaintance?” Then he dove down behind a lab table, on which a half-naked woman was tied.
But Mr. Mask had no intentions of hiding. The sight of the Martian scientist in charge flooded him with memories, and he was filled with an overwhelming rage. Without thought to his own vulnerability, Mr. Mask began marching toward the Martians, firing his machine gun. Peeking over the table, Hunter shot several others coming up from the sides, at the same time as watching Mr. Mask slaughter the aliens. The secre
t of Mr. Mask’s origins was kept locked up at headquarters, but apparently they’d stumbled on one of the Martians responsible for his companion’s birth.
Seeing there was nothing further he could do to assist Mr. Mask, Hunter looked around, found another set of surgical knives and began cutting the moaning woman free.
“Hang on,” he told the tear-stained face. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
The remaining Martians fell before Mr. Mask’s withering fire until he was standing alone, facing the red-coated alien still grasping a scalpel, his three dark eyes flaring with anger.
“You, the abomination!” the alien roared, spittle flying from his gummy lips. “I told the Overlords to destroy you but they wouldn’t listen. You were their prized little pet.”
Mr. Mask merely grunted. He looked down at the submachine gun, its barrel still smoking, and then he placed it on a nearby table and retuned his gaze to the Martian that had brought him to life.
Seeing him toss his weapon aside, the sadistic alien scientist lunged forward. “Curse you! I’ll finish the job myself!”
Mr. Mask caught the Martian’s wrists in his hands and held him off. Both combatants were close to equal height and body weight, thus the contest would be one of will. Angered to have his attack stymied, the Martian pushed harder, doing his utmost to bring down his right hand with the six-inch scalpel in it. Closer and closer it came to Mr. Mask’s chest.
Grunting, the freedom fighter fell back a step.
The Martian sensed victory and pushed harder.
Suddenly Mr. Mask twisted his body, dropped to his left knee, and using his opponent’s momentum, hurled the scientist head over heels over his right shoulder. The Martian hit the cement floor hard and was dazed. Before he could move, Mr. Mask yanked his machete over his back and drove it down into the alien’s head. Green blood spurted everywhere as the Martian cried out one final time. Its body convulsed and then was still.