by Неизвестный
As he rose up, Hunter Noir rushed up to him, saw the dead alien scientist, and stepped over him. “You okay?” He’d retrieved his damaged fedora and was putting it back on his covered head.
Mr. Mask nodded affirmatively.
“Good, then start helping me get anyone still alive out of here. At the same time, deploy whatever explosives you have left in your kit bag.”
Mr. Mask looked around, saw the first woman Hunter had released already working on the bonds of another captured, human guinea pig and he gave the spy a short salute. Each then started moving through the cluttered laboratory going in opposite directions.
Within ten minutes they had freed seven humans, the others they found were beyond care, their mutilated remains grotesque to behold. As they went, while moving past the glass vats with the cloning horrors inside them, both commandos set down either hand grenades or sticks of TNT.
At one large desk, set in a far corner, Hunter Noir found a short, three-foot filing cabinet. He would have loved to have emptied all its contents, but he didn’t have the time to find a proper receptacle to carry it all in. Instead, he looked at the manila folders resting on the desk itself and quickly perused their contents. He stuffed those records that appeared to deal with genetic manipulation under his shirt, squeezing in four of them snuggly. Then he re-buttoned his tunic.
Finally, their task was completed and they assembled at the base of the ramp ushering the released prisoners ahead of them. Seeing these people being met by Clem Randon and the other townspeople, Hunter Noir turned to his powerful companion. “Okay, get up there and hustle everyone out the front gate as fast you can! I’ll give you five minutes then I’m lighting this place up like a Christmas tree.”
Mr. Mask continued up the ramp, aiding some of the slower folks who were weak and having a tough go of it. He picked up one old woman and carried her effortlessly in his arms.
Once outside, Mr. Mask saw that the battle was over and that the refugees had effectively decimated the remaining enemy forces. He transferred the weak white-haired grandmother to several women, and then, after waving his arms in the air, he motioned with his bloodied machete for everyone to follow him. Hastily, he jogged to the front gates to find they’d been blown open, and the corpses of a half dozen Martian scientists were scattered beyond the fence, obviously gunned down while attempting to flee.
Mr. Mask continued to lead the survivors into the open terrain beyond the compound, as the minutes ticked away. Beyond the far horizon, a thin line of orange outlined the world, indicative of the coming dawn.
While back in the underground lab, Hunter Noir looked at his wristwatch. The five minutes he’d given Mr. Mask had expired. On a nearby lab bench, he’d set three sticks of dynamite taped together with a long dangling fuse. He pulled out his Zippo lighter, touched the flame to the tip of the fuse, and the second it sputtered to a cherry red glow, he turned and bolted up the ramp, one hand clamped on his battered fedora. I’m going to have to get me a new hat after this is all over!
Hunter was half way to the compound’s front entrance when the earth shook beneath his feet, almost toppling him. He managed to maintain his balance and keep running. Up ahead, he could see Mr. Mask and all the others gathered about a hundred yards away from the camp. He kept running.
Just as he reached the mangled remains of the wire gate, a tremendous explosion rocked the ground, and this time he was sent sprawling face first. Rolling over onto his back, he watched in awe as three of the Quonset huts suddenly collapsed into the earth, only to be torn asunder by multiple detonations. Dirt, dust, and debris shot into the sky amidst gigantic flames of bright yellow, as if the pits of hell had opened up directly under the Martian’s base. The explosions continued one after another, reminding him of a 4th of July celebration he’d enjoyed as a child. These were just as rewarding.
He got to his feet and ran to join the others.
Soon the entire compound was in flames and they illuminated the scene for nearly a quarter mile in all four directions.
It was truly spectacular.
The tip of the sun was blazing a fiery red as it announced the beginning of a new day. By then the fireworks of destruction had subsided, and all that remained of the heinous concentration camp were a few charred barracks standing amidst dozens of barbecued human and Martian remains. The stench they produced was nauseating.
Hunter Noir had allowed everyone to simply sit or lay on the ground for a few moments to regain their strength for what needed doing next. He quickly had Clem Randon help him recruit various teams of two and three people to carefully examine the ruins and procure anything that could be useful on their exodus through the dessert.
Lots of working guns and rifles were salvaged in this manner, and two ladies tripped over a protected steel ice box from the officers’ tent, which contained a huge amount of food supplies. Hunter immediately had them distribute the supplies amongst the survivors, who eagerly devoured the protein-rich food stuff. Having been starved for the past few days, the wiser seniors in the assembly warned everyone to eat slowly and let their stomachs properly digest what they were consuming.
Then Hunter assigned Mr. Mask to blow up the two Martian planes. As much as he hated losing such valuable ordinance, there was simply no way they could bring the vehicles back to their headquarters. Their only option was to destroy the aircraft.
While Mr. Mask took care of this simple demolition task, Clem Randon and his colleagues retrieved the two buckboard wagons and hitched them to the horses still in the corral behind the camp. They also found the two horses Hunter and Mr. Mask had arrived on.
Soon, everyone was gathered together in front of the camp. Both wagons were filled with people, assorted weaponry, and packed food goods. Randon took the reins of one wagon, while a woman named Hattie Johnson happily took charge of the other. A rough count informed Hunter Noir they had rescued nearly eighteen of the twenty three kidnapped Adobe Wells residents.
Mounted on his palomino, Hunter Noir was about to give the order to get rolling. Although there was no way he or Mr. Mask could ever find sergeant Three-Feather’s hidden camp in a million years, Randon could at least bring them to Adobe Wells. They could plan their next move from there. It was imperative they evacuate the Martian site at all possible haste. Hunter had told them the Martians would most likely have sent out a distress call. Reinforcements might take time, but they would arrive eventually.
“Hey, riders approaching!” Radon suddenly called out, pointing toward the prairie before them.
Both Hunter and Mr. Mask turned their horses around. Seeing the cluster of riders coming their way, they grabbed their rifles and cocked them.
“Be ready for anything,” Hunter warned Randon, and then he and Mr. Mask rode out to see whether these new riders were friend or foe.
As they neared the advancing party, Hunter Noir’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. At the head of the nearly two dozen Indians was Charlie Three-Feathers. The closer they came, Hunter saw that the braves were half-naked, wearing breach-cloths and leather leggings, while their faces and torsos were smeared with bright paints. Then he began to notice several were carrying German-made weapons, and at least four of the braves wore German army helmets.
Within a few yards of the group, he and Mr. Mask reined in their horses and sat waiting to greet the smiling Range Rider.
“I see you were successful in your operation,” Sergeant Three-Feathers said, stating the obvious. “I’m impressed, gentlemen.”
“Thanks,” Hunter said. “You seemed to have done alright yourself.”
“Indeed,” the Sioux soldier agreed and indicated the big, broad shouldered Indian beside him. “This is my cousin, Harry Black Wolf. I ran right into them upon reaching the hills. They were kind enough to give me a hand taking care of my pursuers.”
At that, Harry Black Wolf gave out a blood-curdling scream, and from the saddle-bag draped over his pony, he pulled out the head of a snake-man. “My people have fought i
n these lands forever. It is good to be warriors again, and this time, we fight with the white man against the evil spirits from beyond.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Hunter Noir chuckled. “We can use all the help we can get, Black Wolf. Thank you.”
He turned to Three- Feathers and asked, “What about these people? They can’t go back to Adobe Wells; the Martians would only find them again.”
“They won’t have to. My cousin is willing to take them into his tribe. He and his people are scattered throughout this part of the country. They’ll protect these folks and teach them their ways. In the end, it will be good for all.”
Hunter Noir knew the voice of wisdom when he heard it.
He extended his hand to the Range Rider. “It’s been an honor getting to know you, Charlie Three-Feathers.”
The Sioux gripped Hunter’s arm and shook it firmly. “Ditto that, Kemosabe.”
THE SKULL OF LAZARUS
By Megan E. Vaughn
“Well, boys, zhis is the time for your surrender, because your end is imminent. The Martians are cooking up somesing big for you. Tonight, I am here to tell you, how zere is no escape.”
A woman’s voice, dripping with a German accent, came out of the radio to fight over a grainy static. “A foolish little group of cowards attempted to flee zheir homeland and now zhey…” The voice paused to giggle, an impish sound much younger than her true years. “Let me juzt say, I am certain zhat, wherever zhey may be, the three fingers of the true world order are upon zhem. Among the missing dumkoffs are as follows: Hans Barth, Gerard Delacroix, Rolf Frey, Maria Kuefer, Pierre LaBarre, Gerta Schaller, and Selik Wirth.” The voice paused once again, attempting a dramatic silence to allow the names to sink in.
When she spoke at last, she carried the amused tone of one who desperately wanted to gloat over winning at cards. “Zhis is Alien Ada, just letting you know zhat the time will come when zhis world will be zheirs.”
A British officer with a push-broom mustache switched off the radio. “A disgusting source of information,” he grunted. After a stiff rotation of the starched shoulders of his uniform, he glanced at his comrade, a younger officer with a smaller build.
The younger officer gave a half shrug and slid the radio a little closer to him on the desk. He didn’t care where information came from, as long as they received it.
He turned to the woman sitting across from them at a wide oak desk. Her smart black dress was that of the upper class, well tailored, with shoes to match. He could not help speculating whether she really wore stockings or if she had simply applied cosmetic touches to give the illusion of nylon, as so many other women did. A string of pearls stood strikingly against the long auburn waves hanging across one side of her face.
Realizing he had been gawping, the younger officer cleared his throat and tapped a folder lying beneath his fingers. “You understand, of course, the discretion which is required in your presence here, Lady Doyle?”
The woman tilted her head upward to see the radio past the edge of her hat. Once upon a time, the brim of her chapeau would have been a wide covering, meant to protect her English skin from the sun. Over time, it had been simply refashioned to the size and shape of a fedora, instead of wasting resources on an entirely new hat. It sickened her that she had to worry over such frivolities during wartimes; however, the proprieties of her station had to be maintained in required settings.
She kept her attention on the bare walls of the underground bunker, obviously bored. “Gentlemen, why are you bothering me with this? I have heard Alien Ada’s reports before.”
The voice on the radio had started as simply a nameless mystery woman who overtook the airways at random times to mock the allied forces, but over the months, people noticed how, in her taunts, she let important details slip. At first, the accidents were thought to be traps. Then, more and more proved to be true, and people were quick to realize that their mocking radio mystery woman truly had loose lips. Since then, every British, American, and other resistance officer had learned to pay attention.
Many of the boys created other lewd names for the voice such as Three Finger Ada and Big Head Bertha, based upon rumors that she gained her information through intimate means. Honestly, Lady Doyle found this theory ludicrous. She didn’t doubt such a woman would sleep with a Martian for information; she had a hard time believing the idea of a Martian revealing any information it did not want revealed, for such a “service”. Besides, if the Martians knew who Alien Ada was, she would have been dead for her accidental betrayals.
“The broadcast mentioned someone of vital importance, Dr. Gerard Delacroix.” The mustached officer stood up as if uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “We want to hire you. You can use your resources to cross borders. We need to know what happened to that man. We had spies present at the capture of that refugee group and not a one remembers seeing Dr. Delacroix amongst them.”
The younger officer flipped open the folder and spun the information toward Lady Doyle. “He was, at one time, a professor of Biblical history and archeology at the University of Paris. He was commissioned by Adolf Hitler to find specific artifacts, especially those reported to have supernatural abilities.”
The black and white photo at the top of the dossier revealed nothing spectacular. A slight man with thin, wire-framed glasses and a nose like the beak of a sparrow stood out amongst a group of other scholars. He kept a canvas bag close to his side and a pencil tucked between his ear and his receding hairline. His expression peered out of the photo as a bored, blank slate.
“Not my type.” She tossed the folder back at the men with smiling eyes. “But I appreciate the offer, boys.”
“This is no joke, m’lady.” Perspiration graced the younger officer’s brow.
She answered with a pout. “My, my. Major Hutchinson, I worry about your sense of humor, if you think that was a joke—”
“Enough of this!” the mustached officer cut in. He leaned down on the desk, his eyes glaring at Lady Doyle, yet keeping a respectable distance from her exasperated expression. “You owe your country, and I would expect better scruples from a lady of your station.”
“Owe?” She laughed, glancing behind her to a man waiting patiently. He sat in a plain metal chair by the closed door, trying to stay as still as possible, so the chair would not squeak. “Did you hear that, Jerry?”
“I did, m’lady,” he replied obediently.
She returned her attention to the two British officers. “Oh, Major Hutchinson, you should take a lesson from General Mitchell. He knows how to make a joke.”
“And those rumors that you have had dealings with the Martian forces? Would those also be part of a good joke?” General Mitchell spat.
Lady Doyle waved her gloved hands in surrender. “Oh dear, you’ve found out that I am the subject of idle gossip. Well, I guess I’m the victim of…how do the Americans put it? Of a bum rap.”
General Mitchell exhaled, a simple action that reverberated through his entire body until he relaxed. With a labored grunt, he lifted himself back into the straight posture befitting a British soldier. “Forgive me, m’lady. I know you must be distraught after Lord Doyle’s unexpected passing.”
She pursed her lips. “Really? You think that you can play the angle of my dead husband to work my sympathies? You know, in the business world, we do not consider that very cricket.”
With a rub at his push-broom mustache, General Mitchell continued, while Major Hutchinson squirmed until his rusting chair whined. “Then allow me to try a different sympathetic approach. We believe these people were taken by the same faction who took Mr. Henry Crooks.” Mitchell studied her. “He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
Lady Doyle’s expression darkened, however she did not give a verbal response. Her fingers bent the edge of the folder before her for what felt like an eternity before she lifted it up to read through the information properly. The general nodded his head at her, realizing he had picked the correct l
everage.
Major Hutchinson released a sigh that could have been heard from Dover to Calais. Instantly, he started to speak again, as if the tiff between her and his superior had never occurred. “Now, we know only a few things really. Dr. Delacroix was searching for something very specific on his last expedition, and he claimed to have found whatever it was. It is believed that he left this artifact, for reasons completely lost on us. We do not know what the object is, however we are certain of two vital facts. First, that the artifact was located somewhere in Austria near the town of Werfen, and second, that Hitler was extremely anxious to get his hands upon it. Even after Hitler’s disappearance, there have been rumors that some of his most trusted men are still having no luck finding the artifact.”
“So what? Are you worried the Martians took this quack professor to find whatever Hitler wanted?” The woman uncrossed her legs slowly and eyed the dossier more carefully. “The Spear of Destiny? The Shroud of Turin? Norse memorabilia and old Catholic relics? You want me to waste my precious time and money tracking a man who specializes in magic charms? Next, you’ll be telling me that you are worried the Martians are using leprechaun gold to upset the world economy.”
“No offense, but you are missing the point. What he was looking for, even if it was something idiotic like an old tree branch mistaken for a unicorn horn, is not the important part. Whatever this artifact signifies is the key. If Hitler’s men are on the look out for it, there is a chance the Martians may believe it is important as well. Imagine if we could use their curiosity or their want of such an artifact to our advantage.”
The major and the general exchanged a glance before the major went on. “What we would be able to pay you for your service is detailed within the paperwork there. You see, a private plane can enter Austria much easier than one of ours can, and your business dealings extend to Vienna, so you have an established alibi. We need you to find out what it is Delacroix was searching for and, if possible, bring it back here for us.”