The young man continued to smile.
“I’ll see to that,” he murmured. “The place is yours to command, remember that. I may not see you for a while, because I have so many things to attend to. I always like to greet new arrivals personally, however. Good-bye.”
He stepped to the door, and a very peculiar thing happened. Before the door completely opened the smiling young man vanished.
Blackie blinked his eyes.
“Whaddaya know?” he gasped. “He must of done that with mirrors.”
Before Sledge could comment the door opened abruptly and four burly, impassive men strode into the room.
Blackie sprang back, jerking his revolver.
“Hold it!” he snapped. “What’s the idea of barging in like this? You’re talking to the new boss of this dump and make no mistakes. If you guys play it square I’ll take care of you. Cross me and I’ll rub you out without blinking an eye. I’m the toughest guy in New York’s underworld, Blackie Nolan. You’ve probably heard of me. Hard as nails, but square. Remember that.” The four men stood still, listening attentively to him. There was a blended expression of deference and indifference stamped on their faces.
“A’right,” Blackie snapped. His gun waved menacingly. “What’s the business? Are you with Blackie or not on this deal?”
One of the men cleared his throat.
“I don’t know about that, but we’ve been told to obey your slightest command and that’s what we’re here for. What would you like us to do?” Blackie grinned broadly and grinned at Sledge.
“Just a natural born leader, that’s me. We’re taking over from this minute on. With these guys as a start we’ll build up the toughest mob in the country with the dough we can raise here.
And make no mistake about it. The kid with the smile is going to be out of his business, whatever it is, when we get settin’ right in the saddle. Now let’s put these lugs to work.”
Sledge nodded.
“Now get this right,” he snapped to the four men. “Do as you’re told and don’t take no orders from nobody but me and Blackie. Go through this dump from one end of it to the other and don’t leave nothing behind you. Rugs, draperies, gold, jewels, money, anything that we can turn into cash. Bring it all to the front door of this joint and stack it there. This is clean-up week and we ain’t leaving a thing. Get it? Now hop to it.”
The four men left in silence. Sledge grinned mirthlessly.
“We got ’em bluffed. The thing to do now is keep ’em that way.”
THE storm continued the remainder of the day, but the two gangsters were too elated and busy to notice. Supervising the stripping of this castle of treasures was a most engrossing task.
Gold doorknobs and faucets were broken off and carried to the main courtyard and stacked in piles in the corner. Tapestries were torn from the walls and piled on top of them. There were more magnificent rooms in the castle than they could count. Expensive furniture was added to the loot, but their crowning delight came when they found chest after chest in storerooms loaded with pure gold. Other rooms yielded chests of precious stones and intricately wrought jewelry.
“I tell you we’re millionaires,” Blackie hissed for the dozenth time. “There’s enough loot here for an army. When we get back to Broadway, spending this stuff, will be a real pleasure.
Sledge licked his lips greedily.
“It’s gettin’ hard to wait,” he said anxiously. “With all of this junk lying right in front of you, it makes you want to act crazy.”
The vast inner courtyard was piled high with unimaginable wealth and treasures by dinner time. They stopped just long enough to bolt food into their mouths and then they were back at their task like a pair of human pack rats. For the rest of the day they worked strenuously. The four men who were helping them worked equally hard, but silently.
When their stomachs told them another day was drawing to a close they ordered dinner brought to the courtyard where their treasures were stored.
“I ain’t leaving this stuff,” Blackie said flatly. “I’m going to sleep here and eat here until this flood lets up.”
They spent the night, surrounded by hoards of wealth, on beds which had been brought from other rooms. The next morning Blackie woke suddenly from a sound sleep. For a second he peered dazedly around him, and then he sprang from his bed. A vast sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the accumulated loot still piled high about the walls of the room.
He hurried to a window and cursed dejectedly. Rain[*] was still falling and vivid streaks of white lightning were still lancing the heavens. The water still lapped warningly against the base of the castle. From the horizon the heavy white mist continued to roll forward, obscuring visibility within fifty or sixty feet of the castle.
WIITH a disgusted sigh, Blackie turned back to their treasures. The sight of them revived his drooping spirits. The visions of what they would buy, of what they would do for him was sufficient to rekindle his enthusiasm.
Sledge was sitting up, nibbing his eyes.
“Still raining?” he asked bitterly.
The familiar butler entered before Blackie had an opportunity to answer.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with mechanical cordiality. “I will make arrangements today to have your complete living quarters transferred to this court, if you wish. In that way you will be close to your—ah—treasures.” Blackie was studying the man as he spoke.
“Look,” he said suddenly, “you’ve been okay with us and we’re willing to play ball. How’d you like a cut on the take? All you’ve got to do is give some dope on what your boss’ racket is.”
“Very kind of you,” the butler bowed slightly. “I understand that the Master is something of a collector. Beyond that I couldn’t say.”
“Okay,” Blackie snapped irritably. “What about this rain?”
“Does it bother you?”
“Certainly it does!” Blackie yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
“Unfortunate,” the butler muttered. “It takes a little time to get accustomed to it. I’ll have breakfast brought in directly.”
He turned and walked purposefully from the room.
“I’m beginning to get the picture,” Blackie said thoughtfully. “The Boss here must be sort of a big shot in some cult or other. That’s how he’s got all these stiff-legged zombies working for him. It’s a honey of a racket, just waiting for a real organizer to come along and take over. I’m goin’ to start propositioning these boys, but tough. I ain’t taking anything but ‘yes’ for an answer.”
Sledge was slipping into his coat.
“I’m going to keep right on what I was doing yesterday. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend the day.”
They breakfasted and went to work. Every room they explored led them to new riches and treasures until their heads swam at the value of the wealth they were collecting. There was nothing, not even a trivial physical discomfort, to mar their pulse-quickening treasure hunt. There were rich, toothsome foods, delightfully fragrant wines and soft couches and every conceivable luxury to cater to their physical needs, and there was the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of spending their amassed wealth to act as a mental spur.
The day passed quickly. Another day passed and then a week slipped by. The men fell unconsciously into a routine. Breakfast and cigarettes. Treasure hunt and lunch. Nap and cocktails and more treasure hunt and finally dinner and then bed. They said little to each other now. There wasn’t anything to say. They had stopped discussing the never-ending storm. A mute glance at the window upon arising was all the apparent attention they paid to it.
WEEKS faded into a month. Both men were becoming nervous, irritable.
Blackie spent part of each day at a window, cursing softly beneath his breath. The vast courtyard was almost filled with bundles of booty and treasure. Sledge itemized it all on paper and tried to figure its approximate worth. The amount—though only a guess—was staggering. It fired their imaginations a
new, rekindled their dampening enthusiasm.
“If we could only get away from this place,” Blackie cried suddenly, “we’d be kings. This stuff lying around loose like this is driving me nutty.” His face hardened suddenly. “I’m going to take a crack at it,” he said grimly. “That water might not be high and I might be able to get to the road.”
Fired with the prospect of immediate action, he yelled for the butler at the top of his voice. His whole body seemed to be tingling, as if an electric wave of hope were coursing through him. His irritability disappeared. His good spirits returned.
“Won’t be long now,” he said cheerfully. When the butler appeared, he told him what he wanted.
Minutes later he was climbing into hip-high boots, and buttoning a waterproof slicker about him. Sledge accompanied him to the door. The butler opened it ceremoniously. Blackie could see the green water lapping almost at the threshold of the door.
“Here goes nothing,” he said nervously. He waved to Sledge and stepped over the threshold of the castle door. His boot touched the water and started down. It was deeper than he thought. It wasn’t until he started to fall, that he cried out. Then it was too late.
Off balance, he toppled into the water and sank over his head. He plummeted down and down, endlessly, before he began to strike out madly with his arms. The cold green water seemed to be pressing hungrily at him with heavy hands. His lungs were developing a torturing, unbearable ache from the pressure.
With his last strength he flailed his arms frantically and felt a hand grasp his own. Then he was being dragged from the green depths by strong arms. When his head cleared he was dragged back into the castle by Sledge and the butler.
“Judas Priest,” he gasped, “that water must be twenty feet deep right there at the door of the castle.”
That was the last attempt they made to leave the castle. The incident was not spoken of again. Both men worked methodically at their tasks. Eating and drinking and collecting treasures from various unexplored rooms of the castle became once again their unvarying routine. Time passed and the two men grew thin and gaunt for all of the rich foods they were eating. There was something inside of them, a growing fear that spread through their systems like an infection, that made even the food and drink sour in their mouths.
THEY had brought the radio from the first apartment they had occupied but they were unable to raise so much as a burst of static from it. It rested haphazardly on a chest of gold, cord trailing the floor.
It was after dinner, when they were having coffee, that Blackie broke his long silence. He stood up and glowered insanely at Sledge.
“Damn you,” he grated. “Do you have to take two lumps of sugar every night?”
Sledge twisted in his chair, his eyes glinting murderously.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I do. I do because I know it annoys you. That’s the only relief from the infernal boredom of this place.”
He suddenly sprang to his feet, his face thrust inches from Blackie.
“Do y’ hear,” he screamed. “It breaks the monotony. I can’t stand it here anymore. All the food, all the drink and all the riches a man could want, and they’re driving me mad. You hear? Mad!”
Blackie was quiet, almost peacefully quiet.
“Is that so,” he murmured. “Well I’m going to break the monotony a bit.” He drew his automatic from the pocket of his coat. “I’m going to kill you, because there’s not another single thing to do. I’m going to kill you and everyone else in this damnable place.”
“Go ahead!” Sledge screamed. His own fist dug for his gun. He clawed it from his pocket and twin explosions blasted the silence. Both men fired simultaneously. Their automatics spoke a stuttering song of death.
Blackie felt bullet after bullet pound into his body, but he stood on his feet, a vicious joy coursing through him as he saw his own bullets spatter into Sledge’s swaying form. He laughed wildly, madly, as his gun went silent in his hand. He drew his arm back and hurled the gun at Sledge. It struck him in the face, cutting his cheek.
Blackie felt something strike his own face and he realized that Sledge had emptied his own gun and copied the gesture.
Panting heavily, the two men stared at each other. There were six gaping holes in each of their bodies, and blood was streaming from their wounds and dripping to the marble floor. There was a horrible fear growing in the eyes of each man. They looked at each other with loathing and terror.
“I—I don’t feel a—a thing!” Blackie gasped.
“Neither do I!” Sledge cried hoarsely.
SUDDENLY, from behind them, they heard the radio speaking. Both men stood transfixed, frozen, as the announcer’s voice swelled into the room:
“The bloody, crushed bodies of Blackie Nolan and Sledge Scarpetti were found today by police officers. The bodies lay near their overturned car.”
“What does he mean?” Blackie screamed. “He’s crazy. We ain’t dead. We’re alive—safe.”
There was no sound from the radio, but from behind them there came a soft, derisive chuckle. Blackie and Sledge wheeled, their nerves tightening. The slim young man with the black hair was standing next to the radio, one hand idly touching the dial.
Blackie started to cry out, but a hand of terror caught at his throat. For he had stared into the young man’s eyes! They were a deep green in color but there was something behind those eyes, something so loathsome and sickening that he staggered back in terror.
“Who are you?” he gasped hoarsely. The young man continued to smile faintly.
“Haven’t you guessed?” he murmured. He bowed slightly in mock deference. “Men call me—Satan!”
The last word hissed like a lash, and a mighty clap of thunder seemed to crash over their heads, as if to drown out the awful echoes of that dread name.
Blackie cried out in terror and sank to his knees. When he raised his head, he and Sledge were alone again. Sledge was pulling at his arm, crying frantically in his ear.
“What did he mean?”
Blackie stared with sudden, terrible understanding at the accumulated heaps of maddening, yet worthless treasures. And his mind looked ahead to emptiness and desolation and always the moan of wind and the hiss of rain and the roar of thunder. His understanding was like a heavy weight that pressed unbearably on him.
“We been dead since the automobile crash,” he said, choking.
Sledge turned to him, eyes widening in horror. “You mean we’re in—”
He looked into Blackie’s eye and forgot to finish the sentence. For in Blackie’s eyes he read the answer . . .
[*] Searching far back into the dim reaches of superstition and time we are unable to determine just why futility and frustration are usually manifested in concrete form by thick mist, or fog, and constant rain. It is possible that it is a result of the early days of man, when the Earth was a steaming jungle, and rain was the rule, and fog was ever present, especially in the dank depths of the forest. Or we might even go further back in evolution than that, and decide that the lizards from which we sprang, never saw the sun.
Be that as it may, men today are depressed by fog and mist and rain, and the forced inactivity it brings to children causes a depression that isn’t entirely due to resentment at not being able to go out and play, but to a fear of the unknown that is retained from the dawn of history when fog meant danger roving abroad, and meant staying in the cave for safety.
FLAME FOR THE FUTURE
First published in the October 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.
The Leader had a purpose: he was waging war to found a super-race. Why not ask that race to help . . .?
THE tense whispering in the great hall faded suddenly. The huge double doors of the Council Room swung back and, as one man, the entire assemblage of high ranking soldiers come to their feet, hands outstretched in the traditional salute carried over from the days of the First Leader.
The Leader strode through their ranks. He was a tall man with heavy broad sho
ulders and thin, expressionless face. He turned and faced the room. Blue eyes, cold and unmoving, stared impassively over the expectant audience. Light hair, close cropped and straight, pressed tight about his skull like a bronze helmet.
“Soldiers,” he began without preliminaries. “I have called you here from all ends of the land and sea to announce that victory, complete and final, will soon be ours. For fifty years the enemy has fought stubbornly and desperately against our strength and might. But now, in the year 1990, they are doomed to the inevitable destruction which is the end of all enemies of our State. For thirty years we have been forced to fight delaying actions in some sectors of the World because we did not have sufficient man power to wage a decisive attack. Now that difficulty has been solved.
“In a very short time we will hurl onto the field of combat thousands, millions of troops vastly superior to any which the world has known. Troops so skilled and ruthless and perfect that even our own excellent divisions could not expect to stand against them.”
There was an incredulous gasp from the large room and the Leader smiled without humor.
“However these new and powerful additions to our forces will be fighting the stubborn enemy and not us, which is fortunate.”
A gray-haired Field Marshal rose to his feet and raised his arm in salute.
“My Leader,” he said, “how can this be? There are not such troops as you describe in the entire World. With the decrease of the population we will soon be without troops of any sort to wage our just and noble struggle. The enemy is in the same predicament. We are killing each other off faster than we can breed new soldiers.”
The Leader leaned forward slightly.
“I have called this meeting to explain exactly how we will solve that very problem. We have dedicated ourselves to the task of creating a super race. There can be no doubt that we will succeed. Think! Centuries from now the glorious civilization which we intend to create will dominate the earth. Our descendants will rule the earth, rule its wealth, rule its people. That is why we are fighting today. For the creation of the super race which will one day be all-powerful, all-conquering, all-mighty.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 37