Art by Billy TackettThe two greatest heroes of the 1930s must put their differences aside to prevent America's greatest city – and then the country – from falling before the most insidious evil science has ever created.
Chapter 1.2
Twenty blocks east of the big building, Doctor David Kronos was trying not to adjust his collar. Wearing a tuxedo was only one of the things Doc Kronos disliked about public appearances. Another was the glances he got, both covert and direct. He was a striking figure, tall and well muscled as a result of a lifetime of specially designed exercises. His skin was the color of burnished gold, his hair only one shade darker.
His exploits as an adventurer and inventor had nearly reached the level of myth, so people were naturally curious. Doc Kronos was, in some ways, a man of mystery. Only hints of his strange background had been revealed.
He was raised by his scientist parents to achieve the peak of human conditioning, physical and mental, to devote his life to helping those who deserved it, no matter their position on the economic and social ladder. Doc ran away from his training when he was just 15 to seek adventure in the war. There, after successfully passing himself off as an adult, he discovered a natural aptitude for leadership and, more importantly, he met the men who became his associates and closest friends. Over the past decade, he had become a celebrity, thanks to his incredible exploits as much as his medical and scientific achievements.
Fame was the biggest regret in the golden man's life. Despite his prodigious accomplishments, Doc Kronos was uncomfortable in the spotlight. He was only here in this great ballroom tonight because Mayor Brett Van Sloan was a good man and one of Doc's friends. Doc's presence at this fund-raising dinner for Van Sloan's reelection campaign guaranteed a big turnout and large donations.
From Doc's right a man whispered, "Why does the food at these things always taste like it was cooked a month ago?"
Doc turned to see the smiling face of Jonathon Crenshaw. He was a young man, with a thin, handsome face under a thick mane of jet-black hair. He radiated an aura of physical fitness, until one's gaze noticed the wheelchair in which he sat.
Crenshaw had been a criminologist, developing new investigative tools for the New York City police department, when a killer's bomb took away his legs and, more tragically, the lives of Crenshaw's wife and son. Though he could no longer walk, Crenshaw still consulted with the police department. He, too, was a close friend of the mayor. Both Doc and Crenshaw sat at the podium with the mayor and other notable individuals. The mayor was at the microphone telling his supporters the things he meant to accomplish in the next four years.
"The task of preparing a meal for such a large crowd is problematic and delicate," Doc said.
"Right," Crenshaw said with a smile. "What do you think is going on over there?"
Near the entrance to the ballroom, two police officers were struggling with a shabbily dressed man. A pretty young woman left the podium and approached the disturbance. Most of those in attendance had not noticed the problem at the back of the room.
As Doc watched, the woman - one of Mayor Van Sloan's assistants - talked to the officers and to the intruder. The man handed a package wrapped in brown paper to the woman and pointed at the podium. His meaning was obvious. The package was intended for the mayor. The young woman accepted the package and the cops politely removed the man from the room.
The young woman tore the paper from the package. The keen ears of Doc Kronos detected a small pop, like the sound of a photographic flash bulb, and the woman stared curiously at the contents of the package.
Then she screamed.
Everyone turned toward the sound. Even Mayor Van Sloan, who never met a microphone he didn't like, stopped speaking.
Doc stood and quickly moved to the microphone. He had already seen the small red eruptions rise on the woman's face and hands. "Move away from the door," the golden man said. He didn't shout, yet his voice seemed more amplified than the excited and loud mayor's had been. "Officers, move these people back."
But the officers were staring at their own hands. And as Doc and the crowd watched, all three of the people at the door exploded into jets of crimson flame.
Those nearest the catastrophe tried to run toward the podium. People were being trampled.
The three burning people collapsed to the floor. The flames quickly died down and were extinguished, leaving charred corpses.
"My God, David," Mayor Van Sloan said. "What's happening?" Doc Kronos didn't answer. He was watching the panicked guests who had been closest to the flaming woman and the two cops. As far as he could see no one else showed signs of the skin eruptions, much less the flames.
He leaned in to the microphone and said, "This is Doc Kronos. The emergency is over. You are all safe now." It took a moment, but the golden man's words and calm voice did the work. Soon, guests were helping others up from the floor. A crowd gathered near the corpses, though no one dared get close.
Van Sloan grabbed Doc by the arm. "What was it, David?" The mayor was pale. Doc knew the man had thought of the assistant as his own daughter.
Just then, a beeping sounded from the golden man's jacket. Doc removed a device that was the size and shape of a package of cigarettes. A red light was flashing on the top of the device.
"I have to go," Doc said to Van Sloan. "I'll be in touch as quickly as I can. Crenshaw can examine -"
Doc turned to where the crippled scientist had sat. Crenshaw was gone.
At a signal from Jonathon Crenshaw, his valet had stepped from the side of the stage and wheeled the crippled man away, even as Kronos was trying to calm the frightened guests.
"Get me to the car, Taylor." Taylor steered the chair though a kitchen exit, to the long car parked at the back of the building. Once the man and chair had been loaded into the vehicle, Crenshaw ordered Taylor to drive to the front of the building.
Once there, Crenshaw saw two men in dark suits strolling casually from the front entrance. From the podium, he had spotted the men briefly outside the ballroom doors as the police struggled with the messenger. Their calm exit from such a tragedy only served to arouse Crenshaw's suspicions.
"Draw up next to them," he told Taylor. As the big car came close to the men, Crenshaw lowered his window. "Hold up. I need to talk to you."
The nearest of the two men drew a revolver from his pocket and fired at Crenshaw. At the first sight of the weapon, the crippled scientist fell back on the seat of the car and the bullet whizzed harmlessly over his head. He shoved himself upright with one powerful arm, while the other removed his automatic from the holster under his coat. He fired off a round that caught the shooter just above the left eye. As the man fell, his companion dived into a waiting car and sped away.
Crenshaw leaned from the window and stared at the dead man. "Taylor, do you see that?"
The valet had rolled down his own window. "It's some kind of tattoo on his wrist, Captain. An eye, maybe?"
"Yes," Crenshaw said. "A crimson eye."
The other man's escape vehicle was disappearing in the distance.
"Get after him, Taylor." As the car roared away from the curb, Crenshaw opened a compartment under the seat next to him.
It was time for The Reaper to take over.
Doc Kronos ran from the building just in time to see the long black car race away. He recognized it as one of Jonathon Crenshaw's vehicles. He hesitated briefly to examine the dead man. Doc had also seen this one and his companion outside the ballroom. It was something he would consult Crenshaw about, but now he had to get back to his headquarters.
Once he reached his car he activated the special radio in the dash and started driving as the set's tubes warmed up. Once the radio was working, he keyed the microphone.
"Brick? Gunny? What's going on?"
There was no answer.
Doc made good time in the late evening traffic. Within minutes he pulled his sedan in front of his building. As he approached the entrance he saw immediately that the doors were sealed. Through the glass he witnessed two strangely garbed figures moving through the lobby.
Doc heard a sound from behind him and he dropped to the sidewalk as the flat crack of an automatic echoed among the skyscrapers. A bullet flattened against the protective glass of the door he had been looking through. Doc rolled to his left and sprang to his feet, simultaneously throwing a small object he had removed from his jacket. A cloud of black smoke poured from the tiny grenade. Doc dropped again and rolled to his right, just as the gunman blindly fired at the space the golden man had just vacated. Doc waded into the smoke cloud, got hold of the man's wrist. Something snapped and the gun clattered to the sidewalk. Doc's fist found the thug's chin and the man fell next to his weapon.
Doc waded out of the black fog and saw another man sprinting toward a car. Pouring on the speed, Doc nearly caught up with the fleeing man just as he got to the vehicle. The fellow reached through the car's open window and withdrew an object.
He flung the thing at Doc.
The golden man had enough time to recognize it as a small vial, as might be used to store chemicals. He cupped his hand as the vial reached him. Spinning quickly, Doc used the momentum of the small object to release it back toward the man without it breaking. It stuck the man in the chest and exploded in a shower of glass.
The man screamed, not because he had been cut, but due to the red sores that had blossomed on his skin like the bites of angry insects. Before Doc's eyes, the sores burst into flames and consumed the man.
Within seconds, the man was nothing more than a blackened skeleton. Doc waited a few seconds and approached the body. The skin was nearly gone, save for a small spot on the right wrist of the corpse. Doc saw what appeared to be a small tattoo.
It looked like a crimson eye.
His exploits as an adventurer and inventor had nearly reached the level of myth, so people were naturally curious. Doc Kronos was, in some ways, a man of mystery. Only hints of his strange background had been revealed.
He was raised by his scientist parents to achieve the peak of human conditioning, physical and mental, to devote his life to helping those who deserved it, no matter their position on the economic and social ladder. Doc ran away from his training when he was just 15 to seek adventure in the war. There, after successfully passing himself off as an adult, he discovered a natural aptitude for leadership and, more importantly, he met the men who became his associates and closest friends. Over the past decade, he had become a celebrity, thanks to his incredible exploits as much as his medical and scientific achievements.
Fame was the biggest regret in the golden man's life. Despite his prodigious accomplishments, Doc Kronos was uncomfortable in the spotlight. He was only here in this great ballroom tonight because Mayor Brett Van Sloan was a good man and one of Doc's friends. Doc's presence at this fund-raising dinner for Van Sloan's reelection campaign guaranteed a big turnout and large donations.
From Doc's right a man whispered, "Why does the food at these things always taste like it was cooked a month ago?"
Doc turned to see the smiling face of Jonathon Crenshaw. He was a young man, with a thin, handsome face under a thick mane of jet-black hair. He radiated an aura of physical fitness, until one's gaze noticed the wheelchair in which he sat.
Crenshaw had been a criminologist, developing new investigative tools for the New York City police department, when a killer's bomb took away his legs and, more tragically, the lives of Crenshaw's wife and son. Though he could no longer walk, Crenshaw still consulted with the police department. He, too, was a close friend of the mayor. Both Doc and Crenshaw sat at the podium with the mayor and other notable individuals. The mayor was at the microphone telling his supporters the things he meant to accomplish in the next four years.
"The task of preparing a meal for such a large crowd is problematic and delicate," Doc said.
"Right," Crenshaw said with a smile. "What do you think is going on over there?"
Near the entrance to the ballroom, two police officers were struggling with a shabbily dressed man. A pretty young woman left the podium and approached the disturbance. Most of those in attendance had not noticed the problem at the back of the room.
As Doc watched, the woman - one of Mayor Van Sloan's assistants - talked to the officers and to the intruder. The man handed a package wrapped in brown paper to the woman and pointed at the podium. His meaning was obvious. The package was intended for the mayor. The young woman accepted the package and the cops politely removed the man from the room.
The young woman tore the paper from the package. The keen ears of Doc Kronos detected a small pop, like the sound of a photographic flash bulb, and the woman stared curiously at the contents of the package.
Then she screamed.
Everyone turned toward the sound. Even Mayor Van Sloan, who never met a microphone he didn't like, stopped speaking.
Doc stood and quickly moved to the microphone. He had already seen the small red eruptions rise on the woman's face and hands. "Move away from the door," the golden man said. He didn't shout, yet his voice seemed more amplified than the excited and loud mayor's had been. "Officers, move these people back."
But the officers were staring at their own hands. And as Doc and the crowd watched, all three of the people at the door exploded into jets of crimson flame.
Those nearest the catastrophe tried to run toward the podium. People were being trampled.
The three burning people collapsed to the floor. The flames quickly died down and were extinguished, leaving charred corpses.
"My God, David," Mayor Van Sloan said. "What's happening?" Doc Kronos didn't answer. He was watching the panicked guests who had been closest to the flaming woman and the two cops. As far as he could see no one else showed signs of the skin eruptions, much less the flames.
He leaned in to the microphone and said, "This is Doc Kronos. The emergency is over. You are all safe now." It took a moment, but the golden man's words and calm voice did the work. Soon, guests were helping others up from the floor. A crowd gathered near the corpses, though no one dared get close.
Van Sloan grabbed Doc by the arm. "What was it, David?" The mayor was pale. Doc knew the man had thought of the assistant as his own daughter.
Just then, a beeping sounded from the golden man's jacket. Doc removed a device that was the size and shape of a package of cigarettes. A red light was flashing on the top of the device.
"I have to go," Doc said to Van Sloan. "I'll be in touch as quickly as I can. Crenshaw can examine -"
Doc turned to where the crippled scientist had sat. Crenshaw was gone.
***
At a signal from Jonathon Crenshaw, his valet had stepped from the side of the stage and wheeled the crippled man away, even as Kronos was trying to calm the frightened guests.
"Get me to the car, Taylor." Taylor steered the chair though a kitchen exit, to the long car parked at the back of the building. Once the man and chair had been loaded into the vehicle, Crenshaw ordered Taylor to drive to the front of the building.
Once there, Crenshaw saw two men in dark suits strolling casually from the front entrance. From the podium, he had spotted the men briefly outside the ballroom doors as the police struggled with the messenger. Their calm exit from such a tragedy only served to arouse Crenshaw's suspicions.
"Draw up next to them," he told Taylor. As the big car came close to the men, Crenshaw lowered his window. "Hold up. I need to talk to you."
The nearest of the two men drew a revolver from his pocket and fired at Crenshaw. At the first sight of the weapon, the crippled scientist fell back on the seat of the car and the bullet whizzed harmlessly over his head. He shoved himself upright with one powerful arm, while the other removed his automatic from the holster under his coat. He fired off a round that caught the shooter just above the left eye. As the man fell, his companion dived into a waiting car and sped away.
Crenshaw leaned from the window and stared at the dead man. "Taylor, do you see that?"
The valet had rolled down his own window. "It's some kind of tattoo on his wrist, Captain. An eye, maybe?"
"Yes," Crenshaw said. "A crimson eye."
The other man's escape vehicle was disappearing in the distance.
"Get after him, Taylor." As the car roared away from the curb, Crenshaw opened a compartment under the seat next to him.
It was time for The Reaper to take over.
***
Doc Kronos ran from the building just in time to see the long black car race away. He recognized it as one of Jonathon Crenshaw's vehicles. He hesitated briefly to examine the dead man. Doc had also seen this one and his companion outside the ballroom. It was something he would consult Crenshaw about, but now he had to get back to his headquarters.
Once he reached his car he activated the special radio in the dash and started driving as the set's tubes warmed up. Once the radio was working, he keyed the microphone.
"Brick? Gunny? What's going on?"
There was no answer.
Doc made good time in the late evening traffic. Within minutes he pulled his sedan in front of his building. As he approached the entrance he saw immediately that the doors were sealed. Through the glass he witnessed two strangely garbed figures moving through the lobby.
Doc heard a sound from behind him and he dropped to the sidewalk as the flat crack of an automatic echoed among the skyscrapers. A bullet flattened against the protective glass of the door he had been looking through. Doc rolled to his left and sprang to his feet, simultaneously throwing a small object he had removed from his jacket. A cloud of black smoke poured from the tiny grenade. Doc dropped again and rolled to his right, just as the gunman blindly fired at the space the golden man had just vacated. Doc waded into the smoke cloud, got hold of the man's wrist. Something snapped and the gun clattered to the sidewalk. Doc's fist found the thug's chin and the man fell next to his weapon.
Doc waded out of the black fog and saw another man sprinting toward a car. Pouring on the speed, Doc nearly caught up with the fleeing man just as he got to the vehicle. The fellow reached through the car's open window and withdrew an object.
He flung the thing at Doc.
The golden man had enough time to recognize it as a small vial, as might be used to store chemicals. He cupped his hand as the vial reached him. Spinning quickly, Doc used the momentum of the small object to release it back toward the man without it breaking. It stuck the man in the chest and exploded in a shower of glass.
The man screamed, not because he had been cut, but due to the red sores that had blossomed on his skin like the bites of angry insects. Before Doc's eyes, the sores burst into flames and consumed the man.
Within seconds, the man was nothing more than a blackened skeleton. Doc waited a few seconds and approached the body. The skin was nearly gone, save for a small spot on the right wrist of the corpse. Doc saw what appeared to be a small tattoo.
It looked like a crimson eye.
###
2 comments:
I am the artist that did the art for your story. I happened to stumble onto your blog. I had no idea that you were from the Ashland area. I'm originally from Olive Hill in Carter County about 40 miles west of you. Shame that Pulp Nocturne may be dead. I was looking forward to doing more art in that genre.
Billy, you're a phenomenal artist. Everybody check out his site: http://billytackett.com/
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