by Marv Wolfman
“Don’t worry, Sue, I’ll help you. I swear I will.” Reed was frantic. Those lights were undoubtedly lasers. Doom was attacking her, but nothing could keep Reed from reaching his wife’s side.
Instantly, the ceiling buzzed with an electronic hum. Reed saw it lowering. He ducked back into his corridor and the ceiling came to rest atop the maze walls.
This was a game, then. A test. Doom had allowed Reed to see his wife facing almost imminent death. Reed would be anxious now, frightened for his wife’s safety—mad, perhaps to the point of throwing all caution to the wind. He wanted Reed’s veneer of scientific logic stripped away. He wanted Reed Richards dead, but he wanted him to die crawling like the peasant Doom thought him to be.
Reed Richards the scientist was now a trapped rat in a maze. His wife’s safety was his incentive to reach the end of the maze.
And now, to add some impetus to his efforts.
A gurgling sound like water rushing through pipes came from behind Reed. He saw a small grating in the wall of the maze about ten feet up from ground level. Then the water came gushing out.
Only it wasn’t water. Reed recognized the heavy overpowering stench, and it flowed slowly, viscously.
There was no doubt about it.
The liquid that came gushing toward him was—sulfuric acid!
He stretched instantly toward the far end of the corridor and followed its turn to the left. Three corridors branched off before him. He remembered seeing them from above. One turned back upon itself. A second was a dead end. The third continued to another corridor and another and another. But, which was which?
Then the maze was plunged into darkness.
Thirteen
“John Storm, this is Anna. Anna, John has come from America.” Erich smiled at the raven-haired girl, slightly younger than Johnny. She was beautiful in her long lilac dress with the puffed shoulders and lace at the end of the flared sleeves.
Johnny stood back and took a long appreciative look. The girl was absolutely lovely, her face flawless; she wore no makeup, nor did she need any. Her green eyes sparkled delightfully; her lips were soft and moist. Johnny thought of Frankie Raye and her Bloomingdale’s pantsuits, expensive makeup, and Vidal Sassoon hair-styling, then stared at this peasant girl in her simple homemade dress, her naturally long hair, which draped her soft, milk-white shoulders, and the unpretentious, unhurried aura she seemed to radiate.
Anna, in her natural simplicity, was a more lovely, vivacious woman than Frankie had ever been. Johnny grinned, like a fool, he thought, and extended his hand to Anna. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Anna. Very pleased.” He stammered and Anna blushed.
She bowed timidly. “I have heard of you. You are one of the Fantastic Four, no?” Her voice was as soft and warm as her small, fragile hand. “You once battled with our Monarch?”
Johnny nodded, unsure what to say. Would she defend Doom? Was she against the metal-clad tyrant? All at once he remembered he was no longer in America, where freedom was taken for granted. He was in Latveria, where strangers were looked at askance, where there was hardly a voice raised against the mad Monarch, who ruled everyone with an iron hand.
He saw the hurt in her eyes. She was young, but she had felt the cruel hand of tragedy in her life. “That is good. Doom is a despot. I would see him dead before my own eyes are shut forever.”
The intensity of her hatred startled him. What could Doom have done to her? he wondered. Did he dare lay his hand upon her? Johnny cringed at the thought, and it made his blood boil with rage.
Erich saw the mood overcome her, and saw the confusion in Johnny’s eyes. “She was betrothed once, my friend—to one of the rebels in the underground. Doom’s robot army found them and destroyed them all. It was horrible. For days their bodies were displayed in the public square as a reminder of what Doom would do to any who dared plot against him.”
Johnny’s voice was soft. “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Anna. I truly am. If there was anything I could have done . . .” He stopped. There was nothing. It was already over with.
Anna forced a weak smile. “I am pleased you are here because you may be our people’s only hope. We suffer every day, John Storm. We are thought of as cattle to be herded about as Doom’s mad army demands. We fear for our lives; we rarely voice our discontent. To do so may mean death or worse. Doom is capable of inflicting terrifying torture.”
Johnny looked confused. “I—my friends and I—came through town. People bowed to Doom reverently; they seemed joyful in their admiration. He’s brought prosperity to Latveria, raised your standard of living. I—don’t think me wrong if I say this, Anna, but I don’t understand. What has Doom done to hurt your people?”
Anna looked hurt. “He has given us food and has taken away our freedom. When Doom first took over Latveria, we were a joyous people. Then he created his robot army, his terrible machines, his network of spies. Many, if not most, of our people decided resistance was futile. They gave themselves to Doom, sold themselves into slavery for a morsel of food.
“They worship Doom because they fear him, not because they have love for the iron Monarch. They trained themselves to think Doom cares for them. Today they believe it. But there are a few who know that Doom is evil; they plot against his reign of terror. One day, they hope, they will be strong enough to fight him and, if God is on their side, to destroy him.
“John Storm, will you join with them? You and your friends have powers that could stop Doom. You are the only ones he fears. I—they—are sure you could beat him and return Latveria to its people. Will you help us?”
He gazed into her eyes and saw them fill with tears. They pleaded with him. Her soft hands took his and held them with promise.
His fingers pulled at the flesh on his face. He didn’t know how to answer. Read would never allow them to join in a battle against Doom. Doom broke no international law; he attacked no other nation. He may be a despot and a mad dictator, but there were many others, and the Fantastic Four didn’t traipse into their countries and wrest away control.
They were among the most powerful human beings on Earth, but their power didn’t give them the right to remove governments they disagreed with. Not even the United Nations had that awesome power.
He wanted to help. His every gut reaction was to say yes, but sadly he shook his head. “I can’t. You don’t understand, but my friends and I just can’t do that.”
Her voice sharpened. “You condone what Doom has done?”
“No. I hate Doom. I’ve fought him a dozen times before. I would like to see him done away with for the good of everyone. But I can’t help you. My friends can’t help. We just can’t fight every dictator who—”
“You can help, but you won’t.” Her voice was filled with venom. “I thought you were different from the others. I thought you were heroes. Instead, you are like all the others. You talk about loving peace, but you do nothing to achieve it. Good-bye, John Storm.”
She turned and stalked off, Erich was quiet, and Johnny stood silent, dumbfounded. It hurt him to see that lovely face so filled with anger and hatred.
He began to call after her but stopped himself. He stared for a moment at Erich, but said nothing.
“FLAME ON!” he shouted, and his body instantly ignited. He streaked through the sky back toward the castle.
He wanted to see Reed immediately. He needed advice.
Fourteen
He hadn’t heard them flying up behind him until the first missile streaked past him. He dived and arced back. Three interceptor jets were on his tail, even as a second set of missiles was launched at him.
Johnny Storm flew downward, and the missiles instantly changed their course. Heat seekers. He strained to speed up, to fly faster. He had to evade the missiles, no matter what.
Doom was attacking him. That meant he had probably done the same with the others. They may have been captured or killed by now. He flew in a tight circle and sent a concentrated blast of heat toward the first of the
three missiles. It made contact and the explosion knocked him back for a moment.
Two missiles closed in on him as he arced upward toward the jets. The missiles were on his tail, closing in now. He was incapable of increasing his speed. He couldn’t spare the time to fire another blast at them. He’d get one, but the final missile would surely find its target.
Abruptly, he dived again as a plan was formulated. He watched the missiles spin. There was a several-seconds delay between his actions and theirs. Good enough.
He formed a wide circle and saw the missiles closing the gap between them. It would only be a matter of seconds now.
Straining with all his power, he streaked toward the jet closest to him. The missiles closed in. They were less than thirty feet behind him. In ten seconds they would hit and he’d be blown out of the sky. He pushed on, strained as he had never strained before. He had to pull ahead, just briefly, just for a moment.
The jet was directly above him now, the missiles directly below. Inside the fighter, the pilot saw a blue-red bolt of flame heading directly toward his fuselage. For a moment he panicked; then he remembered—Doom had outfitted the jets with a new flame-resistant asbestos.
Johnny was mere feet from the fighter. Then, suddenly, he arced up and back, flying as far as he possibly could. The missiles began their turn. But they were a moment too slow.
The jet incinerated on contact, destroyed by the very missile it had fired.
Two more jets pursued the Human Torch. They had seen what Johnny had done. They wouldn’t fire their heat seekers until they had him dead in their sights.
Bullets exploded from their mounted guns. Johnny heard them rushing toward him and he extended his heat field. It would slow him down a bit, but the wide heat pattern would melt the deadly lead long before it could hit him.
How to get rid of two fighter jets was the only thought running through the Human Torch’s mind. Deliberately, he flew up and wide, circling the jets and coming down behind them. He fired a concentrated heat blast at them. The jets were sprayed with fire, but they rocketed on undisturbed. Doom had obviously protected them. He expected a battle. Everything to date had been planned.
But what did Doom want? Why did he lure the Fantastic Four to his kingdom? What was he after? Johnny didn’t know, and at that moment he didn’t much care.
Leaving a long stream of flame behind him, Johnny headed toward the mountains. If he kept low and flew between the peaks, he’d lose the fighters. They weren’t as agile as he, couldn’t maneuver as well, and certainly couldn’t land as quickly.
Determined to evade the fighters, Johnny pressed on. The high peaks were several miles off. He could make it and then rest a bit. His flame wouldn’t stay ignited for much longer, not with all the energy he’d expended. He’d flame out in ten minutes and would then have to rest almost half an hour to be at peak capacity again. If he could survive that long.
The mountains were topped with snow. That wouldn’t help him. The cold would make it take that much longer for him to be able to flame on again. But he had no choice. His time was running out.
He flew low over the peaks and cut between two jutting rocks. One jet veered off; the other stayed on his trail. Johnny landed for a moment, caught his breath, then flamed on again. They aren’t going to leave me alone, are they?
There was a deep canyon on the other side of the twin peaks. He dived low. The jet followed him and fired a volley of bullets at its flaming target. If only one got through the burning red glow that surrounded the Human Torch, that would be enough.
Suddenly, Johnny turned right and came up behind the fighter. He matched the jet’s speed and caught onto its tail. It took all his strength to resist the winds which mercilessly battered him. He had to hold on, just a few minutes more.
The twin turbos were directly to his side. The jet may be flameproof, but if he could get in one good shot at the turbos, that would be all he needed.
The jet jerked to the left, and Johnny was almost thrown from it. His hands grabbed the tail wing and he held fast. He braced his back against the wing and with all his power he aimed one full heat blast into the left turbo.
Instantly, he flew up and off as the plane exploded in a massive purple and black cloud of smoke.
Johnny tumbled back from the impact and he saw the final jet circle toward him. He was dead, he told himself. No way to survive this one. His flame was almost exhausted. He had only enough power to land and keep himself warm. There was nothing he could do to attack.
He let his flame fizzle out and he fell groundward. Conserve all his energy, free-fall until the last moment, then flame on again and land safely. It was his only hope. If he could hide himself in the caves, he might make it. Unless the cold killed him first.
He tumbled downward, spread his arms and legs wide, as would a parachutist. He began to glide along the wind currents; he felt the cold breeze invigorate him. He felt alive and fresh and momentarily distracted. Up here he was a different man; nothing could bother him. Nothing could disturb him.
The ground seemed to take its time moving up to meet him. The expanse of whiteness made it difficult to judge distances, but Johnny didn’t care. He would float and float until there were only feet left to fall.
The bitter wind stung his face, and cold froze his open mouth. His eyes began to water and tear, the world became blurry, and all he could hear was his body rushing headlong toward the ground.
How much longer before flaming on? he wondered. He couldn’t see through the tears, he couldn’t make any judgment, yet the thrill of free-fall still clung to him.
Then there was softness and he was no longer falling. He hadn’t flamed on. He hadn’t landed. Where was he? With his hands he cleared the water from his eyes. There was whiteness everywhere he looked. Reality gripped him; then terror overtook reality.
Where was he?
His arms jutted out and felt a plastic softness all around him. He was encased in something, but what?
He tried to flame on, but found he couldn’t. There was some sort of gas in here, something that made it impossible to use his power.
What the hell was going on? What?
He felt tired, his eyes smarted from the gas, his head became thick and cloudy. He struggled to keep open his eyes but found them closing against his will.
He jerked back and forth, trying to rip through the softness that held him prisoner, but he was unable to lift his arms. They fell heavily to his sides as his legs crumpled under him.
He fell to his knees as his eyes shut totally.
And in a moment he was asleep, quiet as a babe, and just as helpless.
The pilot glanced at the monitor to his side. The camera mounted beneath the jet fighter showed part of the cable that hung from the bomb-bay door and the white plastic bubble that was attached to the cable. He could imagine his prisoner asleep inside the bubble.
Dr. Doom had been right. The fool would waste his power battling two fighters, but the third would hang back until he was tired and weak. And then they would have their fourth and final prisoner.
The pilot pressed a button next to the monitor.
Doom paused before the great iron door. Behind him, the Americans waited anxiously. This had been a tour they would long remember. “My friends, I am about to show you my collection of art. No Westerner has ever before seen its magnificence. I do hope you find it as pleasing as do I.”
His iron glove glanced over the electric eye and the door creaked open. Doom stood on the side as his visitors entered. He could hear them gasping with delight. What beauty! What wonders!
Above the door a red light flickered for a moment. No one but Doom saw the faint glow. Beneath his great mask Doom allowed himself a rare smile.
The last of the Fantastic Four was now his captive. And soon, they would all be dead.
Doom entered the expansive gallery and watched the American fools moving from one painting to the next, their eyes wide in appreciation. This was all booty the Nazis
had stolen during World War II. Treasures Doom had stolen from them in turn. There were Rembrandts, Goyas, Cézannes, Michelangelos, Da Vincis, Monets, Manets, Picassos, and dozens more. His collection was worth in the tens of millions, and it genuinely pleased him that the Americans appreciated its value.
Tomorrow he would return the Americans to New York. For years they would talk about their journey here, how magnanimous Doom had been, how wonderful was his great castle, how much the people of Latveria loved their Monarch. The time and expense were worth it, Doom felt. Let the world believe I am a merciful ruler. It will only buy me time.
The time I need to garner the power I must have, if I am to accomplish my true objective.
No one heard the soft, sinister chuckle that echoed through the gallery.
Fifteen
The Americans waited for the buses that would take them to the airport. The room was buzzing with excitement. Their trip had been everything Doom had promised and even more. They would have stories to tell their children and their grandchildren. Latveria may be a small country, but it was virtually a paradise.
Dean Collins felt humbled by everything he saw. Doom had used his genius to help his people. His castle was a veritable museum, a treasure-house of art. Perhaps, he wondered, had he been wrong about Doom all along? The man had been conceited once, but he was much younger then. Perhaps he had outgrown his earlier attitudes. After all, his deeds seemed to prove he had.
He glanced around, then saw Doom standing in the doorway. “Where are Reed Richards and the others?” he asked, worried.
Doom nodded. “My friends have decided to stay here a while longer. Dr. Richards wished to work in my laboratory. He decided to work with me on some personal projects.”
Collins was suspicious. That didn’t sound like Reed, not the Reed Richards he knew. “I’d like to say good-bye to him, if you don’t mind.” Something was wrong, Collins felt.
Doom bowed. “Dr. Richards asked not to be disturbed; however, I am sure he will not mind if you speak to him.” His hand pressed a button beneath a television screen. “This should buzz in the laboratory.”
