Rat-A-Tat: Short Blasts of Pulp

by Russ Anderson, Jr

  The three set up two small tents near the Mole. Van Lansing was very muscular, and a bit of a large man to share a tent. He slept in one, while Truman and Pennyworth shared the other. They were O.K. with that, as they soon learned that B.V. snored quite loudly. They were thankful they spaced the tents far enough apart, so as not to disturb him.

  The next morning, Truman rose bright-and-early, as the saying goes. He let his old friend sleep on a bit more. He walked near the tent of Van Lansing, and found it quite silent. He ventured to take a look inside, drawing aside the canvas opening, and saw it was empty, of Van Lansing and whatever he had slept on.

  On a nervous hunch, Truman went to their tent and woke up Pennyworth.

  “Well, what is so damn important you wake me from a grand and dreamy sleep, my boy?” stammered out a still groggy Sir Stanley.

  Suddenly the Mole, which seconds ago had been still and silent, came to life, its main engines roaring ever so loudly. Good gods, how loud it was – from the outside – like a never-ending series of thunderclaps, in True and Pen’s ears.

  “Oh, no!” yelled a startled Pennyworth.

  “Oh, no, indeed!” replied Truman, as the Mole began to move speedily away. There was no sense in trying to catch up with it. Even in his younger school sporting days, Truman would be hard-pressed to keep pace with it for very long.

  What seemed like a century after the last sounds of the scurrying-away Mole had ceased ringing in both their ears, Truman looked behind their tent. He discovered the now urgently-needed supplies that Van Lansing had left for him and Pennyworth. At least the rascal of an inventor did that!

  Pennyworth was less kind in his brief sentiments: “Why, the Mole has turned into a Rat!”

  With Truman’s electrical lamps, which could last for weeks, or even months, an Elephant gun rifle, one Civil War era pistol, lots of ammunition, a large bag of foodstuffs to last a week to ten days, and several water canteens, they began their slow trek toward finding a tunnel pathway back up to the surface world of modern mankind.

  “My god, if only he had waited a short while to look for his gold and diamonds, we could have shared the real treasure of such a great archaeological find! We’ll have little time to explore it now, if we hope to live long enough to find our way out – back to our old life – up above,” spoke a very sad and dejected-sounding Pennyworth.

  They only took one short hour to grab a few small pieces of tarnished and ornate golden trinkets that some royal princess must have worn many centuries ago, and whatever other small finds that turned up that would sit lightly in their knapsacks. Only then did they begin their very long walk toward the surface, and home.

  On a few occasions during their return journey, they both clearly heard some loud yet distant booming sounds. No doubt it was Van Lansing, using his explosive devices or other weapons, to defend himself from those nasty looking lizard men – or to get at some kind of treasures he had long hungered for, all of his adult life.

  ***

  It took what seemed like an age to them, but Pen and True finally found an exit tunnel. They appeared to have emerged onto a side tributary channel to the Rio Grande, and the greater Grand Canyon system beyond. Even if either one was an excellent mapmaker – which they were not – Truman and Pennyworth would be hard-pressed to trace their way back to the opening of the tunnel from below. The rare find of the abandoned city, and the way to the old City of Elders, would have to wait for some other explorers to re-discover, on another, far off day.

  ***

  They never did learn or hear of what became of their new enemy, Burton Van Lansing – who was never heard nor seen on the surface world of Man ever again. But they did have some theories of their own.

  It was only a month or so after their return that the Great San Francisco Earthquake suddenly struck, in this Year of our Lord 1906.

  Also, some very odd, loud booming sounds that appeared to originate from below ground, were reported to have been observed in several states between Colorado and California.

  And in the troubling times that a nasty sinkhole would appear anywhere in nearby Florida, Stanley Pennyworth would take a long look at his merry associate and co-inventor, Truman Lightfoot. Then, and with quite a serious look upon his aged yet humble countenance, Pennyworth would solemnly declare: “Seems that old rat Van Lansing is up to his no good tricks yet again.”

  And then, these two very good friends would have a long and hearty laugh over it all.

  For many long weeks after their return to the laboratory and normal life, Truman would have meandering dreams in his sleep, and in some waking moments, too, about Bellatrix, and of the wonders of that strange and oddly beautiful world there deep below.

  BLOOD FROM STONE

  By Nick C. Piers

  Dr. Holling sat on a stool, breathing deeply. It was almost time for the impending operation. His joints ached as he slowly stood. He thought a man his age shouldn’t still be doing surgeries like this. It wracked his nerves. He began scrubbing down at the sink, preparing for the procedure.

  Clunk! The swinging doors flung open. Orderlies wheeled in the patient.

  It was a Stalag. The gargantuan beast’s girth spread across two gurneys. Its craggy arms dangled off the sides. Leather slings strapped to the sides of tables kept its stalactite-sized appendages elevated in place. Dr. Holling was amazed the gurneys could hold its weight. They must have been made with tempered titanium.

  “Has it been sedated?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the orderly said. They pointed to the gas mask over the Stalag’s mouth. Cooling steam spewed from the beast’s mouth.

  “Then let’s hope there’s enough nitrogen to last,” Dr. Holling sighed.

  Two militia members wheeled in the most important part of the procedure: a diamond-tipped laser. Dr. Holling was told during the briefing that Colonel Smarty Pants designed it himself, using part of a robotics arm from a local car manufacturing plant. Dr. Holling motioned the formation of a cross with one hand. He prayed it would be enough.

  Nurse Tinsdale helped Holling with his gloves. Their triple thickness would make for uneasy operating, but he hoped the fireproof insulation would hold. From what they briefed him on, these creatures withheld enormous levels of heat. The precautions just to keep it cool were nearly unheard of.

  “Time?” he asked, stepping towards the laid out creature.

  “Twenty minutes and counting,” Nurse Tinsdale said.

  “Does anyone know its name?” he asked. “Or what rank it holds?”

  A watchful U.N. lieutenant furrowed his brow. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Dr. Holling sighed. One Stalag life was the same as any other. “Okay, light it up.”

  The laser hummed. A sliver of red light shot out of it, cutting just below the Stalag’s thorax. It sliced down the creature’s midsection, creating a perfectly straight incision from neck to abdomen.

  Everybody in the room – from Holling and Nurse Tinsdale to the small squad of U.N. soldiers – held their breath. The slit burned hot red from the laser’s impact but nothing had happened. Dr. Holling twitched for a second when something finally did occur.

  Hsssss. Small clouds of steam spewed forth from the incision. The room – despite its ventilation – heated up in mere seconds. The humidity was nearly unbearable, like stepping out into a boiling hot summer day.

  Nurse Tinsdale gulped. She and Dr. Holling stared down at the red, glowing incision. It looked like a pulsating earthworm, pinned down.

  The Stalag didn’t flinch. A collective sigh filled the room.

  Nurse Tinsdale wiped his brow with a cold cloth.

  “Call Dr. Keele in,” he ordered. “And tell the general that a regular dose of fifty CCs of nitrogen will keep a Stalag from waking.”

  “Yessir,” a militia member said. He saluted and left.

  “Shut it off,” Dr. Holling ordered.

  The laser whirred to quiet. The stone-like chest now exhibited a bright
red, molten seam running down its chest.

  “Extractors.”

  With two beefy militia members at either side, the titanium chest extractors widened the creature’s chest cavity. The Stalag’s chest cracked like a lobster shell. Hissing, piping hot steam poured out, filling the room.

  “Good lord!” Dr. Keele exclaimed as he entered. “It’s like a sauna in here!”

  “Notify the general. I’ve made my way into the chest cavity and am beginning surgery. Ensure that he alerts the other surgeons not to stand too close to the incision when it opens.”

  Nurse Tinsdale repeated the message into a two-way radio.

  “Doctor,” the radio squawked. “I don’t need to remind you of the consequences if this surgery goes wrong.”

  Dr. Holling didn’t respond. He knew the damn consequences! The results of this operation would either save or crucify their planet.

  “I’m now peeling back the epidermal layer,” he explained. “It’s…tough, like tearing off a piece of plexiglass.”

  The military wanted every minute detail of the operation. Holling assumed there were dozens of military men huddled around a two-way radio on their end.

  “Arteriole vessels beating at seventy over fifty,” said Dr. Keele. He was an assistant surgeon from Illinois that Holling specifically requested.

  “Clamp,” he ordered.

  “Heartbeat is still regular,” reported Dr. Keele.

  Nurse Tinsdale handed him a scalpel. It was specifically designed by the military for the operation. Made from impossibarium, likely. It’d successfully cut through steel.

  He muttered a prayer to himself.

  “I’m making the first incision to the right aorta adjacent to the largest heart. Inform the general that the Stalags have a hard shell surrounding their lung capitularies. It could be same inside, which would explain why they were able to survive deep space.”

  “Holding steady at sixty five over fifty,” Dr. Keele informed. “This might go smoother than we expected, Doctor.”

  “Hold your excitement, Michael. I’m making the second incision in the rear artery. Oop!” he exclaimed, jerking back.

  Hot steam billowed out of the wound. The heat went from sauna to comparable to the insides of a volcano. “Get some suction in there, damnit!” he shouted, frustrated with the steam fogging up his lenses. Nurse Tinsdale quickly rubbed them clear for him.

  “BP is dropping!” shouted Keele.

  “Come on, come on!” Dr. Holling grumbled. “And inform the general about the rear artery being a funnel for steam, no doubt to keep their bodies super-heated. That’d explain the reports of fires.”

  “Doctor, ten minutes,” said Nurse Tinsdale.

  “I know,” he griped. “Making the third incision, now.”

  “BP is at twenty five over fifty,” Dr. Keele told him.

  The scalpel cut through another artery.

  “That’s it!” Dr. Keele exclaimed. “BP is dropping. It’s going into cardiac arrest.”

  “Wait,” warned Dr. Holling, feverishly working the interior muscles of the creature. “Just wait.”

  The creature remained as solid and stoic as it had when they wheeled it in on the gurney. Its rounded head slumped back, clunking against the metal operating table. It left a sizeable dent at impact. Its cave-like mouth gaped wide. Hot steam hissed out. A faint grunt followed. Its dark red sash adorning down its chest fluttered to the floor. Alien symbols in the form of mountains not known to Earth were embroidered into it.

  “We’ve got a flat line,” Nurse Tinsdale informed. “It’s gone.”

  Dr. Holling tossed the scalpel back on the table. “Call it.”

  “Three and twenty five hours,” Dr. Keele said, untying his surgical mask, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Notify the United Nations to call off Earth’s global surrender. Tell the general to inform the other doctors that they should avoid the rear ventricle. Just cut around it. Also, avoid the lung capitularies entirely, if it’s possible.”

  Dr. Keele ripped off his sweat-soaked head cover. “Congratulations, Simon. You’ve just killed your first Stalag.” He patted his old classmate on the back.

  “Give me a minute to catch my breath and we’ll move on to the next one,” he said, resting on the stool behind him.

  “The general will be ecstatic,” Nurse Tinsdale eagerly said. “Since the invasion began, we’ve had no chance against them. The president just sanctioned New York a no man’s land.”

  “I don’t know whose crazed idea it was to try this, Simon,” Dr. Keele said, “but I’ll be damned if it didn’t work.”

  “All right,” Dr. Holling sighed, taking a sip of iced tea. “Blast the next one with nitrogen and send it in. Masks up, people.”

  THE MILE HIGH KILLERS

  By Joel Jenkins

  Some say the devil's playground

  Is upon the great blue sea

  But in the air, where I fly free

  That's where death and destruction do tempt me

  - Gantlet Brothers, Point of Destruction

  from the Point of Destruction album, Anarchy Records 1993

  An icy blonde stewardess strutted down the aisle of the passenger jet, pausing only when a woman with long black tresses, arctic complexion, and wearing sunglasses despite the dimmed lighting inside the cabin, caught her attention by touching her on the elbow. “Could you please get me some aspirin? I feel a terrible headache coming on.”

  The stewardess hesitated. “I'm sorry, Miss ....”

  “Miss Constantine,” lied the dark-haired woman. That's what the false passport in her wallet said.

  “I'm sorry, Miss Constantine, but I'm not allowed to dispense any sort of drugs. It's against airline policy.”

  “I understand,” said Miss Constantine, who was really wishing for one of her Turkish cigarettes right about now. “I know what's bringing the headache on. I'm diabetic and I need to take a shot of insulin.”

  The stewardess gestured down the aisle. “The nearest bathroom is right there, if you need to attend to your injection.”

  Constantine glanced at the stewardess’s name tag. “Thank you, Miss Jamison. Sorry to bother you with this.”

  “Call me Katerina,” said the stewardess. “And it's all in a day's work. Let me know if I can get you anything else—at least that I'm allowed to get you.” She nodded to the Gucci black stirrup hobo bag on Miss Constantine's lap. “Nice bag, by the way. I was looking at them the other day, but I'm afraid the five thousand dollar price tag is a bit out of my league.”

  “I'm in a rather lucrative line of business, Katerina,” said Constantine.

  “What do you do?” asked the stewardess.

  “I'm a Conflict Resolution Specialist.”

  “Impressive sounding. What exactly is that, some sort of consultant or advisor?”

  “I prefer the hands on approach,” said Constantine.

  Miss Jamison smiled and continued her strut down the aisle, while Constantine reached into her Gucci bag and withdrew a small vial labeled as insulin and began to draw out a portion of the contents into a syringe.

  Having overheard Constantine's conversation with the stewardess, the aging woman next to her was not alarmed. “I have a granddaughter with diabetes. Do you know that sometimes it can be treated with diet?”

  “I'm afraid my diabetes is so severe that diet alone won't do the trick,” said Constantine.

  “Do you live in Colombia or were you just visiting?” asked the woman.

  “Just visiting,” said Constantine as she continued the draw.

  “You're still so pale. Didn't you visit any of the beaches?”

  “It was strictly a business trip,” said Constantine. “No time for sightseeing.”

  “That's such a shame. Why there's a lovely beach not far from....”

  Constantine let the woman continue, but her concentration was elsewhere. Once the syringe was loaded, she replaced the vial in her bag and tucked the syringe into a lea
ther clasp, which she left unzipped. “I'll be right back.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” said the woman.

  “Unfortunately,” muttered Constantine as she stood, carefully finding her balance on three-inch stiletto heels as the plane rumbled through a pocket of turbulence. She smiled. It would be much easier to fake a fall with real turbulence. The seat belt signs flashed on and a tiny stewardess with a pinched nose and cropped bangs began to exhort, in both heavily-accented English and flawless Spanish, everyone to return to their seats. Constantine spoke both fluently.

  Constantine had spotted three assassins since she boarded the plane. There was no question that they were after her. Her business in Colombia had involved the removal of a high level Cali Cartel member and now the cartel ranks were in chaos. Still, with three assassins aboard her flight, it was apparent that her getaway wasn't as clean as she had hoped. There were still a lot of low level bosses with access to plenty of drug money. If one of them could successfully oversee the killing of the assassin who had terminated Fernando Benes, that would put them next in line.

  Where and how these three assassins planned to dispose of her, Constantine could only speculate, but perhaps she could even the odds before they made their move. Even with her dark-haired wig, Constantine found that she attracted the admiring stares of men. She was nearly six-feet in her heels and made for a striking figure.

  Constantine could usually spot a fellow assassin—their hard-eyed stare, constant vigilance, and remorseless demeanor being giveaways, if not the bulge of concealed weapons—but in this case she actually recognized the individuals. She made it her business to be familiar with her competition, and in one case she had actually worked with the assassin on a job in Venice which had gone horribly wrong.

  The first she recognized from some mugshots taken before his six year incarceration in a Russian Prison on a drunken manslaughter charge. Petruso Demchak was broad-nosed and thick-lipped with black eyes as deep as the pits in hell, and it was no wonder, for he was connected with at least seventy assassinations—men, women, children; it didn't matter to him. Shocks of salty black hair covered his protuberant skull in haphazard profusion. Constantine could feel his eyes on her, but she avoided direct eye contact, fearing that he might see the recognition there.