Suicide Squad

by Marv Wolfman

  “Or what?” she demanded. “You’ll shoot me?” She laughed at a threat even he knew was futile. “You realize if you do, you’ll also kill her. That’s certainly not what she’d like you to do to her.”

  Enchantress put her hand on his gun and gently nudged it down. “You’re not shooting anyone today,” she continued. “Besides, soldier, she’s mine. She’s been mine. I only let you have a taste.”

  Flag knew his threat was a bluff, and she’d called him on it. She looked at him oddly, smiled, then wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. He tried to pull away but felt a compulsion growing inside him. She was June, even if she wasn’t.

  She drew her skirt back, revealing tattooed thighs. He tried to turn away, but wasn’t able to.

  She was controlling him.

  “I want June,” he said again, but there was a catch in his voice. She kissed the side of his face, moving down to his neck. “Return her to me. I want her now.”

  Enchantress hesitated, and he thought she seemed to be weakening. June was somewhere inside her—he would bet his life on it—and she was resisting as best she could.

  “June. If you hear me, whatever you’re doing is working. Fight her, and don’t stop fighting.” Despite his words, though, Flag felt helpless. Nothing in his past had remotely prepared him to take on a fight like this. He was fighting to save a woman he had only known for a handful of weeks. He was fighting to save the life of a stranger he was certain he now loved.

  “I want June,” he said again, and he gathered himself. “Now!”

  Enchantress felt her control over June slipping, and she accepted that she had no choice. As long as they possessed the heart, she could never realize her full power.

  “Enchantress.”

  The word spilled from her, and saying her name forced her to relinquish control.

  For now. But soon, very soon…

  * * *

  June woke, and knew instantly what had occurred. She and Flag held each other for a long time.

  “She’s trying to take over my mind,” she finally said, her voice weak but gaining strength with each word.

  “I know,” Flag said. “Waller warned me. We’re in a war, June—a different kind of war, but if we work together we’ll be able to beat her. We will be able to free you.”

  June wasn’t sure she believed it.

  “You can’t know what it’s like,” she said. “She takes control over every thought I have, and when she does, when she digs in, it feels as if my head is about to explode.”

  “We will fix this,” he replied, and he looked her straight in the eye. “I will make it go away.”

  “No, Rick—please listen,” she responded. “The pain is so terrible, I’m afraid dying might be the only thing I can do to make it end. My dying might be the only way to stop her.”

  Rick shook his head. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t know how bad it is, but I do know that you can fight through it. That’s what soldiers do. There’s too much at stake to just give up. Believe in me. Believe in yourself. We can fight her.”

  “Maybe you can, but I’m not a soldier. Yes, I know how important this is, but I also know that once she gets back her full strength, she’ll have the powers of a god. I can’t fight gods, Rick. I’m going to lose unless we get her out of me. Forever. Killing me will kill her, too.”

  “Don’t ask me to do that.”

  “Then tell Waller to. She won’t let sentiment get in the way of saving the world.”

  He paused, as if considering her words.

  “Not until we’ve exhausted every other option. Can we put a pin in it? Please? Just for now?”

  June held him as tightly as she could.

  “She lives in my head, and she’s evil. She’s beyond evil. If you have to choose between me or her, you have to stop her. If you can’t, Waller will.”

  “That’s not going to happen on my watch.”

  “Rick, it’s like you said. You’re a soldier fighting a war.” An expression of calm settled on her features. “When the time comes, you will do what you have to.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Gerard Davis” stood on the crowded subway platform. He shut his eyes, taking in just its smells.

  This world, he thought, is foul. Its incessant noise offended him. The humans were, if possible, even more annoying than he remembered. His sister was correct. She understood that this Earth needed to change back to the way it was, thousands of years earlier. When the humans worshipped her… and him.

  As God intended.

  He stood silently and ignored the growing buzz surrounding him. People saw him and instinctively backed away, as if there was something off with him. Something very wrong.

  A transit cop saw him standing, facing ahead, not blinking. Not moving.

  “Sir, you okay?” the cop asked. “Can you breathe? Are you on something?” No response. The cop tapped his comm, powering it on.

  “This is twenty-one. Send medical to my location.”

  A doctor pushed through the crowd. He took Gerard’s wrist.

  “I’m a physician,” he said. “He doesn’t have a pulse.”

  “How is that possible?” the cop asked.

  The doctor didn’t allow himself to be distracted. “He didn’t answer when you spoke to him, did he?”

  The cop shook his head. “No.”

  “Okay, help me shake him,” the doctor instructed. “Just a little. Enough to tell if he’s unconscious.” They grasped him firmly, and shook. Gerard Davis simply ignored them. His mind was in another place, at another time. A better time.

  They laid him on his back on the subway platform. The doctor leaned over him, still searching for any sign of life.

  “He’s breathing abnormally,” he said anxiously. “Okay, I’m starting compressions now.” He placed one palm on the center of Davis’s chest, his other over that, then pushed down with a fast, forceful movement. He lifted his hands for just a moment, then lowered them back to perform a second compression.

  Still no reaction.

  The doctor moved to repeat his actions when the prone figure suddenly convulsed. His limbs jerked as his neck and chest twisted impossibly, spinning as if there were no skeleton under the flesh. His body began warping before the eyes of the onlookers. His hands shot up and grasped the doctor in an iron grip.

  His flesh unfolded. The doctor tried to fall back, to get away, but the figure wouldn’t let go, and the doctor began to transform as well. His arms bent back and collapsed in chaos, as if he had ten separate elbows.

  The cop let out a bellow and tried to pull the doctor away, only to be caught in the insane transformation. His body folded and distorted in ways the human body was never meant to go. The three of them collapsed into each other and somehow, impossibly, they merged, becoming a single mass—continuously churning, folding, unfolding, rotating.

  At first transfixed, the onlookers were jolted into action when one of them screamed. Then more of them were screaming, and scrambling to escape. Utter terror swept through the crowd as they shoved and stumbled to get away, climbing over one another in the attempt.

  If the thing even noticed, it did not care. It kept folding and unfolding and twisting into knots. A fleshy extension snaked out from the mass—not quite an arm but functioning in much the same way. It reached into the crowd and latched onto another man, dragging him bellowing into the hideous mass.

  It continued to grow and it continued to fold and unfold. It shook and oozed, surging and moving. It dragged in others and it grew, reforming into something almost human.

  The new form of God.

  Incubus.

  The thing rolled onto the tracks, extended a crystalline appendage to the third rail and absorbed its electrical current. With the sudden surge the Incubus grew. Bigger. More powerful.

  A lattice of glowing energy enveloped him. Red, green, and blue fractal fire sparked from his body, which itself was still writhing and twisting beyond human capability. Fi
nally he stood, and his combined mass was larger than the sum of his components. He exuded power and energy.

  His sister had told him to grow stronger. She was, as always, right. He felt so much better now.

  There was a sound and he turned, only to be blinded by the headlights of an approaching train. A hand grew and extended from his chest and slammed into the train with a burst of magical energy. The leading subway car, with all of its passengers, instantly exploded with light, then just as quickly it imploded, the energy spiraling inward.

  Incubus saw the light, and it was good.

  * * *

  June looked out the hotel window. The distant sky was beginning to glow. Dawn was approaching, but it seemed to take forever. Flag sat in the hotel chair.

  She was supposed to be asleep in the bed, but both of them had spent the night staring at each other.

  “You can’t watch me forever,” June said.

  Flag shrugged. “I’d like to try.”

  A soft chime brought them back to reality. His phone buzzed with a new text. He swiped the screen and read his updated orders.

  Crap.

  “Recall message,” he said. “Gotta go.”

  Before he could move, though, June received the same text.

  “Looks like we’re going together,” she said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Griggs loved it when it all went to hell.

  When the guards armored up, carrying riot shields and gas masks, and thudded down the hall, it meant that Belle Reve’s army—his army—had a situation to deal with. It also meant that whatever they had to do would pretty much be swept under the rug.

  Civil rights are hereby suspended, he mused with glee. There are heads to crack and bones to break. Griggs was in seventh heaven.

  “We hit ’em hard and fast,” he shouted to his boys. “We can do anything we want to keep the peace. We’re in charge here.” Dixon gave him a thumbs up, and whooped as they gleefully moved in.

  * * *

  Floyd Lawton heard the commotion outside, and prepared himself for the fun and games. This happened right on schedule, pretty much every other month, when the guards could no longer scratch their own itches. They needed a release of some sort, and taking out their frustrations on the prison population was their favorite way to go.

  He heard Griggs shout from the hallway.

  It wouldn’t be more than a minute or two.

  His cell door flew open and guards wearing gas masks and plastic-knuckled gloves moved in, carrying riot shields. He was swarmed with boots and fists. Lawton knew he could try to resist, but sooner or later he’d be overwhelmed. Better to let them tire themselves out.

  His time would come. Sooner, rather than later.

  They dragged him to the restraint chair and shackled him in. Griggs was first.

  “Time to pay for the room service, Deadshot.” He slammed Lawton in the face with the butt of his pistol. Then again, and again. Before long the prisoner’s eyes were nearly swollen shut, but he just grinned.

  “That all you got, bitch?”

  Griggs sneered and punched him again, only harder. That one actually hurt, but Lawton still grinned defiantly. Then a black hood was pulled down over his head.

  “Just getting started,” Griggs laughed.

  * * *

  Diablo heard a strange noise he hadn’t heard before. He paced the pressure chamber, eyeing the walls for any sign of a malfunction. Anything that might make it possible for him to escape.

  That was the one thing he wouldn’t do.

  Diablo sighed. He knew he belonged here. Behind bars, in prison, where he’d be rendered harmless, and the rest of humanity would be safe. He knew he deserved all the punishment he endured, and perhaps more.

  Bring it on, boys, he thought wordlessly. Bring everything you’ve got. But then he figured out the reason for the sound. Water was gushing through the pipes. The pressure chamber began to flood. It was designed to fill up in seconds, if flames were detected—but Diablo wasn’t trying to escape.

  He hadn’t done a thing.

  Instinctively he generated sheets of flame, hoping to evaporate the water, but it didn’t work. His flames died out, and the level continued to rise. Water filled his lungs. It would only be a matter of seconds before he drowned.

  Then he relaxed, and stopped fighting.

  He should have remembered.

  Outside the chamber, a gloved fist hit the dump switch, and the pressure chamber spilled its guts. Griggs enjoyed this, Diablo knew. Bringing the animals to the edge, then pulling them away. Then starting it all over again.

  “Hey! They’re killers,” he would say. “They deserve everything they get. And if one accidentally kicks the bucket, so what? Crap happens.”

  Diablo fell to the floor, coughing uncontrollably. Before he could even begin to recover, though, guards in firefighting gear stormed the chamber and injected him with sedatives. He went down for the count.

  Do whatever you want to, boys, he thought as he lost consciousness. I’m fair game.

  * * *

  Griggs gave the order. Dixon and two others dragged Diablo to one of the Gitmo stretchers—the one with the big wheels—and he was strapped into it. They checked the restraints carefully.

  “Give him a few minutes to recover,” the captain said. “Then let’s party.”

  * * *

  The riot squad used a cutting torch to sever the iron bars separating the Belle Reve sewer tunnel from the rest of the facility. The guards accompanying the squad had their tranquilizer guns ready. Croc wasn’t going to get within twenty-five yards of them unless they wanted him to.

  The guards passed the bone shrines Croc had set up, tied together with viscera and tendons. Two of the newbies threw up on the spot. One of them walked along the edge of the water channel, opaque with filth and slime.

  “Captain, if that thing’s ahead of us, why aren’t we going the other way?” he asked nervously. “I mean, like as fast as our feet can carry us?”

  “Miller, just shut up and do what I tell you,” Griggs snapped. They walked another quarter mile through the darkness, their flashlights barely lighting their immediate area, let alone the path ahead.

  Miller paused to wipe his brow. This place not only stunk, it was hot as hell, and humid, too. He wiped his face again, then shoved his handkerchief in his back pocket and took another step.

  Into a slick patch of slime.

  His boot slipped and he fell into the river of slime that ran down the center of the tunnel.

  * * *

  Dixon rushed to the edge and reached out to grab the kid, but the newbie was already under water. A moment later his helmet bobbed to the surface, followed by his body. Before they could try to reach him, his armor exploded.

  Damned Croc, Griggs thought furiously. He shook his head and looked to the others. “Prime your tranq guns. We gotta put the bastard to sleep.”

  “You saw him. He’s a monster. Why can’t we just kill him?”

  “Hey. I don’t like it any more ’n you, but they made it clear. We don’t do exactly what they said, we lose our jobs. ‘A course, they said nothin’ about not hurtin’ him bad. So feel free. Have your fun.” He added, “I sure as hell will.”

  Griggs’s men held their tranquilizer guns and waited for the monster to come up for a breath. Nothing happened. It felt like it took forever. Then they saw the top ridges of Croc’s head breach the surface.

  They had a place to aim.

  “Now!” Griggs shouted.

  As one they fired their guns. A dozen tranq darts slammed into Croc, and he roared in pain. Screaming, he lumbered toward them, intending to rip them apart. He pushed closer. Closer. They fired a second round.

  He stopped screaming as he fell unconscious into the sludge. A dozen flashlight beams immediately danced along his back, checking him out. “He playing possum, Griggs?” Dixon drawled.

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out,” Griggs replied. He pulled out a tranquilizer gun
and shot an ox-dropping dose into the monster’s back.

  Raging in pain, Croc sprung to life and groped for the dart. He thrashed around frantically, then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, face down in the sludge.

  Guards with ropes and chains jumped into the water to secure their prize.

  “They can’t win,” Griggs said, and he laughed. “They keep trying, I’ll give them that, but they never, ever win.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She counted down the seconds, as she had been for the past two days. One second at a time. Sixty times a minute. Thirty-six hundred times an hour. Eighty-six thousand four hundred times a day.

  She knew they’d be coming.

  On time, just as promised, and now it was Harley’s turn. She reached into her mouth and carefully pulled out a long jailhouse knife, the culmination of the world’s greatest sword-swallowing act. She drew it out slowly. Cautiously. Each second was torture to her—normally she wasn’t someone who believed in taking her time.

  Harley Quinn liked to act the instant she got an idea.

  Like now.

  Still, the woman who had been Harleen Quinzel understood, better than most, the concept of delayed gratification. Pull the blade out fast—like she really, really wanted—and the odds were she’d give herself a fatal tonsillectomy. Now Mr. J might want her to go through life without saying a word, but Harley didn’t much like the idea.

  Just as the blade’s tip cleared her lips, she heard footsteps approaching. Right on time. The riot squad stopped in front of her cage, their weapons aimed and ready. She gave them her sweetest ‘You got me, copper’ smile and raised her hands in submission.

  “I’m cooperating,” she said innocently. “Look—it’s me being cool. See? Harmless.”

  Cautiously they opened the cell. Without saying a word, they fired their tasers.

  She was ready.

  Harley spun out of the way of most, but two or three slammed her in the back. This gave her time to twist and pull the shiv from its hiding place in her sleeve. In a single, elegant dance, she whirled and stabbed the closest guard. She recognized him.