Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal

by Gregg Taylor

  “Which one was it?” she asked, for lack of a better question.

  “Not sure. I was taking a little nap as you’ll recall.”

  “Ah yes,” she smirked. “So what’s so interesting about this?”

  “The rate of cellular decay,” he said. “Or rather, the lack of it, in some ways. Bert’s formaldehyde analogy isn’t that far off. These cells weren’t alive, they were preserved.”

  “But Boss,” she protested, “that’s crazy. We fought them. They broke two of your ribs.”

  “I have a vague recollection of that, yes,” he grimaced.

  “So what? Did somebody pull a fast one on us?”

  He approached with a tray full of fresh slides. “Look at these.” He fixed a slide into the viewer. She lowered her head, suspiciously.

  “Okay,” she said. “What am I looking at now?”

  “An unrelated sample of healthy muscle tissue,” he said.

  She peered at him from just above the eyepieces. “Does it matter whose it is?”

  “Well,” he began, “I suppose it would have mattered to him quite a bit, but for our purposes, no. It’s just for contrast. You see it’s quite a bit different.”

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “What? I don’t know… no well-stocked Crime Lab should be without one really. This is what forensic analysis often consists of. You examine the norm,” he gestured to the slide on the viewer, “and then you examine the evidence.”

  At this he changed the slides again and waved her back in. “And you ask yourself, ‘How is this different, and what could have caused it?’ And then you say the answer out loud and your partner looks at you like you’re particularly clever. Go on.” He waved again, gesturing her back into the microscope.

  “It’s the first slide again,” she said, confused.

  “Is it?” he smiled.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Look again.”

  She scowled at him a little. Flying and hitting were definitely more fun. She squinted again through the viewer.

  “Okay… it’s a different slide, but it’s from the same body.”

  “No,” he said, “it isn’t.”

  “Then it’s from one of the other corpses from the Golden Goose?”

  “Good guess,” he said, really enjoying himself. “Wrong, but good guess.”

  “But Bert said there weren’t any samples in that envelope from the St Clair explosion.” She was slightly irritated with him now, but he didn’t play games very often, and she did find it fun to watch.

  “That he did. That he did indeed.” He looked at her over the non-existent rims of his non-existent glasses and waited.

  “But…,” she said frustrated, “since this slide is different from the normal tissue in… in exactly the same ways as the first one…”

  “Yes…”

  “Then whatever this slide is from… that must be the answer!”

  “Yes!” he folded his arms as if they were done.

  “But what is it?” she said crossly.

  “What is what?” He seemed lost for a moment. “Oh, the slide.”

  “Yes, the slide.” She was exasperated.

  “Oh, that’s just a tissue sample from one of the many undead henchmen of our old friend–”

  “–Professor Zombie!” she finished.

  “Yes,” he said. “Simple when you get right down to it, isn’t it?”

  “It kind of is,” she said.

  He looked mildly disappointed.

  “But why would Professor Zombie be working with the mob?” she asked. “It’s not her M.O. at all.”

  “No, it isn’t. She works exclusively with her own zombie henchmen. She doesn’t trust anyone else and no one else trusts her.”

  “So why the change?” Kit said, puzzled. “The leopards don’t change their spots ‘round here all that often.”

  “No they don’t,” he agreed. “But the last gang in town… whoever they are… they might have thought they needed more muscle. They might have made a deal.”

  “Think she’s double-crossed them yet?” Kit said, tying her hair back in preparation for the cowl.

  “Couldn’t say,” he mused, looking at the first slide again. “But this tissue is definitely preserved with Necronium. There’s something else in here… an agent I don’t recognize. It might be the cause of the zombies’ enormous size.”

  “She’s been fiddlin’ with her formula? That doesn’t sound like Professor Zombie either.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed. “And I can’t say for sure, but it might be some sort of growth agent applied while the cells were still living. Whatever it is, we’ve seen the effect. These zombies are faster and stronger than any we’ve ever dealt with.”

  She snapped her fingers in revelation. “An’ this is why they’re wearin’ makeup! To hide that grey-green complexion her monsters get.”

  “Of course!” he smiled. “We’d have recognized them in an instant otherwise, and then this fiendish alliance would no longer have had the advantage of secrecy.”

  “So what should we do?” Kit asked. “Should we do some… some tests to see what the growth agent is?”

  “I think we’ve been cooped up in the lab long enough for the moment,” he said. “Now that we’ve got an idea what we’re dealing with, I think a little exercise is in order. After all, all work and no play makes Kit a dull Squirrel.”

  She gave him a look as if he were particularly clever.

  “Ah,” he said, “there it is.

  Twenty-Three

  Deep within the hidden sanctum of the Crime Cabal, a door opened softly and quietly. A head popped around the corner sheepishly, and Case Bermel peered into the inner office, his hat in his hand.

  He squinted slightly. The office was in semi-darkness, and a single lamp on the desk was turned towards the door, causing him to blink in discomfort, but he was fairly certain that the form behind the desk was the man he had come to see.

  “Mister… Mister Malcolm… is that you, sir?” Case said nervously.

  “Yes,” came the reply, calm and even.

  “Mister Malcolm, it’s Case. Case Bermel.”

  “Yes, Case?” the man behind the desk said.

  “Mister Malcolm, I don’t wanna… I mean… I know there were some hard feelings there for a couple of days, and I didn’t want to… Well,” he sighed, “I just want you to know I respect you and what you’ve done, settin’ up this new organization and all. I just didn’t want you to think otherwise, sir. An’ I know the other boys, they feel the same as me.”

  “Thank you, Case.”

  Bermel strained to listen for any other meaning in the reply. To hear if Malcolm was still angry, or worse, under duress.

  “I mean, these… uh- new partners… I think it’s swell the crazy things they’ve come up with. To give us the upper hand, I mean, but… you know… honor among thieves, right?” He laughed a little. There was no reply from the man behind the desk. Malcolm was not famed for his sense of humor, but still…

  Bermel crept a little closer, cautiously. Malcolm was still behind his desk, his elbows resting on the desktop, his fingers touching lightly in front of his lips.

  “Was there something more?” the man behind the desk asked, lifting his head, just a little. The shadows fell away from his face, and Bermel could now see clearly that it was indeed Malcolm, his face reserved and serious, but the man had never been known for his warmth. Bermel breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Sure, sure,” Bermel said hurriedly. “I just… I just wanted to make sure… well, Kid Chaos ran the new plan past me and… well, I just wanted to be sure that you’d signed off on it, sir. I don’t want to cause no trouble.”

  “That’s all right, Case. You did the right thing.” Malcolm nodded coolly, “I approved the plan.”

  Bermel smiled in relief. “I’m sure glad to hear it, Mister Malcolm. I mean, it sounds like a good enough plan… that is… it sounds great,” he corrected h
imself hastily. “The only face the Red Panda might’ve recognized up to now is Satchel Braun. An’ me and Mitch Palmer are the only mugs left from the Ryder mob. It makes sense to dangle us out there… kinda like bait.”

  He laughed nervously and too loud. Malcolm’s expression did not change. Bermel’s laughter died away in discomfort.

  “Er… anyway… I just wanted to make sure that… well, that everything was okay. At the top… you know.” Bermel was backing away now, crushing his hat in his hands as he did so.

  “It’s all right, Case,” Malcolm said again. “I approved the plan.”

  Bermel paused just a moment. “Right. Sure thing. Thanks, Mister Malcolm. Thanks for everything.”

  The door clicked shut behind him.

  “Thank you, Case,” Malcolm said again, his eyes unmoved. “Thank you.”

  Two figures moved forward from the shadows, beaming smiles of self-satisfaction.

  “Well,” Kid Chaos said, sitting on the corner of Malcolm’s desk, “that went pretty well. I don’t think Bermel suspected a thing.”

  “Bermel is an idiot,” Professor Zombie said sternly, leaning in to examine Malcolm’s pupils for signs of change. “And he betrayed our interests. If we had not subdued Malcolm yet, he would be working against us at this very moment.”

  “If we had not subdued Malcolm yet,” Chaos beamed at her, “we would be dead by now, and deservedly so. And as for Bermel, don’t worry your beautiful head about it, my dear Professor. Between our henchmen and my bombs–”

  “Our bombs,” she corrected with a wry smile.

  “Our bombs.” He forced a smile. “At any rate, neither of them have the slightest chance of surviving the trap either. Even once the Panda and Squirrel have been blown to a fine powdery ash, they won’t be the only ones on the trail of Braun’s ex-confederates. We can’t have them traced back to us.”

  “I suppose,” Professor Zombie said, “their brothers in arms won’t care much for that.” She glanced to Kid Chaos to see if he was at all concerned. She was not disappointed by his smile, which neatly straddled the line between serene and insane.

  “My dear, do not underestimate these gangsters’ predisposition to saving their own skins. Besides, Mister Malcolm performed beautifully.” He patted the walking corpse’s shoulder in congratulations.

  “We cannot make much further use of him though,” Zombie said testily. “The reduced levels of Necronium allow this zombie greater powers of speech, but it has left him with an unacceptably high level of brain function.”

  “I thought he did fine,” Chaos protested.

  “Within the narrow parameters of a conversation we were able to prepare him for, yes. Under less controlled circumstances, he might become… unpredictable.” She scowled at the thought.

  “I see…” Chaos was momentarily serious.

  “Besides,” she continued, “lowering the Necronium levels also reduces the protection from decay. Malcolm will be literally falling apart within a week or two. And he won’t be any nosegay in as little as three or four days.”

  “Well, that is rather more serious,” Chaos smiled. “But I’m sure we’ll get by. He’ll be able to deal with the fallout from Bermel and Palmer’s deaths, and then we can arrange for a little… accident.”

  “One that’s ever so slightly more subtle than your usual efforts, if you please,” Professor Zombie practically purred. “Something that won’t make people feel obliged to use the little ironic pause before they say ‘accident’. Just for once.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he smiled. “And while we’re speaking of defying expectations…”

  She turned to him and arched an eyebrow, silently. He unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt to reveal a small apparatus fastened to his chest.

  “Do you know what this is?” he smiled.

  She smiled, almost warmly, “I can probably guess. You being you, I assume it is some form of detonator.”

  “Right first try,” he grinned.

  “And me being me, I can only extrapolate that it is tied to the continued beating of your heart.”

  “Such a clever girl,” he beamed.

  “And if your heart should unexpectedly cease to beat–”

  “–due, one might imagine, from sudden exposure to a Necronium cocktail–,” he said happily.

  “Then, what explodes, exactly?” she said politely.

  “Everything,” he grinned. “Just so we understand each other.”

  Twenty-Four

  The night air hung over the city, heavy with a thick damp that clung to everything it touched. It held every bit of smoke that flowed from every chimney and wrapped it low over the streets and alleys like a vile fog of grime. The night was cool and clammy and full of portent that promised no good to anyone.

  Kit Baxter could feel that portent hanging in the air. She would rarely admit to such a thing, even to herself, and almost never when she wore the mask of the Flying Squirrel. She still felt the adrenaline rushing through her veins, coiling her muscles like finely tuned machines, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. But something in the air this night carried the scent of doom, and she couldn’t shake the feeling no matter what she did.

  Her eyes never wavered from the doorway she watched, down the blind alley, almost lost in shadows. But her right hand twitched slightly, as if it itched. She played with her fingers a little. She didn’t want to seem nervous. On the other hand, if he valued her instincts…

  She raised her hand half the distance from the ledge on which it rested to her eyes. Without looking away from the doorway below, she glanced at the dull black ring she wore outside her glove. It lacked any sort of luster that might reflect in the darkness which so often kept them safe. In place of any sort of adornment, there was a small, flat plate in the same dull tone, and within that round plate there was a series of red circles within circles. The pattern looked almost hypnotic, though she knew it was the sending and receiving antennae, built within the plate in the form of tiny micro-circuitry that took the place of normal radio tubes. It was just one of the many things the Red Panda had developed to aid them in their war on crime that could have revolutionized technology around the world. He had sacrificed the fame and fortune that such inventions might have brought him, wealth perhaps even dwarfing that which he was born to, for the greater good of ridding his city of crime.

  “And apparently, so I’ll look at him like he’s clever.” She smiled at the thought. It probably wasn’t true, but it still gave her a thrill that he’d thought to say so. She hesitated another moment. Suddenly, the Radio Ring crackled softly to life before her.

  “Red Panda to Flying Squirrel…,” a small, tinny tone sang from the device, “come in, Squirrel…”

  She grinned, and bit her lip a little, though there were no watching eyes to hide her delight from.

  “Squirrel here. What’s the rumpus, Boss?”

  “All quiet on this end.” The voice came through gentle static.

  “Here, too,” she said. “I thought no news was good news.”

  “Did I say that?” he said, knowing full well that he had.

  “You missed the melodious sound of my voice, didn’t you?” she teased.

  There was a small pause. Just long enough for her to think he’d gone back to radio silence.

  “I have a feeling I can’t shake,” his voice came again.

  “Do tell…,” she smiled. “Maybe we should put some music on and talk about it.”

  There was another pause. Smaller this time.

  “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” he said at last.

  “Yes, Boss. To tell the truth, I was kinda hoping you were callin’ to say somethin’ encouraging.”

  “You worried?” he said.

  “Yeah. Maybe a little.”

  “Me too,” came his voice. “I can’t put my finger on it… but something feels wrong.”

  “Think we’re missin’ something?”

  “I’d be sur
prised if we weren’t. But tracing Satchel Braun’s activities through his former allies might be the only solid clue we have, since Professor Zombie has no known associates.” There was a low buzz of static, as if a storm was blowing in but was still far-off, but he came through loud and clear. “Mostly due to her nasty habit of draining them of life and making them her slaves.”

  “That does tend to cut down on the second dates, yeah. So we have to try somethin’, and we ain’t exactly overwhelmed by other notions. And I’m too pretty to turn into a mushroom hanging around that lair.”

  “So we go ahead?”

  She blinked at the Radio Ring in surprise. Had he been thinking of scrubbing the operation? At that moment, she saw movement down below.

  “Boss?” she said, her former dread forgotten in the thrill of coming action. “I’ve got something over here. Stand by.”

  She leaned in towards the ledge. Low and lean, she blended in to the shape and shadow of her surroundings. Few human eyes were trained enough to spot the Flying Squirrel when she did not wish to be seen. She couldn’t be sure who it was. She’d never liked the feeling of the night-vision lenses he’d designed. She found them distracting, and sometimes disorienting during aerial maneuvers. But she would have dearly loved a set right now.

  There was a shape… a single form… creeping up the alley towards the doorway she watched. The door itself was illuminated by a single bulb that buzzed above the frame, but it was the only light of any kind down that dead-end, and for all its lack of brilliance, it helped to make the shadows seem deeper from more than five feet away.

  The Radio Ring buzzed slightly.

  “Squirrel? What is it?” his whispered voice came.

  “What part of ‘stand by’ was unclear, exactly?” she deadpanned quietly.

  “Don’t make me come over there.”

  “Is that all it took?” she grinned. “I got motion… that’s all I can see. Looks like only one.”

  “That would be convenient,” he said quietly. “Is it Bermel or Palmer?”

  “Right this second it’s a small black shape in the middle of a big black shape,” she said. “I’ll keep you posted.”