by Anthology
Cawber could not remember scooping up the Commissioner’s revolver from his desk. He could not remember running through the studio like a demon with his cloak flapping behind him. He could not remember how he had dodged the bullets of the police, who thought he had murdered Nassen, as he ran across the street and into the alley which held his powerful red roadster.
The Phoenix only knew that he had recognized the voice of the Salamander when it had no hood to muffle it—the voice of Mace Hurdley! The Phoenix only knew that the city thought it was safe. He was the only living man who knew that the Salamander was going to destroy the city. Between the Phoenix and the madman who would make the city his funeral pyre would be Mitchell and his four trained killers.
The Phoenix stood alone against six crazed mass assassins! He was the city’s only hope for salvation!
If only he wasn’t too late!
Now Cawber drove his roadster with Nassen’s revolver in his fist. Only after Nassen’s gun had spoken with vengeance would the Phoenix draw his own .357 Magnum. It was only right. It was justice in her purest sense!
As the Phoenix’s roadster screamed around the last corner, David Cawber saw he faced certain death. Three of Mitchell’s back-up men stood blocking the park entrance with automatic rifles!
They crouched and fired sending forth a deadly, leaden swarm. Tracers flickered about the careening roadster prophesying the fires to come. In the gathering dusk each flaming glob of death hungered for the life of the Phoenix!
The Phoenix laughed!
Their bursts went wild. They could not face this exterminating angel of justice. These cravens were no match for him. Only Mitchell or the Salamander himself could hope to slow the Phoenixl
As the minions of the Salamander tried to change clips, Nassen’s gun barked three times. One man dropped with the back of his head a pulpy mess. One fell clutching his exploded intestines. The third man spun around on his shattered leg. Another shot made a bloody ruin of his chest.
The mighty red automobile shot past the oozing, cooling meat on into the darkening park. Two shots left from Nassen. One for Mitchell, one for his helper. The Phoenix’s own gun would take care of the Salamander. Where were they? Nassen’s soul would soon find rest.
The Freedom Arch stood in the center of the huge park. It was the symbol of man’s dignity and progress. The Freedom Arch—it could only be within its hallowed bowels that the Salamander had secreted the fuse terminals for his lethal legacy. Cawber hated him for that.
Cawber hated him for the death of Nassen. Cawber hated the fiend for all the fear and pain and death which he had inflicted on countless, innocent people. The Phoenix would take care of the guilty madman!
The Phoenix would kill all such scum so that they would no longer pollute this great city. The Phoenix would shoot them so they would die slowly, painfully—yearning for that final darkness.
The gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the speeding red roadster as it all but flew across the stone bridge over the center of the placid, dumbell-shaped lake. There . . . through the serene trees . . . Cawber could see Freedom Arch.
The Phoenix would be in time!
He was almost to the last, gentle curve . . .
Cough! Cough!
Two spidery holes appeared in the windshield on the right side—.45 automatic fire! Cawber slunk down in his seat and spun the car to the right. Nassen’s gun was eagerly ready in his steady grip.
The fool!
He had given away his position with the muzzle flashes. Nothing could save a slave of evil once the Phoenix knew his whereabouts! Cawber flicked on his mighty headlights, pinning, blinding the culprit in their penetrating beam.
Blinking, the gunman shot for the headlights of the oncoming car. He missed.
Nassen’s gun shouted to be heard. Once. Twice. Two shots placed close together in the groin and gut. The man fell. It wasn’t Mitchell.
Brrrrrraap!
Long, leaden fingers burrowed along the left front fender searching for the wheel or the engine.
Cawber dropped Nassen’s spent gun and swung hard to the left with both hands on the wheel.
There stood Mitchell in the diminishing distance in the deepening shadows under the Arch. He stood braced against the gray stone with a Thompson submachine gun.
Mitchell mouthed obscenities as he fired short bursts at the onrushing juggernaut of justice.
Dancing death ripped and tore and marched up the hood of the gleaming red roadster. Cawber ducked, throwing up his left arm to protect the flashing eyes burning in his mask-shadowed face.
The windshield disintegrated into a thousand sharp fragments which ripped at the protecting arm and embedded in it. Bullets whizzed by the Phoenix, angry at not finding his soft flesh. Blood spattered the face of the Phoenix as Cawber brought his arm down to grip the wheel once more.
The grip was nothing. The arm was useless.
The Phoenix gripped the wheel with his knees as he reached for his .357 Magnum. Another burst buzzed through the torn interior of the car. It shattered Cawber’s right shoulder.
A grim smile formed on the Phoenix’s tight lips as he fought the pain. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and aimed the great roadster straight down Mitchell’s blazing muzzle!
Mitchell saw what Cawber planned to do and fired for the car’s engine. His slugs began taking their toll on the great machine. The gunman stepped away from the age-grayed stone with his finger on the trigger.
He could not stop the dying car!
Recognition, then fear, filled the assassin’s insane eyes. He tried to sidestep. Too late.
The grill struck Mitchell, bouncing him back against the wall. Cawber nudged his door open. A scream escaped from Mitchell’s lips. His tommy gun chattered, stitching holes in the bottom of the arch overhead. The shells chipped out stone flakes, which drifted down like gray snow. Cawber tried to keep clear. Not soon enough.
The car struck the wall full force. Mitchell’s upper torso and head merged with stone and metal. The barrel of his weapon was crushed. The breach exploded.
The car crumpled and turned over, catching Cawber just above the knees. The Phoenix could feel his bones being crushed from the knees down beneath the great weight of the dead metal. The car accordioned in around the motor, dragging Cawber with it. The Phoenix struck his face against the stone wall just as the car came to a rest. All was silence.
The drifting stone flakes hit the pavement.
Cawber was broken but not beaten. The Phoenix was shattered but he did not surrender. He could feel the blood oozing down his broken face and dripping out of his torn and shattered arms. He could feel nothing from the waist down.
He fought the shock and pain and dizziness from loss of blood, which threatened to drag him down into darkness. Had he failed?
No! He could not! Not so close!
The Phoenix started to lift himself up. Pain racked his body. His shattered right shoulder refused to move. His left arm was powerless. Cawber all but blacked out as he painfully shook the blood from his eyes. The night air caressed his face.
The Phoenix had been unmasked! How long had he been out?
Cawber stared up at the madman clad in the orange and yellow asbestos exoskeleton of the Salamander who towered above him.
“Ah, Cawber, you’re awake. How nice of you. I wanted so much to share my triumph with someone and you have taken everyone else away. Can you see it? Can you see my triumph?
“No, I guess you can’t down there all twisted and broken. Too bad. Really too bad.
“I can see you, you know. Forgive me for not unmasking myself, however. I must stay in uniform if I am to enjoy my triumph as long as possible. Shall I describe it to you?
“Of course I shall!
“It’s a masterpiece! I’ve really outdone myself! I’ve outdone those Indian rajahs who had their whole households burned with them. I have a whole cityl Nero had nothing on me. He wasn’t even in town when Rome burned! I personally conceived
and executed my pyre! Brilliant, don’t you think?
“The flames won’t reach here for an hour yet. I’ve been very precise and systematic, you see. The bombs are timed to go off from the outskirts of the city inward. They’re all trapped! All minel Like a fisherman I will gather in my tightening net of flame drawing hundreds of thousands to me! They will die like squirming, gasping fish, come to die in my homage.
“Gasping for air!
“In another few minutes the fire storms will start! The fire storms will push them before the great winds while sucking the air from their scorched lungs. The storms will fan the fires to even higher greatness!”
The Salamander bent closer. “I will let you stay alive for that. Imagine the heat coursing across your bared nerve endings—the air leaving your lungs! Perhaps you’ll still be alive to feel all your hair being singed off? Delightful, nicht wahrl.
“I trust your single-minded determination will keep you alive until the flames reach the edge of the park here in the heart of the city. That will be my cue to set off your gas tank. After all, phoenixes are supposed to rise on such occasions, hmmmm?
“Well, it’ll be goodbye to you, Phoenix! I will rise from your pile of ashes! You see, Salamanders are impervious to flame!
“Excuse me now if I leave your field of vision. I must go fasten myself to the base of the Arch so I don’t blow away. You present no problem, your body is so much useless meat. I’ll be out of your reach at any rate. You can think all the bad thoughts about me you want!”
The Salamander threw back his head and laughed insanely. When he stopped he looked down again. Cawber could almost see the smile beneath the asbestos hood.
“I do hope your narrow mind is capable of visualizing what’s going on out there. It would all be worth it then.”
The fiend stood up and turned his back. “Well, so long! If you believe in anything besides your own ego—like an afterlife—I’ll see you there!” he tossed back contemptuously over his shoulder.
The Salamander fastened himself to the base of the Arch. He stood totally lost in the hellish scene his incendiary bombs were painting.
The Phoenix winced in pain. He winced at the nightmare visions swirling in his tortured brain.
Explosion and fire enveloped the city!
Carnage confetti blew out of the sides of the crumbling buildings!
Masonry and metal fell smoldering through the erotic, leaping flames to shower the gibbering mobs with pain and death!
Now the menace of the howling fire storm screamed through the streets! The winds blew debris and fanned the flames with hurricane force. Fiery flowers blossomed and blew away sucking the oxygen from the mouths of staggering, charred women and children!
Cars bounced down the panic-filled streets to crash and tangle into each other. Blood boiled on the pavements. Everything was crushed under the flaming boulders of collapsing concrete.
The Salamander stood chained to the Arch like Odysseus tied to the mast against the Siren’s call. His head was thrown back as he laughed and cried to the gods in the ecstasy of his insanity!
The Phoenix blinked through the blood that masked his broken face. A snarl rose in his throat. Purpose rose in his heart. Even with his legs crushed to pulp and splinters, his left arm shredded, his right arm shattered, the Phoenix could not allow this madman to go unpunished!
Painfully fighting back the darkness, which threatened to swallow him, the Phoenix bent over. He pushed back his coat with his broken nose. He pulled his .357 Magnum from its shoulder holster with his remaining teeth. Slipping his long, nimble tongue past the sawed off trigger guard, he took aim at the fiend responsible for the death of an entire city.
The eyes of the Phoenix flamed with vengence as his tongue tip pressed the quick trigger. As the gun battered the roof of his already bloodied mouth, the Phoenix spat leaden justice!
Three large, blood-red flowers blossomed in the middle of the Salamander’s orange and yellow back. Three blood-red stains oozed down his back as he slumped lifeless against the chains fastening him to the Arch.
David Cawber dropped his gun and laughed.
The Phoenix had won again!
And, as the light of the nearing flames grew more intense in the night sky, he found that final darkness.
PITY THE POOR
OUTDATED MAN
By PHILIP SHOFNER
There must be some connection between the arts. Painters write, writers dance, dancers paint. Philip Shofner is a young actor who is also a stage manager at the Old Globe theater in San Diego. And now an author. This is his first published story.
A SMALL HERD OF unicorns frolicked in the green and flowered meadow, their silvery horns sparkling in the afternoon sun. With unbelievable agility they romped and grazed and leaped back and forth over one another. Their musical whinnies rose teasingly to the pegasus gliding shyly over the field, begging him to come down and join the fun. The pegasus circled indecisively, torn between his bashful nature and the urge to play, and gazed longingly at the unicorn festivity.
Come down, cajoled the unicorns, but the pegasus, hearing the cries of his brothers, flew off to join them in a game of hide-and-seek in the clouds. The unicorns whinnied in disappointment, but they understood that a pegasus feels secure only with his own kind, and their disappointment didn’t last.
Somewhere in the woods a dragon dreamed of battle and pillage, of looting and treasure, of captive maidens, ruined villages and avenging knights on strong white chargers. The thought of avenging knights made the dragon uneasy, for he was a peaceable sort of lizard in spite of his curious racial memories, and he snorted in his sleep, sending a dark puff of smoke high in the air.
Miss Emily and her class of first-graders, watching the unicorns from the edge of the field, heard the dragon’s snort. It was like the sound of a distant blast furnace; the children shivered with delicious chills. “Look, Miss Emily,” said one small voice, “the dragon’s breath.”
Miss Emily looked across the meadow and saw the puff of smoke hanging lazily just above the treetops. She smiled and patted the tiny blonde girl. “Don’t be frightened, love, for the dragon is asleep and is only dreaming.”
“Dragons always sleep in the daytime, don’t they, Miss Emily?” said a dark-haired boy, proud of his knowledge of draconic habits.
“Most of the time, James, most of the time. Sometimes they like to wake up early and walk around in the sun.”
“Ooooooh,” said the class, in unison. They cast fearful glances at the puff of smoke, certain that it would develop immense jaws and gobble them up.
Miss Emily laughed. “Watch the unicorns, my darlings,” she said. “They don’t fear the dragon. If there were the slightest danger the unicorns would run off very fast; then we would know to run very fast, too.”
“The dragons here are good dragons, aren’t they, Miss Emily?” asked the small dragon expert.
“Yes, James, these are gentle dragons, vegetarian dragons, good-natured dragons. They wouldn’t even hurt an insect.”
Almost as if he’d heard, the dragon shifted uneasily in his sleep. Deep inside, down in his heart of hearts and his soul of souls, the dragon was just the least bit ashamed of his gentility. He nursed a secret desire to be like his wilder brethren, those lizards of the Blackwood, chomping and flaming and striking terror into the hearts of men. But he was a pretty sharp old dragon, too, fat and comfortable, and he knew he wouldn’t like the life in the hunting preserves, being chased by men with spears and guns. So he gave a steamy little sigh and went back to his dreams.
“It’s time to leave, children,” said Miss Emily, and was gratified by the groans of her young charges. “Don’t be sad, my loves; we’ll come back again. I have a surprise for you.”
The children naturally clamored to know what it was, but Miss Emily only smiled a wait-and-see smile, so they finally settled for one last wistful look at the happy dance of the unicorns. Miss Emily, too, felt the tug of the unicorns, and it was poignant, be
cause Miss Emily was no longer a child, and the game was lost forever. That was a sad thing about growing up. One had to make way for the younger children.
And the children, ah, that was the surprise. Tomorrow Miss Emily would bring them back to this meadow and let them run out onto the soft grass to join the one-horned horses in their gambols. And she would sit, as she had before, in the shade at the edge of the woods, with perhaps a tear running slowly down one cheek, and merely watch the fun.
They had turned to leave when there was a commotion among the nearby trees, and the class turned to watch, straining through the underbrush to see the cause of the noise. A beautiful young woman, naked and voluptuously proportioned, burst laughing from cover and ran lightly into the meadow. Miss Emily was slightly embarrassed; the children not at all. An achingly handsome youth, equally naked, leaped joyfully after her. His upper torso was bronzed and muscular, but his legs were bent and furred, ending finally in the cloven hooves of a goat. A prodigious erection sprouted from his loins. The two proceeded to play a dizzy game of tag in the field, oblivious to the children and their teacher, until the small giggles and soft whispers made them stop and look.
The satyr’s golden eyes widened as they focused on Miss Emily; his ears twitched and he smiled a knowing smile, an inviting smile. Miss Emily felt her eyelids grow warm and heavy; the heat spread to her face, then coursed down through her body to settle and blaze in her midriff. An answering smile touched her lips.
The beautiful nymph, aware of this, wrapped her arms around the satyr from behind, breathed gently in his ear. One hand brushed lightly across the golden hair on his chest; the other dropped to gently stroke the proud phallus. Instantly the satyr turned and grabbed, but the nymph was off, bounding for the trees on the far side of the meadow. The satyr laughed, glanced once more at Miss Emily, and gave chase. They disappeared into the woods.
