by Marv Wolfman
Batman saw the camera on Oracle’s end jerk to the right. She was sprawled on the floor, her wheelchair overturned, a gag tied tightly across her mouth preventing her from talking—though he could hear her muffled voice. He couldn’t tell if she was in the Clock Tower, or somewhere else.
Plastic ties secured her hands behind her back. She was shaking back and forth, trying to pull her bindings loose, but she couldn’t. The camera righted itself and Batman saw the Arkham Knight. He waved to Batman as Scarecrow’s voice filled the small room, rising in pitch and volume.
“My reach extends far beyond your own. There is nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Oracle. I’m going to find you. I swear I’ll save you.”
But the holo went dark and retracted back into his glove. She was gone. But where?
He turned to grab Scarecrow, to force him into revealing where Barbara was being held, but all he saw was a steel panel in back of the room, closing with a metallic impact.
Crane was gone.
Sprinting to the door, he tried to pull it open. As he did Scarecrow’s voice echoed from a dozen speakers scattered throughout the room.
“Chasing me is a grand idea, Batman, and I strongly suggest you do so. Of course, as you hear this, I’m heading toward a waiting helicopter and in a few minutes I plan to be as far away from this facility as I can. Oh, I neglected to explain why. You see, I’ve set Ace Chemicals to explode. So you can chase after me, and perhaps even beat Barbara’s location out of me, or you can try to contain the explosion, which, by the way, will spread my fear toxin across the city. You have two minutes, ten seconds.
“But please, come after me. I so want to see this city driven even madder than it is.”
There was no time to search for the explosives—they could be hidden anywhere in the room. The lid over the vat opened, exposing the toxin, its deadly vapor rising like steam.
Two minutes left.
Don’t react. Take your time. Think.
He turned, his gaze sweeping the room. The walls were filled with shelves and on each one sat several sealed canisters, all with stickers listing their chemical symbols as well as their commercial names. The first wall had canisters marked as alcohol compounds used to make fuels, solvents, and more.
Some shelves were crowded with canisters labeled Methanol, whole other canisters contained chemicals used in food flavorings and additives, or fluorine, which was used in dental hygiene products as well as in refrigeration units and aerosol sprays. There were still other chemicals, those used in the manufacturing of drugs, disinfectants, perfumes, herbicides, fuels, and more.
There was an entire wall of canisters whose stickers only indicated their chemical compounds, but did not include their commercial names.
When chemicals were ordered, the nine-to-five factory workers who loaded and unloaded the trucks wouldn’t be given a complicated list, filled with rows of chemical symbols they likely wouldn’t recognize. Their list would consist of commercial names. That there was an entire wall of canisters without such names meant they weren’t intended for outside distribution.
Batman activated his gauntlet, punched up its computer, and recited the chemical names listed on the canisters.
“What are these used for?”
The holo-voice took several seconds, then responded.
“They are neutralizing agents used in the dilution of acids and airborne chemicals. Do you require an entire list of uses?”
“No.”
The explosion would occur in exactly one minute, thirty-two seconds.
He rushed to the canisters, grabbed two at a time, and carried them back to the vat. He dumped their contents inside, desperately hoping that would dilute the fear toxin before it detonated and spread across the city.
One minute seventeen seconds.
Five more canisters.
He dumped two more into the vat, raced back and took the final three. They were large and awkward, but he had no alternative.
He emptied the contents of the final canister into the vat, then pressed the button he saw Scarecrow activate before. The lid slid shut and the vat began to shake.
He had thirty-seven seconds to get out of the room and clear of the explosion. He raced back in the direction he’d come, cleared the canister room, and sped through the warehouse. The next room was just ahead.
He was going to make it.
The vat exploded.
Fear toxin shot out in all directions. In the moment before the first surge smashed into him, he hoped he had diluted the toxin enough to minimize its deadly effects. At least for those who weren’t so close.
The wave of toxins slammed into him, carrying him across the room, smashing him into the wall. His armor cracked, and Scarecrow’s toxins began seeping into it. He tried to hold his breath and replace his breather, but a second explosion hit…
…and everything went black.
* * *
The laughing woke him up.
It wasn’t the laughter of a comedy club, or when a friend tells a good joke, but a nasty laugh, cackling without humor. Dark. Guttural. The laugh of an animal about to devour its prey.
Only one man laughed like that. No. Not a man. A monster. A beast. A remorseless thing. But it was impossible.
It couldn’t be him.
The Joker was dead.
Yet there he was, standing no more than five feet away. Gun in hand. Laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
It couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be the Joker. They had DNA tested his ashes. He was gone. Flushed into Gotham River, and there was no way—not even in hell—that Humpty Dumpty could be put back together again.
This had to be an illusion.
Still, Batman lunged for the mirage. He was going to disperse the ghost as one would smoke. He reached for the Joker. The clown laughed again, then fired his gun. The bullet went through Batman’s forehead, through his brain and exploded out the back of his head, taking skin, blood, and cartilage with it.
A moment later, while the Joker was still laughing, Batman crumpled to the ground.
Dead.
17
Seven days earlier…
Helicopter blades shattered the silence of the night. Beneath the copter was the Art Deco Gotham Palace Movie Theater, built in the center courtyard of the once thriving Panessa Studios lot, inaugurated December 18, 1936.
Framed photos lined its walls, depicting celebrities, actors, actresses, sports figures, and even famed mobsters. The Gertrude Lawrence film Rembrandt was the first movie shown there to the Panessa execs, so of course she flew in from Hollywood. So did Bette Davis and Jean Arthur and Robert Taylor and Henry Fonda and so many other A-listers. Joe Louis, came with Olympic sensation Jesse Owens. Mel Ott, Lou Gehrig and even “Babe” Ruth flew in from New York for its star-studded showing. Everyone who was anyone wanted to see the film before it was released to the general rabble.
That was the Gotham Palace in its heyday. Today it stood shuttered and peeling, its plush chairs smashed and broken, its gold-foiled wallpaper, flown in from Italy, torn and faded.
* * *
James Gordon exited the copter and walked to the front of the theater. The massive glass doors were etched with scenes from Hollywood’s greatest movies. There was Rudolph Valentino romancing Vilma Bánky, and Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp looking wide-eyed and hungry. Lon Chaney’s Phantom seemed to loom over the robot Maria from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, but to Gordon the best of them all was King Kong holding a screaming Fay Wray. He must have seen that movie a hundred times when it played three times a day, every day, on TV’s Million Dollar Movie.
“Impressive.” Batman’s voice came from behind. Gordon didn’t turn, but continued to stare at the etchings, remembering the films from which they came.
“Yeah. They are. I grew up with black-and-white movies on TV. Hell, although all my friends had one, we didn’t get a color set until I was ten. I saw all those great movies that way. They don’t make �
��em like that anymore.”
Gordon turned. “You didn’t bring me here to wax nostalgic. And the city’s going to hell faster than we can put out the flames. So why?”
“Follow me,” Batman said as he led Gordon into the theater. They walked behind the candy counter to a blank wall that suddenly slid open as they approached. Outside, the walls were old and cracked. Inside they were polished and bright. Wallpaper became polished steel. Worn and torn carpets had been replaced by spotless tiles. New computers lined the walls, their screens scrolling past one Gotham City location after another. To Gordon it seemed as if nearly every street was being monitored and recorded.
He wasn’t sure what to think of it.
“What is this?”
“A means to keep the peace.”
Another door slid open, revealing a smaller room. In its center were five cages with clear glass walls, and four of them housed one person each. One sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of his cage, laughing wildly as if watching something hilarious that Gordon was unable to see.
The second cage had a man standing up, smiling broadly, his arms spread wide as if greeting an adoring crowd like a sleazy nightclub host about to introduce his next act. In the third cage a woman was sitting on a bed, looking frightened. In the fourth cage a man sat alone, looking worried but not acting insane.
The fifth cage was empty.
Gordon wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but didn’t like what he was thinking.
“What the hell is this place? Who are these people?”
Batman stared at the four in the cages.
“Before it killed him, the Joker sent his infected blood out to all the hospitals in the state.”
“I know,” Gordon said. “We tracked it all down.”
“We missed some.”
Gordon looked at him quizzically. He could ask Batman if he was certain, but that would be a waste of breath.
“How?” he said.
“Hospital errors. Transfusions that went unrecorded. Five people were affected. Untreated. The blood’s gestated too long. It’s altering them. They’re becoming…”
Batman couldn’t bring himself to say the obvious.
Gordon watched the nightclub host, laughing and greeting his invisible audience. The man’s eyes were glowing green. His lips were twisted into a grotesque smile that seemed to grow larger and wilder with each passing moment.
“The Joker? They’re becoming the Joker?” Gordon said, not actually believing what he was saying.
“His name’s Johnny Charisma, your cliché nightclub barker,” Batman said, nodding toward the second containment unit. “What’s happening is akin to a form of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, but it’s mutated beyond anything on medical record.”
Johnny Charisma sat on the bed, tapping his feet, laughing as if everything he saw was hysterical.
The man who’d been sitting cross-legged stood up and began pacing his cell, coughing and hacking. His eyes were also glowing green, his mouth beginning to curl in a twisted rigor grin.
“He calls himself Big Al,” Batman said. “Full name Albert Christopher Rogers. Shot in an attempted robbery. Was given the Joker’s blood during a routine transfusion.”
“And what about her?” Gordon asked, pointing to the woman sitting on her bed, alone and frightened. Her eyes were brown, but beginning to show flecks of green.
“Christina Bell. Mother of two. Her husband died three months ago. Stroke.”
“And him?” Gordon was looking at the fourth man. Gray hair. About sixty-five. His eyes were clear blue, and he seemed physically fine, though clearly frightened.
“Henry Adams. He’s been infected the longest, yet he’s symptomless, somehow immune to the Joker’s blood. I’ve got Robin running tests to find out why. One thing’s certain, Henry’s immunity is the key to all of this.”
Adams stood up and walked closer, placing his hands on the glass wall. To Gordon he appeared genuinely afraid, and he had every reason to be.
“Batman, come on,” the man said. “Let me go. I’ve cooperated with you. I’ve done everything you asked. You said—you swore—this would only take a few days. Please. My wife’s probably scared out of her mind.”
“Henry, I told you—she knows you’re fine. My people are making sure she has everything she needs.”
“She needs me. I need her.”
“It’ll only be another couple of days, Henry. I promise.”
Gordon stared at Adams, then finally turned back to Batman.
“You know what you’re doing here, don’t you?” he said, trying to remain calm. “You can’t hold these people here against their will. Especially him. You said it yourself, he’s not affected.”
“We’re close, Jim,” Batman said, his voice soft, filled with concern. “We can’t let him go until we save the others.”
Gordon turned back to the cages and stared at the empty one.
“Wait. You said five people were infected,” he said. “You only have four. There’s one missing.”
Batman stared at the empty cell and shook his head.
“He’ll be here soon, Jim.”
Gordon saw Batman’s reflection in the glass cage, and for a moment he thought Batman’s eyes were green. He looked again and realized there was no way to know what color his eyes were—the lens set into Batman’s mask blocked any view.
“I had to do this, Jim. I had no other choice.”
As Batman led Gordon out of the room he hit the wall plate by the door and turned the lights off.
The world went black.
18
The present
The black seemed to linger forever before it was shattered with loud bursts that forced his eyes open. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he recognized the shape dancing in front of him, gesturing wildly and cackling like the madman he was.
The Joker was still holding the gun with which he’d shot Batman. The source of the bullet that penetrated his skull and emerged from the back of his head. But that was impossible. The Joker was dead. Dead. Batman pinched his arm and ran his fingers across the back of his cowl, searching for the point of exit. There was none. Of course there couldn’t be one. He was alive.
Yet the Joker was still standing in front of him, waving his gun, shooting it off like he was playing one of those crazy cowhands in a Wild West show.
“You thought you bought the farm, didn’t you?” The Joker said, and he laughed. “Or rather, that I bought it for you. But you’re still here, and I guess so am I. But am I really? One of us is dead and the other, well, let’s chalk it up to a condition in flux. Not quite dead, but maybe soon to be.”
“You’re not here,” Batman said. “Go away.”
“Who’s more twisted, old friend? The man who sees mirages, or the man who talks to them expecting an answer? But you look like you want to talk. So pull up a chair and let’s chat.”
The sudden bursts were growing louder. Were they… explosions?
“Hey, I’m talking here, Bats. Eyes on me. So, there’s something I always wondered—does that armor you wear breathe, or does it get sweating hot in there? And how the hell do you go to the bathroom? I mean, it’s gotta take at least—what?—an hour to peel it off, and another to put it back. By that time the bad guys probably made it all the way to Central City.”
They are explosions.
Why are there explosions?
“Excuse me. Talking. We’re having a conversation. Anyway, I’ve been wondering. How’s your little pal, Robin? Not the dead one I bludgeoned, but the still-currently-alive one who I still need to kill. He feeling good? His head ready for some two-by-four action? By the way, have his parents ever put two and two together, and figured out that he puts on a mask and fights crime at your side? I’m betting they’d be pretty pissed if they knew.”
There shouldn’t be explosions, unless…
Batman’s eyes opened fully. He was standing, and he recognized where he was. This wasn’t a movie house. He was in a
warehouse. The Ace Chemicals warehouse. He had never left.
Another explosion. Closer this time.
He began to run. The Joker was still standing in front of him but Batman smashed through the illusion and picked up speed when he saw the Batmobile parked in the courtyard beyond, its motor running, waiting patiently for him.
The explosions were louder and coming closer.
Batman remembered pouring the neutralizing chemicals into the vat of fear toxin. If it worked, the toxin would be so diluted as to be minimally effective.
If not…
The Batmobile’s sensors detected him coming closer, identified him for who he was. Its hatch slid open and the gears shifted from park to drive. Batman jumped and somersaulted into the driver’s seat.
“Go. Fast. Now.”
The vehicle roared with power and lurched forward, building up speed with every passing second, still running on autopilot, its AI avoiding collisions. Through the rear-view mirror he saw the explosions closing in behind him.
“Faster!” Taking partial control, he pressed the gas pedal as far down as it would go.
Walls fell behind him, shattered in the explosions that were taking down the warehouse. Debris rained on the Batmobile, obstructing his view, but he pressed on, urging it ahead, trusting in its ability to maneuver. He saw something in front of him and remembered there’d been large doors meant to let in sixteen-wheelers filled with cargo. But the doors were closed now. Scarecrow meant to lock him in and blow up the place around him.
“Armor bullets… six degrees east. Prime and launch. Now!”
His cannons opened fire. Dozens of armor-piercing bullets obliterated the doors that were meant to seal his doom.
Not today.
The car raced through the doors and sped down the ramp. Behind him, one by one, the row of warehouses that had been Ace Chemicals was consumed in a ball of bright blue flames.
He punched his comm and left a message for Gordon to meet him at the G.C.P.D. lockup, then he switched the car back to full auto-pilot, leaned back, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. The trip to lockup would take approximately fifteen minutes. The last few hours had been hell.
