Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Nights later, Willy would sob.

  Tonight, though, Willy’s tears froze the minute they left their ducts. A bitter wind blew from the north and penetrated his wool trench coat, sinking deep within his young but aching bones. During the harsh winter, fighting had halted to only a few mortars a day and occasional rifle shots to test each side’s resolve.

  Tonight, it was his platoon’s turn to take the overnight watch. Despite the hot-headed lieutenant’s strict orders, Willy let his watch partner sleep tonight. Willy didn’t mind the late watch. It warded off the sleep that used to be restful but was now chock-full of nightmares.

  He peeked over the lip of the trench quickly and scanned the barbwire laden no man’s land and beyond that, less than a quarter mile away, the enemy trench. He ducked his head back down and reached a gloved hand into his coat to check his pocket watch. 3 a.m. His watch partner, a brutish blonde boy from Leipzig named Gerhart, snored ever so slightly. Willy kicked him with a worn standard-issue boot. And then, he heard a groan. Not Gerhart’s groan. Not even a human groan. Something deeper, more unnatural.

  The groan came again, this time followed by a higher pitched squeal, and then, another groan. Willy peeked his head over the trench lip again. Nothing.

  Another groan. Louder. Followed by another squeal. Followed by a hollow thump.

  Willy kicked his partner again. Nothing. He peeked over the trench again. Nothing.

  Groan. Squeal. Thump. Groan. Squeal. Thump.

  Willy nervously withdrew and checked the clip on his rifle. Full. He replaced the clip and whistled down the trench. A distant whistle came back to him in the darkness from another sentry not 50 yards away. All clear.

  Groan. Squeal. Thump. Groan. Squeal. Thump.

  The sound got closer now, and it wasn’t coming from the enemy trench. It was coming from behind his own. What was it?

  Groan. Squeal. Thump.

  Willy took a few steps to the other wall of the trench. He dug a boot and hand into the soil wall and lifted himself to peek over. And that’s when he saw it. A giant suit of armor. A giant metal man. The size and width of an upturned truck, with glowing red eyes.

  Willy fell backward and landed on the cold ground. “Gerhart! Gerhart!” he yelled to his watch partner. The boy woke just in time to see the metal behemoth standing over him. He looked perplexed as the metal man lifted an arm that ended in a multi-barreled machine gun. Squeal.

  The last thing Gerhart saw was the storm of bullets that tore through his own flesh and shattered his bones. Willy was as frozen as the ground he laid on, but he looked over to see men from his platoon running toward them, their domed helmets and ghostly faces illuminated by the moonlight.

  The metal man lifted his other arm. Hssssss. A streaming fog poured from the extended arm that ended in a two-pronged claw. Willy’s platoon ran straight into it. Some of the men fired their rifles before their eyes burned and began to liquefy in their sockets.

  The lieutenant’s command whistle blew in the distance, and shortly after, a klaxon sounded. But even that sound paled in comparison to the sounds of more men being set aflame by the stream of fire that now erupted from the same giant extended arm.

  A second platoon came streaming down the trench firing their rifles, but every bullet ricocheted off the metal man with an ear-piercing zing. One of those ricochets tore into Willy’s leg, and terrible pain shot through his body just as he heard two distinct thunks. They were mortars—the same sound he had heard just before Manny died.

  Moments later, two great explosions went off, scattering the advancing soldiers. There was a strange, eerie quiet for only a few seconds. No sound but the crackling of fire that consumed the surrounding dead grass, the scattered dead soldiers, and the wooden scaffolding and support beams within the trench.

  Willy’s lungs began to burn and he coughed uncontrollably. The gas that had been sprayed into the trench by the metal man was now wafting toward him. The metal man’s head swiveled to see Willy crawling backward. The great iron beast took two steps toward him, its dull metal boot hanging slightly over the trench. The gaiting gun arm lifted. It squealed as it spun. Willy closed his eyes and tried to picture his family and make his peace. But before he could do so, a swarm of bullets punched through his entire body.

  Mr. Steel

  March 15, 1915

  Behind the German Line

  Ypres, Belgium

  The screams of men and the echoes of warfare subsided, and Mr. Steel smiled ear to ear beneath his golden mask. He watched the German Supreme Commander of the Army, along with an accompanying high-ranking aide, peer through binoculars at the distant fires that erupted in the German trench. Both officers were older, with distinguished gray facial hair. Both wore their spear-tipped helmets and high-collared, olive-green uniforms but forewent their metals, which could reflect ambient light and give away their position within the woods they reconnoitered from.

  Through their respective binoculars they could see the prototype lumbering back to their position. They had dubbed the prototype Eisenkrieger—the Iron Warrior—after seeing it for the first time. Mr. Steel had politely reminded them that the machine was mostly Carnegie steel, not iron, but the name had stuck.

  The Supreme Commander barked something in German. His aide translated. “He wants to know more about the gas.”

  “Brimstone gas. Something we had specially developed. Highly effective. Highly lethal. Just be careful on which way the wind is blowing,” Mr. Steel replied. “It’s a bit like pissing into the wind.”

  “Will all units be equipped with it?” the aide asked.

  “For the right price,” Mortimer Blake interjected as he lit his cigarette.

  The Supreme Commander and his aide whispered to each other coarsely in German. The aide finally turned back. “How many are ready for battlefield use?”

  “More than enough to cut right through the enemy line and march into France.” Mr. Steel replied.

  “The initial cost. It seems a little …” the aide searched for the word “exorbitant.”

  “That’s not what the British will say,” Mortimer said, blowing smoke into the cold night air.

  “How much is the entirety of Europe worth to your Chancellor?” Mr. Steel added.

  The two officers whispered again. “How soon could we expect delivery?”

  Mr. Steel looked to Mortimer, who replied, “Thirty days give or take, provided you give us a naval accompaniment.”

  More whispering. “We will see to it that the proper number of U-boats be dispatched.”

  “So we have a deal?” Mr. Steel asked.

  The Supreme Commander nodded. “Ja.”

  Mortimer reached into his trench coat and withdrew a flask. He unscrewed it and handed to the aide, who handed it to the Supreme Commander. “Cheers,” Mortimer said with a smile.

  The Eisenkrieger wove around the trees, its heavy footsteps clearly audible now, and its eyes glowing a dull white. It stopped in front of the observers as the flask was finally returned to Mortimer. Mortimer swallowed what was left of the whiskey, then yelled to the automaton as it took up position next to the Supreme Commander. “Congratulations,” Mortimer said. “You now fight for the Germans.”

  The metal man clicked its enormous heels and saluted.

  SECOND INTERMISSION

  Morris Randolph

  March 16, 1915

  Singer Building

  Manhattan, New York

  His heavy eyelids kept him in darkness. He could feel his skin move in subtle, tingling waves. People were talking near him, their voices muffled as if he lay within a glass jar.

  “Is he alive?” a man snarled with an aged voice.

  “He is,” responded another man with a deep voice and foreign accent.

  “Is he another one of your mindless imbeciles?” the aged voice snapped again.

  “Stone … Stone!” a low voice cried.

  His ears popped like after a great yawn. He could hear more clearly now.
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br />   “Where are all the machines?” the aged voice asked. “All the tubes? The vat of fluid?”

  The man with the foreign accent cleared his throat. “Twenty years ago, a jellyfish was discovered, Turritopsis nutricula. It was found in the Mediterranean—more specifically, in a large tide pool where it had resided since the 15th century. The story of this creature had been passed from generation to generation by the nearby villagers. After some recent study, it appears the creature is immortal.”

  “What? How?”

  “When the animal is threatened, its very cells regress and undergo a most unusual transformation. The cells change their function, reinvent themselves, and become rejuvenated. Old muscle cells become new bones. Sperm or egg cells can transform into nerve cells, rebuilding an entirely new central nervous system. The original serum I developed at the sanitarium was based on a live culture of bacteria, but that was only the beginning. That serum could reanimate, but not rejuvenate. But using that serum as a base, and synthesizing the isolated cells from a Turritopsis, I can now remap and rejuvenate every cell in the human body. It requires a great deal of treatment. The new serum, Orpheus, must be administered by daily injections. It takes months before the desired effects are noticeable. During that period, the body goes into a sort of hibernation. Once the transformation is complete, natural death will be, in theory, avoided. Unnatural death however, is always a distinct possibility.”

  “What about cognition? Will it be retained?” the aged voice asked.

  “It is my belief that as long as the subject is alive and well when the new serum is administered, yes. If the subject is already deceased or mentally deficient, then he will end up like … well, you know.”

  “Stone!” the low voice grunted.

  “The old serum, it required extreme maintenance. What about this one?” the aged voice asked.

  The foreign voice responded, “The transformation of cells takes place quicker in warm water, but aside from that, all evidence suggests your new body will function nearly the same.”

  “Nearly?” the aged voice screeched.

  “I will not know all the details until tests are performed on …”

  The subject’s eyes opened. The sunlight streaming in through the windows momentarily blinded him. He breathed deeply—extremely deeply. It was like his lungs had somehow doubled in size. When his eyes could focus, he saw his body. It was lean, muscular, stark white, and wearing only a pair of tattered cotton pants.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Randolph,” the man with the foreign accent said. He wore a soiled lab coat with two monogramed Fs on the breast. He adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles on his nose. “My name is Dr. Fatum”

  Morris Randolph was strapped to a diagonal backboard in the middle of a makeshift laboratory filled with jars, crates, copper-wired machines, a variety of torturous-looking instruments, and a nearby bathtub full of murky water. Four men stood in front of him. One of them, Dr. Fatum, studied him with scientific curiosity. Morris could smell coffee on the doctor’s breath and the musky scent of his aftershave.

  “Your memory may be a bit foggy.”

  Morris squinted. What was the last thing he remembered? A dinner party? His fiancée, Andromeda, in a new dress. Andromeda’s sister. Her date? The Cajun man. What was his name? Turkish cigarettes. What was in those cigarettes? A dark room. A sinister woman. A dangerous man? Men in masks.

  “Where am I?” Morris finally asked.

  “He speaks. He speaks!” the man behind Dr. Fatum exclaimed, pointing at Morris. He was older than Fatum, wrinkly and liver-spotted, wearing an expensive suit. Morris thought he looked and even sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him.

  “Stone!” blurted an odd-looking man with the same albino skin color as Morris. The man wore a simple gray suit and black derby hat. His eyes were pale white and without pupils.

  Somehow Morris could detect every scent in the room. The albino man smelled like talcum-covered rot. Morris looked down again at his own opalescent body. Was he the same kind of … thing as that? He wanted to see a mirror immediately, and he frantically looked around for a reflective surface of any kind.

  “Calm down, Mr. Randolph. Calm down,” Dr. Fatum said. “We will need to run a few tests to determine your physical and cognitive ability.”

  “What have you done to me?” Morris cried. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?”

  Another man stepped into view. He, too, had pale skin and eyes and was wearing an identical suit and hat, but he was bigger than the other man. Much bigger. He had a curly black beard that contrasted his alabaster face. He remained completely silent as he repeatedly clenched his fists.

  “Calm down, Mr. Randolph, please,” Dr. Fatum pleaded as Morris flailed and fought against his restraints. Morris felt stronger than before. His body still tingled as though his skin was molten. Popping noises came from the restraints. Using all his might, the metal buckles holding the straps begin to stretch ever so slightly.

  Dr. Fatum’s eyes went wide, marveling at his test subject’s strength. Morris inhaled deeply. The massive amount of oxygen entered his lungs, fueling his rage and strengthening his muscles. He pulled harder against the restraints.

  “Yes. Yes! This is miraculous. We are already witnessing acute strength gains. Yes!” Dr. Fatum exclaimed. “Mr. Black! Are you seeing this?”

  Mr. Black. That name rang a bell somewhere inside Morris’ head.

  The wizened Mr. Black bobbed his head and licked his lips in excitement. All his work, all his money, all his deception had finally paid off. Fatum had finally redeemed himself and proved he could create something other than monsters. Fatum had created what seemed to be a superior human being. Mr. Black could not wait to begin the process. We will start the injections tonight, he thought. I don’t give a damn about further tests.

  The buckle reached its tensile strength and finally gave way. Morris’ left hand was free.

  “Amaz—” Fatum started to say before Morris grabbed the doctor’s throat. Morris howled with rage and squeezed. Fatum, however, never made a sound as Morris tightened his grip, popping cartilage, cracking a bone, and collapsing the man’s windpipe.

  Dr. Fatum fell limply to the floor, his neck grossly mangled.

  Morris reached over and unbuckled his other hand as Mr. Black retreated behind a table laden with crates.

  “Stone!” the smaller albino man cried, rushing toward the downed Dr. Fatum.

  Morris Randolph was agile and strong before, but this new body, this new him, whatever he was, was immeasurably stronger. With an uncanny limberness, he bent over at the waist and unfastened the straps on his ankles so that he slid easily to the floor.

  The smaller albino man threw a punch that landed squarely on Morris’ jaw as he rose. Morris barely flinched. The pain was only a flash. He expected to taste blood in his mouth, but instead he tasted only brine, like he had swallowed dirty seawater. Morris threw a lightning right hook. The smaller albino man’s skull caved in with a wet crack. A vicious white liquid began pouring out through his shattered skull as he fell to the ground. With his bare foot, Morris stomped on the man’s neck, popping it like a large, bleached tomato. More white fluid leaked onto the floor.

  Morris walked on, ignoring the man cowering behind the boxes and squaring up to the larger albino man. Morris swung a fist hard, but the large man, as if anticipating the blow, stepped back. Morris fell forward with the punch’s momentum, and the large albino man threw a right jab, catching Morris on the nose. Something with the same brinish feel and taste dripped from his nose. The remaining albino man unleashed a barrage of different punches. Hooks, jabs, and straights. The punches may have been thrown quickly, but to Morris they seemed incredibly slow. He parried them easily before grabbing the undead-looking man by his lapels and flinging him like a large rag doll across the room. The henchmen crashed through a table of glassware, splitting the table and shattering everything that rested on it.

  Morris flexed his muscles and bent his n
eck with an audible crack. The aged man peered from behind the crates. Morris pointed. “Mr. Black, is it? You brought me here?” Mr. Black’s already scared eyes went wider. Morris took a step toward the crates. “You wore a mask before. You … you are the reason that I am like …” he looked down at this body, “… like this.”

  Mr. Black tried to step back but stumbled and fell to the ground. “St … st … stay away from me! I’m warning you.”

  The large albino man stirred nearby, lifting himself off the floor. He stood in front of the only exit to the laboratory. Morris began to laugh maniacally and uncontrollably. “We’ll meet again, Mr. Black!” he said before turning and sprinting toward the window. He leapt at it like one might leap off a pier into a lake, crashing through the heavy glass, laughing and falling to the pavement four stories below.

  PART III

  Lovers & Losers

  Wage W. Pascal

  March 25, 1915

  House of Madame Sweetooth

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  The overcast sky veiled the afternoon sun so that it hung in the sky like a pale orange pendulum slowly swaying between the budding tree branches high above him. Wage plodded through the swamp, through the mud and water, sometimes finding downed logs to hop between so as to avoid a hidden, slumbering alligator. Only the hum of insects and distant sounds of a woodpecker trying to break through tough bark echoed through this desolate place.

  Every step through the swamp reminded him of all the visits he used to pay Madame Sweetooth as a child, much to the dismay of his parents. The old voodoo priestess could make you a charm, tell you your future, or just share the stories of the spirits she claimed always visited her. She could also bind two teenagers in matrimony, somewhat holily, for a handful of saltwater taffy. The last time he saw the old priestess, he stood in front of her altar in his Sunday’s best—which, for a Pascal, was quite nice. He stood there waiting to marry the love of his life, Mink Callahan. Only she had never shown. She was waylaid at the scene of his own mother’s death. But she would see him later that night. She found the heartbroken Wage, who had not yet known of his mother’s death, at a cathouse. Drowning his sorrows in bourbon and Miss Lilly’s girls.