by R. A. Jones
Unfortunately, in this instance, so was the Ferret.
He yelped as a thin sliver of metal tore into the left side of his back. The Witch clamped her hands over her mouth in shock as she realized what she had done. Her stomach churned as Ferret turned toward her and she saw that the metal had passed completely through his body and out the front.
His left hand went to the exit wound and came away covered in blood. His clenched teeth stifled any cry of pain, but his facial features clearly reflected it.
Until he saw the panicked Witch start to run toward him.
He thrust out his right hand, stopping her cold. The grimace on his face was replaced by a tight smile, silently assuring her that he was all right.
As proof, he leaped several feet straight up in the air, executed a perfect back somersault and landed atop several of the charging para-soldiers.
The Witch relaxed as she saw the bodies of the troopers begin to go flying away in several directions as a result of the Ferret’s onslaught. Relaxing her muscles probably saved her from a broken neck as the butt of a rifle cracked against the side of her face.
Dark spots danced before her eyes as she struck the ground. She could barely make out the figure of the soldier who had struck her, now standing astraddle her and preparing to plunge his bayonet into her abdomen.
Acting on pure instinct, the woman reached out and grabbed the soldier’s left ankle. She felt a warm gush of blood as her kinetic energy blasted away flesh and bone, tearing his leg away from his foot.
He fell to the grass, shrieking and clawing at the bloody stump of his leg. Ignoring him, the Witch rolled, scrambled to her feet and headed toward the center of the fight.
Man of War, having disarmed one of his attackers, was now using the man’s rifle like a club, holding it by the barrel. Like Samson amidst the Philistines, he savagely laid about him from side to side.
The sound of crushed skulls and splintering bone mingled with the cries of fear and pain. The barrel of the gun he was wielding grew slick with blood.
He let it drop from his fingers as he fought his way to Ferret’s side. The two acknowledged each other with a nod and a wink. Beyond Ferret, Man of War could see at least a dozen soldiers who had already fallen in the face of Ferret’s ferocity. Most of them would never rise again.
Standing back-to-back, the two heroes bravely fought on, though their arms were growing heavy. Any semblance of military order or discipline in the ranks of their foes had long since disappeared. Soldiers were firing their guns wildly, often into clusters of their own comrades. Like angry hornets, pellets of lead flew indiscriminately across the battlefield.
Man of War heard Ferret grunt, felt him fall back. Turning to support his teammate, he saw a red blossom of blood spreading from Ferret’s right shoulder.
The swashbuckler grabbed his wounded friend by the arm to hold him up, while continuing to lash out at advancing soldiers with his free hand. He looked down as he felt something strike his foot. It was a round, metallic object, slightly larger in size than a baseball. From one end, a curl of gray smoke oozed.
“Grenade!” he shouted.
Maintaining his grip on Ferret’s arm, Man of War sprang upward and outward, carrying them both away from the grenade as it detonated. Soldiers in every direction were hurled backwards by the force of the explosion, at the same time that screeching balls of shrapnel raked their bodies.
Just beyond the mass of soldiers, Man of War and Ferret slammed harshly to the ground. Ignoring his wounds, which now included several minor shrapnel punctures, Ferret quickly rose to his knees. Seeing no immediate threat, he turned his attention to his fallen teammate.
Man of War was lying face down in the grass, barely moving. Ferret gingerly rolled him over, his eyes narrowing at what he saw. Blood was pumping from a wound in Man of War’s throat, near the spot where his neck met his left shoulder. In the center of the wound, a piece of metal three inches long stood out.
Oblivious to any other possible danger, Ferret quickly ripped off the left sleeve of Man of War’s tunic. He bunched up the cloth and pressed it around the metal sliver in his fellow hero’s neck. With a swift jerk he pulled out the shrapnel and clamped the cloth against the open wound, pressing firmly to staunch the flow of blood.
Only then did he look up to see a cluster of soldiers cautiously approaching. They apparently intended to get as close as possible before opening fire on the pair, as if afraid they might otherwise somehow dodge the bullets.
“C’mon, you pansies,” Ferret barked at them, with what he knew was utterly false bravado. If he tried to attack or escape, Man of War would be left helpless and alone. No; one way or the other, he silently vowed, they’d go out together.
“Who’ll be the first one I kill?”
The soldiers literally recoiled slightly, fearful that the bloody man on his knees before them might actually be able to carry out his threat. Then an officer roughly pushed forward through their ranks.
“Shoot them!” he commanded.
It wasn’t the sound of bullets Ferret heard next, however, but rather the roar of twin explosions. Earth and rock erupted beneath the soldiers, scattering them with brutal force.
Ferret squinted, finally able to pierce the curtain of falling dirt to see the twofold cause of the explosions. The Witch and Iron Skull were crouched together side by side. Her hands were still pressed to the ground, having caused it to erupt by directing her power into it.
Iron Skull had achieved the same effect by simply pounding his powerful fists into the ground.
As he now stood, a dazed soldier who had managed to keep his footing raced forward, thrusting with his bayonet. Iron Skull made no attempt to avoid the attack. When the point hit his chest, the entire bayonet bowed and shattered.
His left hand snaked forward and seized the soldier by the throat. He effortlessly lifted the soldier, legs kicking, off the ground. A simple squeeze would have ended the man’s life, but Iron Skull only applied enough pressure to cause the soldier to pass out. He tossed the unconscious man aside like a rag doll.
As Iron Skull turned to survey a field that had grown quiet and seemingly devoid of any enemies still maintaining a will to fight, the Witch moved to check on Ferret and Man of War.
Ferret saw she was moving slowly, with some effort, and had a noticeable limp. As she drew closer and her right leg was exposed as it moved between the slits in her skirt, he saw thin rivulets of blood tracing down from her thigh.
“What did they do to you, doll?” he snarled.
“It’s all right,” she assured him, smiling gamely. “One of them just got lucky, that’s all.”
“Let me take a look at it,” he insisted, “just to be sure.”
“Oh, no,” she said, kneeling down beside him. “You just want a peek at my leg,” she teased.
He smiled and shrugged.
“Hey, ya can’t blame a fella fer tryin’.”
“What about you, Cal?” she said, turning serious. “How badly did I … how badly are you hurt?”
“This? This is nuthin’,” he replied. “I’ve lost more blood than this from shavin’.”
“Is anyone going to ask how I am?”
While the two of them had been talking, Man of War had risen to a sitting position. His right hand was across his body, pressing down on the makeshift, blood-soaked compress at the base of his neck. The exposed part of his face was pale from the loss of blood, but he still managed a wan smile.
“Stay down, Clay,” the Witch advised.
“Nah,” he replied. “I’m good to go.” He caught Ferret’s eyes with his own. “With just a little help, maybe.”
Taking the cue, Ferret gripped his comrade by one elbow and helped him rise to his feet. The Witch started to reach out, fearing both men were too weak to remain standing, then dropped her hands. She was very knowledgeable in the ways of male pride.
The three of them stood together, surveying the battle scene. The ground was littered with
the bodies of dozens of dead and wounded soldiers. Craters of varying sizes and depths pitted the landscape. It all had a somber cast, filtered as it was through a pall of smoke and haze.
Iron Skull emerged from the fog to join them. Ferret noted what would have been called dents in the body of a car dotting the torso of the mechanized man. He ignored the splotches of blood that still ran in places down Skull’s shining body, for he knew it all belonged to others.
“Where’s the Fantom?” Man of War asked.
“I don’t know,” Ferret said, scanning the battlefield. “I lost track of him when the fighting became general.”
“You don’t suppose --?” the Witch began.
“Don’t rush there, Natalia,” Man of War said. “Hell, I don’t know if that smelly old bag o’ bones even can die.”
“Everybody dies,” Ferret declared somberly.
“He was closer to the base of the statue than any of us,” Iron Skull observed. “But I lost sight of him, too.”
A shrill, shrieking whistle assailed their ears and drew their attention upward. More and brighter flashes of light were leaping from inside the statue’s torch, and both it and Lady Liberty’s upraised hand could be seen, even in the darkness, to be vibrating sharply.
“Fantom or no,” Ferret yelled, “we have to get up there!”
Before they could take so much as a step, a noise like that of a bursting dam filled the air. The uppermost tip of the flame rising from the statue’s torch seemed to dissolve like sugar in hot water, and flow away.
Seconds later, a multicolored column of light, several feet wide, shot upward through the hole in the torch. A hundred feet above, a pulsating whirlpool of energy formed, fed by the stream of light.
“We’re too late!” the Witch shouted in despair.
CHAPTER XLV
Inside the Statue of Liberty’s torch, the Great Question was finding it required all his strength to maintain his grasp on the mystic spear.
With the additional energy it was siphoning from Aman coursing through its shaft, it had begun to shiver and shake madly. The crazed monk gripped it even tighter, shoved it even deeper into his prey’s chest.
The quivering lessened once the spear began to dispel the energy into the air. The Question dared to move his gaze skyward, staring in awe at the pool of destructive force now swirling in the atmosphere overhead.
Driven by this sight over the precipice of sanity, he began to laugh raucously. Sliding his grip down the smooth shaft of the spear, he fell to one knee. Bracing the spear against his shoulder, he leaned forward so he could more fully enjoy the sight of Aman writhing in agony below him.
Crackling arcs of energy still pulsed from the wound in Aman’s chest. Every few seconds the escaping power seemed to turn the pinned hero’s flesh translucent. The Question’s eyes widened with glee as he found himself looking at his pupil’s skull through flesh and muscle. The monk was in a state of total ecstasy.
“Can you hear me, Aman?” he shouted, so as to be heard above the swelling mass of energy. Aman made no reply, but his eyes showed recognition.
“Can you feel it?” the monk said. “Can you feel the very life draining out of you?”
A fresh bolt of pain made Aman jerk. His head snapped back, his teeth smacked together sharply. He closed his eyes, trying to focus what strength remained within him to his wrists and ankles, straining against the unyielding bands that bound him to the floor.
“I love it!” the Question exulted, his eyes fairly fit to bulge out of their sockets.
“You’ll never know how many times, how many ways I wanted to snuff the life out of you! When you were a babe, I would stand over your crib as you slept, wanting nothing more than the wring your neck like a chicken’s!”
At this, Aman opened his eyes to look up at his former master. The corners of his grimacing lips turned up slightly in the closest to a smile he could manage.
“I … forgive you,” he hissed.
“No!!” the Question roared, stung in the only way Aman could manage.
The victory was short-lived, as the Question pushed even harder on the spear, driving the shaft so deeply that its point met and penetrated the floor beneath Aman. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a strangled rattle would emerge.
“You don’t get to forgive me, boy,” the Question sneered, leaning down even closer. “All you get to do is die! And die knowing that your last act on Earth was to serve as the instrument whereby my plan came to full fruition. You’ll be just as responsible for the carnage to come as I am!”
“No …,” Aman groaned weakly, straining with what little reserves remained within him against his restraints.
“Yes!” the Question shrieked maniacally. “Yes!”
“No!” Aman screamed – as he shattered the metal bands holding down his arms and legs.
As he did so, his body bucked. From the wound in his chest, a bolt of stray energy leapt. The bolt struck the Great Question full in the chest, causing him to lose his grip on the mystic spear and sending him hurtling across the chamber. He slammed against the far wall and, stunned, slid limply down to the floor.
Conscious but too battered to move, his vision swam for several moments before clearing. He smiled as it did so; Aman was free of his bonds, yes, but he was still pinned to the floor by the mystic spear that transfixed his body.
The smile froze in place; the corners of his mouth began to turn downward. In agonizing pain though he was, Aman had seized hold of the metal spear with both hands and was attempting to pull it free!
Horrified, the Question tried to push himself to his feet. Failing that, he began to crawl across the chamber.
Teeth clenched so tightly that blood began to ooze from his gums, Aman pulled on the spear with all his failing might. With a harsh crunching sound, the point of the spear was ripped from the floor. Aman groaned from fresh pain elicited by the spear moving back up through his torn body. By inches that seemed like miles and seconds that seemed like days the spear rose upward.
On the brink of unconsciousness, Aman paused, loudly sucking air in through distended nostrils. Sheets of sweat flowed down from his forehead, the salty perspiration burning his eyes raw.
“Stop!” the Question shouted, trying to reach out and grab the spear.
“Aaaaahh!”
The scream bellowed from Aman’s core as, with one final pull, he yanked the spear from his body. As it pulled free, a great, bloody spout shot out of his heaving chest.
Cut off from both its human battery and the eldritch energy that flowed up from the Earth’s core and through the statue, the spear grew silent. The beam of light that shot from its head, which had been roaring upward like a raging river, now stood still.
Afraid to release his grip on the spear’s shaft, Aman gripped it as tightly as he could as he pulled his legs up under him and slowly, painfully rose to his feet. Lifting his eyes to the hole in the top of the torch, he saw that the swirling pool of destructive energy that the light from the spear had been feeding now also slowed, stopped.
Then, like the Red Sea falling back in upon itself after Moses’ passing, the energy pool was sucked inward. Both it and the column of light that had supported it collapsed downward in a great rush, crashing back down into the emblem atop the mystic lance.
Any hope that the cataclysmic energy would then simply vanish into the ether was quickly squashed. The swastika atop the spear took on a bright red hue, as if being baked in a kiln. The shaft began to vibrate violently, threatening to rip itself loose from Aman’s grasp.
“You fool!” the Question shouted, scurrying back away and pressing himself against the wall. “It’s too late to prevent the release of the energy wave. It’s going to explode!”
A flash of black movement caught Aman’s attention. From the shadows near the stairwell leading out of the torch the Fantom now appeared. As he strode forward, Aman knew the others would probably not be far behind.
“Get out!” he yelled at his
dark comrade.
The hum of the five gems had now grown into a piercing whistle. The staff of the spear was vibrating so strongly that Aman’s arms were being jerked uncontrollably back and forth. Powerful beams of crimson, blue and yellow light began to shoot out randomly in all directions. Where they struck, the walls began to glow and melt.
“Take the others and get off the island!” Aman shouted.
The Fantom hesitated, took another step into the room. His eyes met those of Aman and the two men spoke silently, eloquently.
Fantom nodded grimly, stepped back into the shadows – and was gone.
Understanding all too well what was about to happen, the Question pushed away from the wall and made a dash for the exit from the torch. Faster still, Aman flashed across the chamber and blocked his retreat.
“Not you, ‘master’,” he said grimly. “You stay with me.”
“We have to get out of here!”
“It’s too late for that,” Aman replied. “Too late for us.”
“You’re insane!” the Question screeched.
“So says the man who wants to plunge the entire world into a hellish war.”
With a slight, grim smile on his lips, Aman used the spear like a staff, shoving his old mentor away roughly.
The wail of the mystical stones circled about him like the cries of a flock of banshees. The metal spear shook more strongly as the glow around its head intensified.
Aman deliberately loosened his grip on the shaft, letting the spear leap from his hands and fall to the floor. He stood astride it, looking down at it as it leaped and bounced, and then gazed up at the man who had helped shape him.
The once great Question was huddled against the far wall, cowering like a rat in a storm drain. Aman shook his head sadly.
He then threw himself down flat atop the glowing head of the mystic spear, intent on taking the brunt of the forthcoming explosion into his own body.
CHAPTER XLVI
A hundred yards out in the harbor, Zona Henderson brought their speedy boat to a halt, letting it bob lightly in place in the water.
