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STARWOLF
Michael D. Winkle
For Dave the Dude and Gorgeous George
Who took what no one else wanted and gave me my
favorite comic.
And for Terry and Valerio
and others
Who remember ol' Fangsnout.
Prologue
Video Nasty
Colonel
John Jameson, USAF, studied the secret compound below, formulating his plan of
attack. The outside world knew nothing
of the base or its personnel, and the Colonel saw no reason to alter the status
quo. His assault would be swift, silent,
merciless.
He
switched on the ignition of his vehicle; the motor purred quietly. He wrestled the stick into gear. The wide black tires hissed over the grass. He approached the high wall of the compound
and spotted the first checkpoint. The
enemy, armor glinting like burnished copper, patrolled tirelessly back and
forth. Colonel Jameson gunned the motor
and engaged the props. He could barely
hear the alarm drone as he drew abreast of the checkpoint. The enemy scrambled wildly, one after another
taking to the air. Jameson dodged a shot
on the left, the right. He ducked as a
missile whizzed over his head. He
twisted the wheel to the right. A few
more seconds and he'd be home free!
"Ow!"
He
slapped at the burning stab in his shoulder.
The hornet buzzed past his ear with a sound very much like a Bronx
cheer.
He
looked back at the insects' nest, half-hidden in the box hedge. If the little buggers were going to chase him
every time he mowed the lawn, he'd have to spray them.
Jameson
ran the John Deere tractor mower around the yard, shaving the tall grass strip
by strip into a manageable carpet. When
he finished he disengaged the blades and rolled into the garage.
He
smiled at his daydream-scenario. The
compound -- the very suburban house and yard -- was secret,
more-or-less. After years of scrimping
and saving, taking those thankless jobs, gambling on fruitless speculations,
drawing on what influence his name and former glory could muster -- he had done
it. He was a Home Owner, a Property
Owner, a Suburbanite.
The
personnel dwelling here -- that was a secret, too, sort of. Not that he was ashamed of marrying Kristine
Saunders, or vice-versa, but this was their life, their private life,
and he would brook no interference.
He
entered the house from the garage. He
peeled off his knit shirt and tossed it in the washing machine, noting absently
the smell of cut grass, gasoline, and his own sweat. He turned on the shower and stripped the rest
of the way. He jumped in while the water
was still cold.
The
couple valued their privacy. Also, over
the years, Colonel Jameson had made enemies . . .
He
toweled off and slipped on briefs and jogging shorts. He was starting to sound like one of the
"Long Underwear Brigade," as Colonel Fury called them, and their
jealously guarded "secret identities."
Well,
my career's kept me close to that sphere of influence most of my adult life,
he thought as he found a fresh T-shirt. And
I have made enemies. But what could
happen in a clean-cut suburban neighborhood like Penobscot Hills?
John
rooted through the refrigerator and took out a smoky brown bottle. He settled into his recliner, switched on
TNN, and gulped down his Pabst. He
fetched another and took his time with it.
Couch
potato already, he thought, at home like I've lived here for years. Not much else to do, though, 'til Kris moves
in.
His
smile deepened slowly. Kristine Saunders and John Jameson. A match that looked so certain, then certain
to fail, because of --
He
frowned. He tried not to think of him,
he even practiced not-thinking, aiming his mind instead toward the mahogany
blades of the overhead fan.
Perhaps
he would one day suppress that whole period of his hectic life. That was dangerous, though; the seed of many
a neurosis.
Now
I'm starting to sound like Dr. Kafka, thought Colonel Jameson, sinking deeper
into his lounge chair.
She
was the past, however, part of the era after he
died, when John Jameson became the proverbial loose cannon. Security guard, jet-jockey,
monster hunter, merc -- action without purpose and
without goal, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
For
now, nothing to do but unwind, drink beer, and watch NASCAR racing. Kristine would arrive in a few days from her
parents' place, baggage in tow.
The
light faded outside. On the tube cars
roared and announcers shouted. Colonel
John Jameson faded from the world. . .
#
He
woke in the lounge chair.
The
overheads made him wince. He didn't
remember turning them on.
The
TV was still on. The Wrenchheads
removed the engine block from a classic Chevy on TNN.
John
frowned. The Wrenchheads
only came on Sunday. This was Friday
evening -- right?
He
sat up, clapping his palms on the arms of the chair. The camcorder stood near the TV on its
aluminum tripod, its dark glass eye pointed at him.
John
Jameson lurched from his recliner. He
did not sleepwalk, and he had not set up the recorder while conscious.
Something
stuck to his palm. He found several
white hairs.
For a
long moment he did not think; a single thought would have brought with it a
tsunami of black despair. Yet the house
looked so -- intact.
From
his standing position he spotted a video cassette atop the VCR. On that lay a yellow sticky note that read
simply: WATCH ME.
He
felt like
A moment of bright blue, a dark blue "4" in the upper
corner. A snatch of the Mariners
game he'd recorded, then video snow.
John
stood with his back to the recliner.
Fortunately, because suddenly his legs melted like butter and he dropped
onto its padded seat.
Something
stared out of the TV screen. It sat in
this very lounger. It wore John's boxers
and T-shirt. The eyes, gold mixed with
crimson, narrowed. Black-lined chops
wrinkled to display teeth like glazed ceramics.
A snow-white wolf's head atop a broad, shaggy torso studied him with the
air of a tensed predator.
It
was he. The nightmare. The monster. The slavering, mindless,
moon-driven incarnation of evil.
The --
"We
need to talk," said the Man-Wolf in a low rumble.
#
Colonel
John Jameson's instinct was to flee, escape, shout, but he held himself in check, muscles ready but loose, waiting for the
other's move, as if an enemy soldier held him at gunpoint.
The
humanoid beast -- the Man-Wolf -- in John's chair, in this very living room,
interlocked his clawed fingers and leaned slightly forward.
"I
think I know you well enough to predict you will not go off the deep end,"
continued the snow-furred werewolf, slowly and painfully. "You'll hear me out, at least.
"I
know what you're thinking. The horror is
back, the murderous Man-Wolf lives again, just when your horizons were
clear. Just when
Kristine said 'yes'."
John
almost agreed out loud. Instead he sat
mutely. He had seen photos of the
Man-Wolf, of course. But seeing it here,
hearing it talk in a bear-grumble voice --
Talk?
"John,
do not tell Dr. Kafka, or Dr. Conners, or Colonel
Fury," growled the Man-Wolf.
"I am not the monster you remember, or that other people remember,
as the case may be. The authorities will
lock you away in some secret SHIELD lab.
We'd never see Kris again."
The
hair on the back of John's neck rose. We? If Kris
ever saw him --
The
video Man-Wolf nodded as if reading his mind.
"Yes,
it's quite likely we'd never see her again if she ever caught sight of
me."
The
white werewolf raised one of John's Pabsts and
enveloped the brown bottle's mouth, like a trick horse drinking. John checked the TV tray at his side. The empties lay there in a drying puddle of
brew. A wolf trying to drink like a man
could be sloppy.
The video lycanthrope whuffed.
"I
needed that." He swept a shaggy arm
across one side of his muzzle and lapped the fur on his arm, once, twice. "John, I have existed without your
knowledge for months, now. That in itself should prove I am no monster. Kafka drew me out during one of her
sessions. I've been, er,
popping up ever since, careful to leave behind no evidence. I used the freaking vacuum cleaner to sweep
up the fur a couple of times. I'm
shedding now, I think."
The
werewolf paused, raking his claws through the manelike
hair of his neck. He waggled his
fingers, and white wisps drifted out of camera range. John looked down. A cobweb of strands dusted the hardwood
floor.
"I
don't know how long I could have pulled that off," the beast-man
continued. "Moot point; our
marriage plans have forced the issue.
And don't get your garters in a tangle because I said 'our', John. I am you. I feel the same about Kris as you do."
The
Man-Wolf's ears wilted. He closed his
compelling, red-gold eyes.
"To
prove it, I am prepared to make a sacrifice.
For you -- for Kristine -- I will dive back into the abyss from which I
so recently crawled. I think I can curl
up in some nook of your unconscious mind and build a wall across it. I will try never to emerge again.
"I
want you to see something first, though," continued the white beast. "I want you to see what I am giving up
for you -- and her."
Brief
snow appeared, then darkness. A circle
of light clicked on, a vague C-shaped shadow within it, the bulb's occultation
of its own filament. The light swept
over trees and bushes, creating a black and white mosaic. Crickets chirped in the background, and an
owl hooted.
The
camera whipped over the startling white form of the Man-Wolf. Shadows became thick, solid borders, like
something drawn by the late comic book artist Jack Kirby. The light caught the werewolf's eyes; they
shone back like ruby lasers.
"There's
still wilderness on the
The
ghostly Man-Wolf slipped between oily shadows.
The camera bobbed after, its shaking and the
stark, limited light giving John only glimpses of brush and earth.
The
Man-Wolf trotted along ahead, bent low.
A long white plume switched from side to side behind him. He never had a tail before -- had he? And one blot of darkness eclipsed white shag
-- John's navy blue sweat shorts. Did
the werewolf feel modesty?
Then
it hit him: Who's carrying the
camera?
The
lycanthrope loped on, the camera bobbing after, like a scene from the Blair
Witch Project. Suddenly the
man-beast halted and dropped to one knee.
"Here,"
he growled. "Deer trail. White tail still live here. They've come up to the back fence, you
know."
The
Man-Wolf crouched and sniffed as the camera caught up.
"A
doe and a fawn," he continued, indicating barely-visible hoofmarks. "Trotted by tonight.
Want to see them?"
The
lycanthrope grinned back to his ears.
The cameraman had nerves of steel, whoever he was. The Man-Wolf loped down a narrow trail. The camera followed faithfully. The werewolf swept left and right, pausing
once to sniff the air.
"The
trail meanders," he stage-whispered.
"The deer wander as they like.
In the wild they traipse carefully between pack-territories. No wolves on
He
sprang up onto a dirt-shrouded boulder; landing on all fours, he looked even
more animalistic. He grinned again.
"Most
of the time," he added. "Come
on."
He jumped, arms high and claws extended, and loped away. The cameraman jogged around the boulder, and
again the picture blurred. John heard
only puffing, possibly the Man-Wolf, perhaps his unknown follower. Whoever it was not only was brave but an
athlete to boot. The Man-Wolf covered
ground faster than Colonel Jameson's best sprint.
The
sound of splashing rather than any visual clue told him Man-Wolf and company
crossed a stream. Finally the cameraman
spoke.
"Cripes, Wolfie, slow down!"
John
simply grew more confused. It sounded
like a woman, a fairly young one at that.
The
camera steadied on the were-beast, he crouching again on one knee. He raised a wide paw of a hand.
"Shhh. . .
Kill the light!"
The
scene vanished save for shifting spots of moonlight on leaves.
"Follow
me," hissed the Man-Wolf. "Quietly."
The
audio recorded crickets, the hiss and scrape of bodies passing through
undergrowth, grunts and breathing. It
could have been a training film for infantrymen.
The
Man-Wolf and his companion stopped for a long moment. John Jameson leaned forward, intrigued in
spite of himself. Only the slightest swish
indicated movement.
Finally
the werewolf shouted "Now!"
The
spotlight flared. The brook shimmered
silver and black in the harsh illumination.
A deer and a spotted fawn jerked their heads up from their drinking
postures in the middle of the stream.
The
white werewolf stood next to the doe. He
bent forward and gave it a goofy dog kiss on the cheek. Both deer burst out of the water and into the
underbrush.
Man-Wolf,
alone in the brook, grinned sharkishly.
"That
was kind of strange, Wolfie," observed the
camerawoman.
"Just
demonstrating stealth-mode," the lycanthrope answered. "Ready for more?"
"Bring
it on, Fang-face."
The
tape jumped to a new scene. The light
and camera steadied on Man-Wolf. He stood
on a knoll at the edge of a steep hill.
"Listen,"
he said.
He
turned away ninety degrees and howled into the night, the fur along his spine
bristling from neck to jogging shorts. A
chorus of dog howls and barks answered him.
The werewolf eyed the camera.
"That's
Riverhead. The dogs are scared; their
barking is all bluff."
The
canine sounds died down. Man-Wolf turned
to the opposite direction and shouted out a higher-pitched ululation that ended
with "yawp-yawp-yow!" Similar
noises returned like an echo.
"Coyotes,"
said the werewolf. "They aren't
scared; they're ready to rumble if we pass their urine splashes."
Man-Wolf
turned a three-quarter view to the camera and gave a softer series of yaps that
were also answered from the night.
"A
vixen with her litter," said the beast-man. "She's cautious but unafraid."
Now
he turned his tail to the camera and gave a wavering, all-out wolf howl down
into the unseen valley. This outcry,
too, elicited an eerie response.
The
Man-Wolf hopped from the knoll.
"A
Malamute-wolf crossbreed on a farm down there," he said as he padded
by. "She's lonely."
#
There
was more. The Man-Wolf crouched low,
sniffed the ground, sniffed as he stood erect, and scampered half up a tree
like a squirrel, speaking as he did of the scents at different heights. He hunched by stumps and saplings and
commented on the number of species that had urinated there. He heard a mouse under a patch of dry leaves,
pounced on it, and hauled it up for the world to see. He released it at his companion's insistence.
John's
eyes glazed. The film was like a demo
tape for
It
was over. The Man-Wolf sat in the
recliner again, staring out at him.
"There
you have a glimpse of my life -- our life, John," said the
lycanthrope. He opened and closed his
jaws a couple of times without sound.
"That
is what I'm giving up for you and Kris.
I'm locking myself in the dungeon of your subconscious. If you ever decide the world -- and Kris --
and you -- are ready for me, you hold the key."
The
fearsome wolf head eyed the camera -- and Colonel Jameson -- one last time.
"Take
care of her, you son of a bitch. This is
the Man-Wolf, signing off."
The
image vanished, replaced by white confetti.
John stared for a long moment.
Eventually his fingers scrabbled over the remote, and the screen went
black.
I
don't know what to think -- what to feel, he thought. The Man-Wolf back, but gone again, a
self-bottling genie in the basement of my mind?
And I hold the key?
He
rose. He wanted something stronger than
beer. Instead he threw on a T-shirt,
stepped out into the night, and jogged.
#
The
streets of the Penobscot edition were well lit.
John cantered along, mulling over the video message.
Mr.
Hyde doesn't just throw in the towel one day and disappear, he told
himself. But the Man-Wolf says he's
not a monster now. The mere fact he
could make that video seems to bear that out.
Can I trust him?
I
may not have a choice. I tried to keep
him from appearing before, and look how that went. If he decides to show up some full moon night,
he'll show up.
He
rounded a corner and jogged past the big houses on their wide lots. The
He
considered ignoring the werewolf's advice and contacting Dr. Conners and/or Dr. Kafka on the sly. Thing was, he could never be sly enough for
Kris. She would know something was going
on.
John
thought back to the flighty, elfin artist who sent sketches, anonymously at
first, to the big-shot astronaut. She
had been pretty and talented, but there was not much to her. He wasn't sure what he saw in her. Maybe just potential.
The
potential became reality, however, in her years away. Steel in her gaze, confidence in her walk,
and she still won their judo matches at Goldie's Gym.
The
new Kristine might even be able to handle the truth. Someday.
John
trotted to a stop in front of the house.
The moon, rising over his peaked roof, shone with icy clarity,
Copernicus and Kepler like etchings on glass.
Colonel
Jameson checked his arms for more than usual hair. Nothing.
The
moon as full as it ever gets, and no Man-Wolf, he thought. He really is gone.
John
felt he should jump for joy. Instead he
trudged up to the door like a pallbearer.
Chapter One
The Name is King
Yep. Yours truly, Hannibal King, is a
vampire. A
fang-toothed, thirsty-for-the-red-stuff, stay-out-of-the-sun Undead. It's a long story. Suffice to say I owe my half-life to a
white-haired bloodsucker named Deacon Frost.
He was a plotter, Frost; he appreciated the eternity stretching out
before him, and his waters ran deep. I
knew him well by now, however. At least,
I thought I did. Any suspicious activity
that pointed to Frost, there I was.
For
instance: Tonight I sat in my workhorse
of a Buick watching an amazingly boring three-story brick building in
Not
much to go on, but the story had a familiar ring: Frost often used company fronts for his more
mundane criminal exploits, and accountants who looked too closely at the books
had a habit of going south. That's how I
ran into him in the first place. That's
how I gained my fangs and my pale complexion.
So I accepted the case.
As
in any good private-eye tale, it was gray and rainy.
I
don't like the rain, actually. It
slithers over me like an army of slugs, more irritating now than when I was
alive -- I suppose because it's more-or-less running water. It knocks smells out of the air, it washes
out heat-signatures, and it softens sounds.
Case
in point: I heard a footstep, close,
only a second before I heard a shell pumped into a chamber. I used that second to bail. It's a reflex from my old life. I've ridden gunshots to freak out the
opposition, but I never let the good instincts wither.
A
shotgun blast guaranteed Mel's Body Shop and Windshield Replacement more
business from me. The windows of my old
Buick burst into harmless fragments, but I felt a bee-sting pain in my upper
arm: a single pellet. Silver.
I
rolled and jumped around the corner of the office building. That's why I park near corners. Damn if a hulking shadow didn't stand there
like a six-foot-five fireplug. Even now
I barely read his bio-aura through his long, wet western coat. I don't like the rain.
I was
still thinking of Shotgun as the new goon punched. Something ripped my cheek, and it burned as I
stumbled away and caromed off a Kharman Ghia.
Hawthorn spines poking out of his gloves. Not something you'd learn watching Bela Lugosi.
"That'll
leave a mark," muttered the man behind the fist.
"Funny
as Ebola," I growled.
I
rose up right into another punch. It
felt like fifty broadheads pounded into my chin. Shotgun rounded the corner, lifting his
pump-action Remington to his shoulder.
"Jake,
outta the way, man!" he
yelled.
Jake
smiled. A Parmesan-cheese-and-garlic
breath provided by the Italiano Eateria
billowed out. It might have been a third
smack in the face.
"Not
yet, man!" he said. "I'm beatin' the unliving snot out of
a freakin' vampire!
Nobody'll mess with Jake Thorn after this!"
That
wasn't quite what he said, you understand.
"With
your breath, I'm surprised anyone'd mess with you
now," I snapped.
Shotgun
stood down. I saw another right
coming. I dodged the human mace, grabbed
a long sleeve, spun, and Jake kept going into a big blue mailbox.
The
hair on the nape of my neck rose.
Shotgun had to be raising his Remington.
Only one thing to do: Play misty
for him.
The
blast seared through the white smoke I became.
The expulsion of gases came close to dispersing me. I drifted with the flow, an omnidirectional "sense" replacing vision.
"Where'd
he go? He disappeared, man!" yelled
Shotgun.
"Find
him!" yelled Jake. He wiped blood
from his nose. I smelled it a block
away. "He's gotta
re-mat somewhere! Find him or Frost'll tear us a new one!"
Frost. So it was a
set-up. He did that once in a while,
just to let me know he was still around.
I let
the breeze carry me. I imagined floating
on my back, hands clasped over my breast like Ophelia or the Lady of Shalott. But the
allusions remembered from English Lit didn't really fit me. Death ended their woes.
I
solidified five streets away. I took a
bus home.
Couple
of nights later I took another back to
The
offices on the corner were empty. "Ancient Mariner Imports." As in Rime of. "Rime" is a synonym for
"frost"; I looked it up in Roget's. I'd have to watch for in-jokes like
that. Bad guys really do drop twisted
clues like the Riddler in Batman. It's all part of their mind-games.
No
invoices inside, no computers, no files.
An empty façade that would bring me no closer to the
white-haired bloodsucker. Shotgun
and Jake were long gone, and, predictably, I never saw "Ms. Benchley" again.
To top off the perfect toilet sundae, her check bounced.
Business had been slow, and I'd already given
Mrs. Mulberry, the landlady, my best song-and-dance. I'd have to take another case, however morose
I felt.
I
snooped around my car for plastique whoopie-cushions, but Frost's goons had done their bad deed
for the day. I climbed into the Buick,
sweeping the safety glass off the seat.
She was a tough old bird, and there was room in the trunk for me and a
scattering of graveyard soil if I got stuck somewhere at dawn.
I
drove back to the office, hoping for a message on the phone.
#
Wouldn't
you know it -- the light on my answering machine winked at me when I woke the
next sunset. I
pushed the button and heard a woman's voice.
"Mr.
King -- my name is Kristine Jameson. I
-- we -- my husband and I -- have a probblem.
I think."
The voice
was low without being husky, as if the woman had just stepped in from
jogging. Her hesitancy indicated that
she was nervous, afraid, embarrassed, or perhaps she couldn't quite define her
predicament. I see the last a lot.
"A
friend of yours recommended you to a friend of ours once," continued the
voice. I rubbed my fingers through my
hair and yawned. "
I
froze in mid-yawn as if I had lockjaw.
Dr. Strange? There was a man who
lived up to his name. I felt almost
flattered that he'd throw business my way, but it had to be a pretty odd
case: Strange knows all about me and my,
eh, condition.
"He
suggested I visit in the evening. I'm
going to be in the city tonight. I hope
to call about seven o'clock. If that is
inconvenient, I can be reached at --"
I
checked the clock as she rattled off her phone number. Didn't give me much time, but as long as I
could throw on my least-wrinkled set of duds . . .
I
dressed and drank my breakfast, though not exactly as Marlowe or Spade might, and I applied Binaca
liberally. I glanced at the mirror in my
tiny bathroom and snorted. If it
wouldn't look so odd to snoopers, I'd junk it.
I
gathered up the sloppy pile of bills by the door and gave each envelope a
cursory glance before tossing it in the circular file. I'd pay by the fourth or fifth notice.
Promptly
at seven the bell over my door jingled.
I'm a leg man, see? When a woman steps into my office, I work my
way from the ground up, the shapelier the equipment, the slower the climb.
I
could have taken all night with this one, but I started to feel like a voyeur,
so I finally lifted my eyes to her face.
And what a face this young blond thing had. She would have been gorgeous if it weren't
for the fear and uncertainty shining like distress beacons out of her
baby-blues. Right now she was merely
beautiful. For a moment she looked ready
to bolt, but finally she spoke.
"Mr.
King?
"The one and only."
"My
husband and I -- have a problem -- I think."
"So
you said over the phone."
I
rose.
"Please
come in and make yourself at home, Mrs. Jameson."
Mrs.
J entered my seedy little office. She
wore her skirts short, which was fine by me.
As she planted her shapely hips on the client's seat, I dropped back in
my own squeaky chair. I like to think I
look more professional behind the desk, cigar-burned and shot-glass-stained
though it is.
Kristine
Jameson sat like her legs were Krazy Glued together,
and she kept her hands palm-down on her lap.
The silence was deafening. I
decided to break the ice.
"So.
. . Mrs. Jameson, if you could enlighten me as to the nature of your
problem?"
The
woman smiled; she could brighten a room when she wished.
"Sorry, Mr. King.
John -- my husband -- and I have hit some rocky stretches in the course
of our relationship -- due to circumstances beyond our control, I assure
you. Things took a turn for the better,
recently, but then these strange men showed up."
"Strange men?"
"I
first noticed them a week ago. John and
I were playing tennis in the back yard when I glimpsed some faces by the fence,
at the edge of the trees. I thought they
were kids from down the block -- only, I've seen the neighborhood boys from the
same position. These shapes were
larger. When I mentioned them to John, they
drew back into the shadows, and he dismissed them as hikers.
"That
night I heard noises in our yard. The
"John
humored me and called the police. They
sent an extra car to patrol the neighborhood, but our house is kind of on the
edge of town, and these men just disappear into the trees when the police show
up."
Disappear
into the trees. I kept forgetting how
wild some sections of
"Anyway. . . now these vehicles pass our house, slowly,
sometimes even stopping at the end of the drive for three or four minutes. They're never around long enough for me to
summon the police, and they drive off if anyone steps outside."
"You
say vehicles. Could you be more
specific?"
Mrs.
J's
"Well
-- I've noticed a convertible of some kiind -- Navy blue -- and a large sedan of
the same color. And a
red pickup with a camper."
"The
cops can't find a pickup with a camper?" I asked.
"I'm
sure they could, Mr. King, if there weren't so many vehicles matching that
description in our neighborhood."
"You
sound like real frontiersmen out there."
Kristine
Jameson smiled again. Like I said, she
was a looker anytime, but when her face was unlined by fear, she was
gorgeous. Strange men were watching her? Seemed understandable from where I sat.
"It's
'in', Mr. King. We used to go sailing on
the Sound, but nowadays everyone on the water is named Biff or Muffy. Anyway. . . two nights ago the
"Mrs.
Jameson, I'll have to ask you some obvious questions. Do you or your husband have enemies? Anyone who would have a
reason to spy on you?"
"No,"
she denied. "Well, I don't
know. John's been around some genuine
maniacs in his life. I mean, he was
chief of security at the Ravenswood Institute for the Criminally Insane."
I
was leaning back, fingers interlocked behind my head,
but an announcement like that makes you sit up straight.
"The Ravenswood --?"
"Before
that he was a pilot on the Avengers support team. And of course, he was an astronaut."
"Whoa, whoa!" I said. "What did you say your husband's name
was?"
Mrs.
J smiled thinly.
"Colonel John Jameson of the USAF and NASA. The last man to land on the
moon. Officially."
I
slapped a hand to my head.
"That John Jameson!" I exclaimed. "Well, that alone could provide a
motive. The mere fact he has a claim to
fame could set off some people. And if I
recall correctly, his pop's J. Jonah Jameson, the editor of the Bugle."
Mrs.
J nodded emphatically.
"That's
probably where you'd know him. Old J.J.'s promoted him ruthlessly for years."
"I've
read some of the things your father-in-law has written. To be blunt, Mrs. Jameson, I'm sure there are
a lot of people out there who'd like to do unpleasant things to him. Could be someone is trying to strike at him
through your husband."
I'd
have thought my speculations would increase her anxiety, but she seemed
curiously reassured. I shrugged mentally
and continued.
"But
I can hypothesize 'til I'm blue in the mouth.
I'd have to take a look 'round your place before I could really get
anywhere."
"Then
you'll help us, Mr. King?"
Colonel
Jameson's connections to the "hero" community at least made the Dr.
Strange referral more understandable.
Still, I doubted Mrs. Jameson knew about my aversion to sunlight. I pretended to dig through my card file. I'll get a computer yet.
"I'm
afraid I'm booked tomorrow morning, Mrs. Jameson. Police matters, you know. They're always on a P.I.'s
butt. I'll be free starting tomorrow
afternoon, though."
Not
exactly a lie; I had a heavy date with a coffin that would take up the
day. My "afternoons", of
course, always became evenings, and I blamed my late arrivals on traffic.
"Thank
you, Mr. King," said Kristine Jameson.
She
gave me her address, in a development called Penobscot Hills on the
Chapter Two
Casing the Joint
I
started out to the
The
streets of Penobscot Hills curved back and forth and budded off into numerous
dead ends. The houses were big,
and the lots wide; the Jamesons, whatever their
problems, were no strangers to money. I
rolled around a corner and found the address.
The Jameson residence was no mansion, but I'll never afford the
like: Two-and-a-half car garage, as many
bathrooms, Lord knew how many bedrooms.
I
made a circuit of the block. Through a
neighbor's yard I saw the Jamesons' backside. They really did have a tennis court, and a
swimming pool to boot. Trees grew right
up to the fences. Looked
like someone could approach the house undetected. I decided to give it a shot.
A
strange, rusty, beat-up car sitting long in a neighborhood like this would
attract attention, especially with rumors of prowlers. The least conspicuous place seemed to be a
gravel turn-around beside a gas station three miles away. I walked back, remembering how winded I got
in the before-time on such hikes.
Cigarettes
didn't give me smoker's cough any more, but they tasted like burning
cardboard. I lit up a Winston
anyway. Old habits die hard.
A low
wooded ridge separated Penobscot Hills from the highway. A radio tower, outlined by red and amber
warning lights, stood like the old RKO symbol atop the ridge. I found a paved footpath, kept on, found
another. This I followed through the trees, and a shortcut over fallen limbs and a drainage ditch
brought me to the addition.
I
found a back fence. A Doberman charged
up, but I gave it the eye. It ran back
to a doghouse nearly as big as my apartment and cowered quietly. I slipped along the fences using a trail worn
by tennis shoes and bike tires, and soon I reached the Jameson place.
A
streetlight burned over the tennis court.
Floodlights and motion sensors hung under the eaves of the house. Prongs bent down on top of the chain-link
indicated that someone had climbed it more than once.
I
switched on the penlight and began the Sherlock Holmes bit.
Mrs.
J said that the boys in blue had combed the area behind the house as recently
as three days before. And they're good
out on the
I
found a spot where someone had worked his way into the brush, and I followed,
eyeing every thorn and twig.
A
footprint of a size ten shoe and a strand of dark thread indicated a cop. I slipped through high thistles and found
more footprints. The
same cop's -- and a newer one, superimposed on the first.
The
new print was maybe a size twelve. There were ridges indicating treads on the
bottom of the footwear, sort of interconnecting bull's-eyes. A line of dirt, grayer than the local mud,
had fallen from the boot-tread. I knelt
to study it, scraping some up with a fingernail. Caked, silt-like stuff. Here and there a speck of silica. And a tiny chunk of gray-white gravel, one
side blackened by tar. He came from the
highway.
I
searched some more. On a particularly
wicked briar I found a piece of cloth; at least, that was my first
thought. It was about two inches long,
black on one side and yellow on the other.
It felt and glinted like Mylar.
I
wandered through the trees and eventually came upon one of the stone
paths. In the middle of the night,
shielded from the houses, a stalker might chance using it. I crouched down like a big spider and crept
along, a weather eye out for -- Ah! Another ridge shaken loose from the boot.
There were at least three unknowns.
They had taken a roundabout route through the forest from an access road
north and west of the Jameson house.
From there they had hiked to and from the highway. Since a car parked several nights in the same
place would have attracted attention, I supposed someone dropped them off and
picked them up later.
#
That
ended my nosing around for the night. I
drove a few miles down the highway until I found a deserted K-Mart with the
parking lot full of cars for sale. I
sighed; the things I did for a paycheck.
I climbed into the trunk with my graveyard soil, a flashlight, and the
latest Kinsey Millhone mystery.
The
day passed without any major disasters, and as soon as Mr. Sun sank behind the
skyline, I zipped back up to Penobscot Hills.
No, I didn't smell too much of the good earth -- somehow a vamp can
shake off all the dirt -- and most of the stink -- particles from his duds.
I
parked behind a dusty silver convertible and climbed onto a front porch made of
red and white brick. I entered a tunnellike recess lit by a lantern-shaped fixture. Mrs. Jameson answered the bell. She wore a turtleneck sweater the color of
toasted marshmallows, with slacks of a darker shade. I apologized, as usual, for the lateness of
my appearance and waited for her to invite me in, which she did.
"It's
just as well, Mr. King," Kristine Jameson said as she led me down a short
hall. "John went out to the
airport. He flies a lot. Likes to keep his hand in. He's a little late tonight. . ."
I
frowned.
"Did
you tell him I was coming?" I asked.
We
reached a den painted a nice, deep shade of yellow -- not screaming canary or
wimpy pastel. A dozen or so statues
stood around on pedestals: a discus
thrower, a Greek goddess, an astronaut planting a flag.
Mrs.
J turned to me, clasping her hands together, not quite wringing them. She gave me a not-quite smile.
"He
knew. I don't think he really liked the
idea. But, even so -- he's rarely this
late. . ."
"Male
ego," I suggested. "Like not
asking directions when you're lost. A
lot of men have to drive around or mow the yard before they come in to meet the
detective."
Mrs.
J agreed, with words at least, and invited me to sit. I dropped onto a beige sofa and she chose a
wingback chair.
"Well,"
I said, looking over the statuettes.
"Those are pretty good.
Where'd you get them?"
Mrs. J blushed.
"Actually. . . they're mine."
"No
kiddin'?" I asked. I pointed at the astronaut. "So that one's your
husband?"
"It's
supposed to be," she admitted.
"It was hard to put his features there, on that scale. As well as I would have
wanted, at least. I'm no Alicia
Masters."
Kristine
looked toward a window.
"I'm
sure John doesn't mean to be rude, Mr. King.
He'll be as anxious as I to hear what you have to say."
"I
do have a few tales to tell," I said.
I
went into detail about my findings, mainly to keep her attention off her
husband.
I've seen enough in life and unlife not to
dismiss my hunches, and my hunch was singing like an informant with a handful
of fifties. I was sure something had
happened to John Jameson, but I couldn't do much without worrying Mrs. J --
even if I knew what to do.
"It's
nice to know we're not just being paranoid," she said.
"I
guess," I said. "But whoever
it is can't keep this up without getting caught."
Kristine
rose and stepped over to the window. She
looked out into the night like the wife of a whaler long at sea.
"Maybe
they don't have to keep it up. Maybe
they've done whatever they wanted to do -- to John."
Before
I could make reassuring noises (a thing I'm lousy at anyway), Mrs. J gasped and
jumped back from the window. Then the
wall exploded.
Chapter Three
"Back -- For Revenge!!!"
John
Jameson brought in the open-cockpit Starduster II
perfectly, as usual. He watched Mack the
attendant hook his low-slung tow truck to the rear wheel of the aircraft and
pull it tail-first to the hangar.
John trotted across the tarmac to his candy-apple red Corvette, wincing into
the late afternoon sun. He hadn't meant
to stay aloft so long, but he worried, and time eluded him when he worried.
He
climbed into the sporty convertible, no more noticing the engine's smooth drone
than he had the sports plane's perfect roll and pitch. He didn't like leaving Kris alone at night
any more. Besides, she had that private
investigator guy coming . . .
He
passed through the airport gate and rolled off down the narrow road. He slipped into the trees quickly,
occasionally glimpsing a blinking tower light through the leaves.
Who were
the strange men who invaded the neighborhood at night? What did they want?
They
could be casing the
He
shook his head. The wind whipped and
eddied in his ears. He knew men and
women who would kill him if they had the opportunity, but he couldn't think of
anyone who hated him who didn't hate someone else worse.
God,
if I can get this worked up, how paranoid must those super-types get? Is it an even trade, gaining
"powers" but looking over your shoulder all the time? Maybe they really should be overprotective of
their secret identities.
John
passed a construction area lined by stumps and torn vegetation. Dump trucks and bulldozers sat on the cleared
earth like zoo animals in an open enclosure.
They would build houses near the airport soon. The Island would become as congested as
A
half-mile ahead, a large white panel truck pulled onto the road. John caught it up and slowed to a crawl.
Colonel
Jameson frowned. Why did the widest
trucks choose the narrowest roads? He
edged into the southbound lane. No one
was coming, but the truck shifted to the left, its tires well over the center
line.
John
fell back into the right lane. Slowly,
like a ship on a new tack, the truck did the same. John edged over again, but once more the
truck slipped half over the line.
"Oh,
boy," muttered John Jameson.
He
calculated the distance to the highway.
He had to get home and meet this detective Kris had hired. How would that look, leaving Kris by herself when a strange man arrived at the house?
He
realized, to his surprise, that he wanted to meet this King guy. If he could find out who was snooping around,
they might plan a course of action. If
he and Kris were imagining it all -- well, a private eye would keep it
confidential.
He
forgot the detective as the door flaps of the panel truck swung open. In the shadows of the vehicle's interior --
"Is
that a cannon?" asked Colonel Jameson of
the air.
He
stomped on the brakes. The muzzle of the
weapon flashed dull red. The 'Vette lurched as if it hit a deer. Jameson swore as steam gushed from the
radiator and spilled over the windshield.
The car wobbled as if the front wheels were loose. He fought the steering wheel, scalding water
stinging his eyes. He scraped the
guardrail bordering the right shoulder; he swung the 'Vette
to the left, crossing both lanes.
There
was no guardrail here.
#
He
woke to the constrictions of pythons.
The seatbelt and shoulder harness squeezed him as something pulled them
in turn. John blinked as a huge, black,
metallic hand tore the nylon straps. The
hand clamped around his wrist, hard and harsh and cold, and lifted. Colonel Jameson grimaced as the hand dragged
him arm-first out of the sports car.
The
hand released him, and he rolled in grass and dead leaves. He opened his eyes to find himself several
meters off the road, in the shade of a stately elm. His wrist, shoulder, knees and neck ached,
and a dull buzzing filled his ears.
Something
human-shaped but a good three meters tall stood looking over his wrecked
Corvette, like a boy examining a broken Radio Flier. The being was black except for dozens of
colored, self-luminous buttons on its forearms and chest. It glinted like a stealth bomber in the light
of sunset. Overlapping plates formed its
joints. A simple glass visor marked its
"face".
Some
sort of robot, thought John Jameson.
An Adaptoid? A Dreadnaut?
The
automaton turned jerkily to face the Colonel.
The visor-eye reflected a tiny image of the sun; John thought of the Cylons on the old show, Battlestar
Galactica.
"So,
Jameson, you wake at last!" a voice boomed from the robot's chest. "Good!
I want you conscious for a brief time -- before delivering you to my,
eh, employers."
No
-- a guy in some sort of cyber-armor>, thought John. Guess we weren't being paranoid, after all.
"Who
are you?" asked Jameson. He rubbed
his wrist -- his whole arm was going to bruise -- and drew in his legs. "What do you want with me?"
The armored being approached, its blocky feet sinking into the damp
earth with each step.
"Who
am I?" parroted the metallic one.
"I, Colonel Jameson, am your greatest -- most cunning -- most
implacable foe! What do I want? I'm back -- for revenge!!! And a large sum of money I am to receive upon
delivering you to a certain party -- but mostly revenge."
The
armored being touched buttons on its right forearm with its left gauntlet: red, yellow, green. The blank visor hissed up like a welder's
mask. Framed within the black helmet was
a man's face, very narrow, with long, flowing gray hair and a devilish spike of
beard. The man's eyes were wide and wild
to begin with, but a silver-dollar-sized monocle expanded one grotesquely.
"Yes,
Jameson, it is I! Baron Ludwig von Shtupf!"
Seconds
passed. A chickadee chirped happily in
the woods. Grass grew.
"Who?"
asked Colonel Jameson.
The
man's evil grin drooped into an angry scowl.
"So. You do not
share your hairy alter-ego's memories. I
suppose I should have expected that from an inferior mentality."
The
armored man stomped heavily along the road embankment. He turned to Jameson again.
"Let
me clarify things, then: I am the
greatest, most cunning, most implacable foe of the Man-Wolf!"
John
shook his head.
"The Man-Wolf?"
"Don't
be coy, Jameson," warned Von Shtupf, wagging the
foot-long index finger of a black gauntlet.
"I studied that shaggy beast's biological and paraphysical
makeup thoroughly the first time I captured him. The fact that he and you are one the same is
not even much of a secret, these days."
Cripes,
you crazy wolf, thought John. What
were you doing when I wasn't around?
Maybe I can bluff this lunatic.
Colonel
Jameson held up his hand as if to stop traffic.
"Hold
on, Von Drake --"
"Von
Shtupf," corrected the armored man.
"Von
Shtupf," continued John. "I am not the Man-Wolf any more. That nightmare is over. See, there was this red crystal from the moon
--"
Von Shtupf pointed an exoskeletal
finger skyward. Bang and John
smelled cordite.
He
has a gun in his finger?
"Silence!"
ordered the bearded man. "I don't
know whether you're lying or are even less intelligent than I first
believed. However, I know you can become
the Man-Wolf without that alien bauble.
I've seen it myself!"
John
could think of nothing to say. The man
was more like a Scooby-Doo villain than an actual
person. Von Shtupf's
grin, pointy as the letter "V", returned.
"The
Man-Wolf still exists -- but not for long," he said ominously.
John's
ears buzzed again.
No,
something buzzed by him, a familiar sound.
A hornet.
"As
much as I'd enjoy reducing you to your component amino acids, Jameson, I have
agreed to deliver you to a certain party, as I mentioned. They have paid me handsomely already --
enough to refurbish my laboratory with technology built in this century
-- and they assure me I can study what'ss left of your carcass after they finish
with you."
Von Shtupf pushed a purple button over his heart. The visor hissed into place. John peered up and found the source of the
buzz: a yellow-brown hive, like oak gall
on a limb, illuminated by an errant shaft of the setting sun. It hung only a few feet above.
The
armored madman lumbered forward.
"Come,
Jameson. Let me escort you to the old
homestead."
John
struggled to his feet, back against the tree.
"
The
blank faceplate loomed near.
"Oh
-- it slipped my mind. Other operatives
have been dispatched to collect your lovely wife. It is rather an insult; a backup plan in case
I failed. But, of course, I have
not!"
A
monstrous iron hand snapped out and clamped onto John's wrist again. It lifted him painfully from the earth. Von Shtupf's laugh
could only be called diabolical.
Colonel
Jameson grabbed the limb of the buzzing hive with his free hand. Thank God the branch was thin enough to
break! He folded it double, and the
armored villain's own tug ripped the green wood in two.
John
stuck the end of the branch between his teeth.
The melon-sized hive vibrated against his breast. He chinned himself up even with Von Shtupf's hidden face.
He
tapped the buttons on the exo-armor's forearm, red, yellow, green. The
welder's mask whipped up.
"What
--" gasped Von <Shtupf. His monocle popped
out like a champagne cork.
"Bon
appetit!" yelled John Jameson.
He
shoved the hornet's nest into Von Shtupf's helmet
with all his might. It -- or maybe the
madman's face -- crunched. He slapped
the purple button on the armored man's chest, and the mask hissed shut.
Von Shtupf screamed in agony.
John's vision blurred and his elbow felt like it had snapped as the exo-armor flung him away.
He landed, rolled, and pushed himself up.
The
armored Baron stumbled off drunkenly, banging himself in the helmet with
bucket-sized fists. The exo-armor caromed off a tree and fell against the
embankment.
He's
not going to be too happy when he gets that helmet off, thought John.
The 'Vette wasn't going anywhere. Colonel Jameson slogged up the embankment to
the road. The panel truck sat innocently
on the shoulder.
#
Jameson
rolled through the darkening woods, grinding around turns and up grades. The truck cab and box formed one open space
housing the cannon -- some sort of ray projector -- and a bay for the exo-suit. A PC
keyboard crudely bolted to the dash probably controlled the energy-gun.
Wish
I had time to figure that out, thought the colonel.
He
thought to call ahead, warn his wife.
Damn! The cell phone's back in the car!
He
reached the highway at last. The truck
rolled smoothly, its headlights flowing out in a white apron before it. He punched the vehicle past the speed limit.
How
long did the Man-Wolf exist without my knowledge? Jameson asked himself.
Dr.
Kafka assured me his persona had been "normed"
into my psyche . . . but I wonder about her.
She was an excellent coworker and fellow soldier, yes. Hell, I thought I loved her. But she's so damned manipulative, so damned
sure of whatever analysis she's made of someone's Rorschach . . . I have enough
monomaniacs in my life.
He
reached the Penobscot entrance and swerved in.
The truck scraped a stone gatepost.
He screeched around one corner, then another. At least the lanes were wide; thank God so
many people had RVs.
He
pulled up a slight rise. He could see
the house from the summit. Three
vehicles, a convertible, a camper, and a black sedan, sat along the curb,
blocking the driveway. He swung Von Shtupf's truck around the last and bounced onto the grass.
Smoke
poured from a gaping hole in the front wall of the house.
"Kris!"
Something
bobbed up in his peripheral vision. A
man rose from beside the limousine, a gun of some kind in his hand. John dropped aside.
ZAAAK!
Multicolored
lightning shot through the open driver's window. The roof of the cab banged as if hit by hail,
and white-hot sparks hissed on John's head and arms. He belly-crawled into the
box of the truck.
"Fool! That was he!" came a muffled cry. "He must not be slain -- yet!"
The
truck still rolled. A jarring thump
told John it collided with the maple fronting the picture window.
So
they want me alive? thought Colonel Jameson. Let them come and get me!
He
dragged himself up with the help of Von Shtupf's ray
weapon. It possessed, he realized, an
ordinary trigger and a fairly obvious ON switch.
Fists
banged the rear doors, and gloved fingers hooked the unlocked flaps. John aimed low.
"I
hope that lunatic built a real weapon," he whispered.
A
round, pale head with a mop of black hair popped into view. He fired.
The weapon made a loud thoomp and a red
flash. The man-figure fell away.
Boots
clumped on metal behind him. A solid arm
in a black sleeve whipped around his throat.
John seized the arm, lifted his foot, and raked his heel down the
attacker's shin, ending with a hard stomp on booted toes.
Someone
else climbed into the confined space.
John swept his fist out into the second attacker's solar plexus. That didn't slow him or keep him from yanking
up a length of lead pipe.
It
wouldn't be such a bad thing to become the Man-Wolf about now, thought John
Jameson as the bludgeon connected.
Chapter
Four
The Three
Stooges and Friends
I've
seen a surprising number of walls collapse in my day. This implosion was relatively clean; little
smoke or shrapnel, just gypsum dust and bits of concrete. Mrs. Jameson jumped away with a gymnast's
ease, but she stumbled and sprawled on the carpet. Chivalrous ol'
I
read once that if you're tapping out a story and get writer's block, you should
have two goons enter with guns and hustle the hero off somewhere. It was too early in this case for that, yet
--
Two
men stepped in, crunching fragments of brick and cement under their boots. They carried strange guns like
double-barreled hairdryers. The weapons
didn't look real, but I decided not to chance it. The intruders wore black uniforms with pants
that flowed right into their boots.
Stripes of bright primary colors decorated their jackets or tunics. To demonstrate how much I live in the past,
I'll say that they reminded me of the Sandmen from Logan's Run.
One
guy was stout and bald. The other had a
mop of black hair cut bowl fashion, for all the world
like Curly and Moe.
"Drop
your weapon," ordered Moe.
I
obeyed for Kristine's sake. I made ready
to shield her with my body if I had to.
"Who
are you?" I asked.
"Silence!"
came Moe's answer.
"This one is irrelevant,
Mrs.
J rose to a crouch.
"You,"
she said. "I remember you."
Moe
grinned like Snidely Whiplash in a sawmill.
"Do
you, Kristine Jameson? Good. You are to be our guest again. Permanently, this
time."
Curly
lurched forward. He was about to get a
surprise from ol' Uncle Hannibal.
Then
a big van rocketed down the street outside, jumped the curb, and roared straight
for the house. I heard a weird sort of
ZAAAK, a loud bang, and a dull crunch as the truck hit a tree only yards from
the house.
"It
is he! Jameson!" yelled Moe.
Curly
did an about-face and ran out the hole in the wall. I jumped up.
Moe casually aimed his hairdryer at the ceiling.
ZAAAK!
A
flash of unkinked lightning dazzled me, then the ceiling hailed down on us. I managed to get one arm over Mrs. J.
"If
it weren't for bad luck . . ." The crumbling gypsum wouldn't slow a
vampire, but I would be standing under a ceiling fan, one of the cheaper kind,
held by only two bolts. It dropped hard
enough to knock me on my face.
As
I struggled up, I heard another ray-gun sound.
Moe and Curly exited. I lifted
ice-floes of ceiling plaster off Mrs. Jameson, and I spend a few more seconds
digging for my .38.
I
peeked out the jagged hole. Steam hissed from the van's
front grill, which was wrapped around a
foot-thick maple tree. It sat abandoned. All three vehicles Mrs. J had described lined
the curb: navy blue convertible, black
Lincoln Continental, and a red pickup with a
camper. Two "Sandmen" trundled
a limp form to the last. The trundlee wore tennis shoes, polo shirt, white shorts. Logic dictated that this was Kristine's
husband.
This
sure was no "sitting in the rain" case. I trotted around the van to my trusty
Buick. As I opened the door, I was
surprised to see Mrs. Jameson dashing up.
She pounded on my passenger's side as I climbed in.
"Mr.
King! Hurry! They're getting away!"
I
pushed the Unlock button before I could think better of it. Mrs. J jumped in as I wedged my revolver down
between the bucket seats. I no sooner
roared off than screeched to a halt.
"What
am I doin'? Lissen, Babe, they outnumber us. And someone's gotta
call the cops --"
Mrs.
J grabbed two handfuls of my trench. The
nervous woman who walked into my office yesterday was gone, replaced by a blond
tigress.
"No
cops can follow them where they're going! Now drive, damn you, before they get
away!"
"Okay,
sister!" I snarled.
I
stomped on the gas, and Mrs. J dropped into the passenger's seat. [No cops can follow them?] I plowed across the grass and bounced onto
the street behind the
The
black sedan caught the pickup. The
latter couldn't roll too fast down the curving lanes of Penobscot Hills
without toppling over.
We
turned onto a straightaway. The pickup
made a sharp right ahead of the Lincoln, its camper listing dangerously. Two old people out power walking watched our
little caravan shoot by.
The
camper hung a left; I made the mistake of turning down a narrow side street,
hoping to intercept it. I almost got
stuck between a double-parked Pontiac and another camper. Fortunately, Mrs. J had her radar going, and
she informed me in no uncertain terms as to which way they were headed. We scraped between the two vehicles and
roared off again.
A
big stone wall lined the eastern edge of Penobscot Hills. I careened onto the lane paralleling the wall,
and up ahead I saw a flash of red and white beneath a streetlight as the pickup
shot across the road and out the gateway.
The black
We
followed them through the exit, and Mrs. J whacked me across the face as she
pointed north.
"There
they go!"
"I
got eyes, lady!"
We
sped off in pursuit of their taillights.
On our right were more trees, but somewhere in that direction lay
"One
of us has got to call for reinforcements, Mrs. J!" I yelled over the
wind. "And since this is my
car, I nominate you!"
The
woman looked at me pleadingly, blinking blond wisps of hair out of her eyes.
"But,
Mr. King --"
"Who
do I look like, the Punisher? I can't
handle this alone!"
"They'll
get away!"
"A
pickup with a camper can't possibly outdistance me!"
It
didn't have to, however. The
ZAAAK!
This
time I got an eyeful of their weapon. A
stream of something shot between Mrs. J's head and mine. Molten steel? Napalm? Lightning? It passed through the Buick with little
damage, as I still lacked both windshields.
"Cheese m'knees!"
I
fired at Mr. Hot-Rod Lincoln. He took a
pratfall. It was a lucky shot, because
the zap-ray rattled me.
We
shuddered to a stop.
"Mrs.
Jameson," I gasped. "What the
hell is going on?"
Kristine
opened her mouth to say something, but now a car came up fast from behind. It was the navy blue convertible. It had dropped back to follow us. An arm with a double-barreled hairdryer poked
out the side. I floored it.
Another
ZAAAK! from a Buck Rogers pistol. A cloud of smoke spewed up from my
trunk. I twisted and popped off a shot,
sending a spider-web of cracks across “Buck”'s
windshield. He receded
several car lengths.
"Mr.
King!" Mrs. J's fingernails dug
into my shoulders like bird claws. "The camper!"
The
pickup, half a mile ahead, had forsaken the highway for a hillside road. It rushed ghostlike among the
tree-trunks. I still must have been
addled, because I steered for it instead of trying to find a convenient SWAT
team to help us.
At
the turn-off, another ZAAAK took the paint off my fender. Buck Rogers floored it, trying for us before
the trees blocked his aim. I swung the
Buick left, scraping black donuts across the road, and fired at the
convertible's left front tire.
Bingo! The tire blew out, and the car wobbled to the
left, doing at least sixty. When it was
at right angles to the highway it flipped over and came at us side-over-side. I roared onto the access road to get out of
its way.
There
was a loud Whoomp as the vehicle flopped onto
its back. I stuck my .38 between the
seats.
"He's
out of it," I said. "Now, Mrs.
J, we've got to go for help."
Mrs.
J shook her head wildly.
"By
the time help arrives, it'll be too late!
We have to catch them now!"
"What
does that mean?" I demanded.
"Where are they going, any --"
To
my utter shock, Kristine snatched up my gun and stuck it into my face.
"-- way?"
"Drive. Now!"
I
hadn't loaded silver or incendiaries. I
could have grabbed the gun -- but that look in her baby blues. She'd have forced me somehow. I drove.
****
The
dirt road ended at a clearing on the summit. Looked like someone had started building a
private airfield but ran out of funds.
The
camper sat in front of a large Quonset hut.
Three of the mystery men carried John Jameson toward the building's door
like the proverbial sack of potatoes.
I
blinked. With Moe and Curly was a guy
with only a frill of hair around his bald scalp. He became forever "Larry".
"This
must be their hide --" I started to say, then I
noticed something leaning out of a tree that was definitely not Mr. Bluebird.
Without
thinking [or my own .38 pointed at me would have made me pause], I punched the
door open and rolled out. Another
mystery man dropped on me with a war-whoop.
Fine by me. We did a
Chinese tumbling act through the grass.
A shoe in the gut got him off. As
God as my witness, he looked like Shemp.
I
slapped a ray-gun out of his hand. He
tried for the old stranglehold. I boxed
his ears and added a crack to the cheek that got him off again. He was up fast as I was, but he jumped right
into a sucker punch.
As
Shemp fell aside, I saw something like a tiddlywink flipping through the air. I caught it and looked it over in the car
headlights. It was a contact lens
painted like a human iris. You know the
type -- lets you change your eye color.
I used them myself. But why --
Shemp came back for more, growling like a junkyard
dog. I dropped the lens and faced
him. I found out why.
Shemp had no eyes.
From his sockets two white, featureless marbles stared blindly out.
Blindly? He found his
ray-gun easy enough. ZAAAK!
I
felt like I'd stuck my finger in a light-socket, then my vision faded. One tiny spark in the darkness remained to
bid adieu to Hannibal King, Ex-Detective, dead again.
****
I
awoke.
I
suppose I should have been grateful I could wake at all, but any joy I felt at
cheating the Reapo-Man again fled when I opened my
eyes to find myself in Hell.
After
the first startling moment I realized I wasn't really in Hell. But I wasn't much better off.
Judging
by the curvature of the roof, we were in the Quonset hut. Mrs. Jameson lay stretched out on my
right. Near the other end of the
structure lay the inert form of her husband, trussed up like a Christmas goose. Around Kristine and me
stood Moe, Larry, Curly and Shemp. They had apparently tired of masquerading as
real people, for none of them had eyes, only white marbles. But that wasn't the strangest thing.
The
strangest thing was the throbbing, glowing device at the far end of the
building, near Colonel J. It was a metal
platform of some sort, with an oval ring about eight feet high and six feet
wide standing upright on top. Bright
orange, yellow and red lights played across the oval's mirrored surface. The illumination from this mirror, or
whatever it was, was strong; you could have read a newspaper by the glow. The eerie radiance gave the hellish
appearance to the construction shack.
"He
awakens!" remarked Moe. "You
were right,
"I'm
alive?" was my first brilliant observation.
Moe
snorted.
"Indeed,
Earthman. Your persistence has impressed
us and so gained you a few extra hours of life." He glanced over his shoulder at John Jameson. "We shall bring you two along with
Jameson. Then you the friend and she the
bride of the hated usurper will be executed before his eyes. Our master will be pleased."
I
could hardly call myself Colonel J's friend, since I'd never even met the guy,
but I kept mum. These zap-guns were a
wild card, and I suspected they could prove fatal even to the undead. Moe's assumption that I was buddy-buddy with
Jameson was the only thing keeping me out of the deep fat fryer.
I
sat up drunkenly, only to see a row of zap-guns leveled at me.
"Von
Shtupf's incompetence may have drawn attention,"
Moe continued. "We must leave
immediately."
My
white-eyed host turned to look at Colonel J.
I noticed my .38 stuck in an elastic belt around his waist.
"Urlak! Thool! Take Jameson on to our camp! We will bring these two when they are able to
walk under their own power!"
Curly
and Larry trotted over to Colonel J and hefted him up. They worked their way to the platform
and stepped onto it. Then --
My hair puffed out like a cat's.
The low hum from the platform increased in pitch and volume, and the
colors alternated faster and faster on the surface of the mirror. Then the mirror wasn't a mirror. It was a hole -- a doorway -- a Portal. Beyond was not the corrugated steel of the
back wall, but instead -- another Place.
Curly
and Larry waddled through the opening with their burden. There was a shimmer, as of heat waves, and
then the mirror returned to flashing red, orange, and yellow. Colonel Jameson and the two carrying him were
gone.
"Sonuvabitch . . ."
Moe
laughed. "So -- you have never
beheld a Portal. I assume, then, you
have never visited the Other Realm?"
"Other Realm?" I parroted.
"Well
-- you shall. In fact, you'll be
spending the rest of your life there -- what little remains of it."
Cheery news. Mrs. J
moaned. Moe's attention shifted to
her. Mine focused on the .38 in his
belt. Unfortunately, Shemp's
blank eyes had never wavered from yours truly, and he gave a warning grunt.
"So,"
said Moe. "Jameson's woman rejoins
us, as well."
Kristine
shook her head and raked golden tresses out of her eyes. I helped her sit up, despite the threatening
zap-guns. When she spotted Moe, she
snapped to attention.
"Your
champion knows us not," continued the head Stooge, "but you recognize
us, don't you, Kristine Jameson? You
know who sent us!"
"Tyrk!" gasped Mrs. J.
"Tyrk!" yelled Moe.
"Tyrk?" I asked. Then I remembered -- buddy-buddy. "Aaaaah -- Tyrk!"
"But
-- he's dead!" insisted Mrs. J.
"Arisen
Tyrk does not die so easily," said Moe with a
sneer. He glanced at Shemp. "Bring her."
Shemp grabbed Mrs. J by the arm and dragged her to her
feet.
"Hey! Leave the lady alone!" I shouted.
For
my half-assed act of chivalry, I got a zap-gun across the mouth. I dropped onto my keister. When I ran my hand across my lips, it came
away red. It almost tasted like
blood.
"Beware,
Earthman. We have what we came for. You are superfluous. You may accompany us alive, or remain behind
-- dead."
"Least
I got a choice." Shemp stuck his ray-gun in my face. "Okay!
I'll come! Sheesh!"
I
climbed to my feet slowly so as not to set off either Stooge. They herded Kristine and me onto the
platform, and, to tell the truth, I was not anxious to find out what lay beyond
the looking-glass.
I
waited for an opening, but Moe and Shemp watched me
like hawks, irises or no. Moe led
Kristine up to the vibrating oval; the poor woman could barely walk --
Or
so I thought until she spun on her heel and slammed her arm across Moe's
throat. She grabbed for my .38, but the
Stooge seized her wrist. The cold barrel
of Shemp's weapon left the small of my back; I knew
he aimed for Kristine.
I
spoiled his shot with one hand. The
other I balled into a fist and sent crashing into his jaw. He didn't seem too impressed, vampire
strength or not. We staged a WWE bout
there by the Magic Mirror.
Shemp slammed me against the mirror's support. It felt like an eight-foot joy-buzzer. I kicked out and connected with something; I
hoped it hurt. I shoved myself from the
mirror and grabbed him again.
Moe
and Mrs. J. made a quadruple fist over my .38.
Kristine hooked her leg around Moe's. They both fell against the mirror -- and
passed through, like ball bearings dropped into mercury.
I
bit a hand and came up with Shemp's ray-gun. A bite from yours truly is hard to
ignore. Shemp
broke away from me, and before I could figure out how the damned hairdryer
worked, he rammed me in the breadbasket with his thick skull. I stumbled backwards and fell through the
mirror.
And
I pushed the right button on the Buck Rogers gun.
Going
through the mirror was like diving stark naked into an icy pond. But I wasn't cold for long: the red-yellow ray shattered the oval ring,
and a fiery blast of energy shot over me like the business end of a rocket
booster. I threw my arms over my face,
and suddenly I knew what prawns felt like on the barby.
****
Eventually
I moved. It was silent and dark. Bits of rubble rained off my chest when I sat
up.
I
looked around. Vague light -- moonlight
-- revealed that I lay in a small naturaal cavern. The dim illumination entered through a round
entrance several yards away. I started
searching for Mrs. J on my hands and knees.
"Mrs.
Jameson?"
Her
limp form glowed orange with life off to one side of the cave. As I scuttled over, my hand came down on
something metallic and familiar. My S&W .38. I
reared up and slipped it into its holster.
The activity set all my muscles to complaining.
I
lifted Mrs. J's hand carefully.
"Kristine?"
She
moaned. I helped her to a sitting
position again, then I studied our surroundings more
thoroughly.
We
were, as I’ve said, in a natural cavern.
No sign of Moe, his cohorts, or Colonel Jameson. Shemp never made it
through. The platform on this end was
inert, and its equivalent of the oval mirror was gone. Fragments of its frame lay strewn about. The cave opening appeared to be the only
exit.
"Mr.
King?" whispered Kristine Jameson.
"The
one and only," I replied.
"Where --?"
Her eyes suddenly fluttered open.
"No! John!"
She
scrambled to her feet with surprising speed and headed for the cave entrance.
"Hey,
lady, hold your horses! They may be
waiting for us!"
I
pulled out my gun again and lurched to my feet.
Kristine stopped at the mouth of the cave, wide open for a zap-ray. I caught up to her, ready to throw her aside,
but then I froze, too, and my jaw dropped down around my knees.
Out
before us stretched a small, boulder-strewn
clearing. Beyond this grew a forest,
rising eventually onto hilltops. The
Stooges and their captive were gone. A good thing, because I was wide open too.
Two
moons hung in the sky, one silver-blue, the other, gold. Large, chunky objects passed before them;
they floated like clouds, but they were not clouds. They were islands or mountains, severed from
the earth and defying gravity. By the
silhouettes they threw against the moons, I could tell there were trees and
even buildings on their upper surfaces.
"Mr. King . . . The Portal. What happened to it?"
"Uh
. . . I got knocked through. I grabbed
for a ray-gun. I think I shot
it." Flying
mountains.
"Then
it's been destroyed?"
"Yeah,"
I muttered. Two moons.
"We're
trapped here, then," whispered Kristine.
"Trapped in the Other Realm."
"Other
Realm. . ." I repeated.
Chapter
Five
The Great
Return
Jolting
and bouncing woke Colonel John Jameson.
He stirred long enough to attract notice, in the form of a kick to the
temple. He collapsed.
"Careful,
fool," a gruff voice ordered.
"The master instructed that Jameson be delivered alive!"
"Why
is this one important?" demanded a second, equally gruff voice. "He no longer possesses the Godstone. He has no
power!"
Another
kick, this time in John's side, punctuated the second speaker's observation.
"'Ware,
Urlak, lest you incur the wrath of Arisen Tyrk," warned the first speaker.
Tyrk, thought John Jameson muddily. Tyrk is
dead . . . I think.
The
camper jerked to the right and then the left.
Kristine's husband lost consciousness again.
****
A
shock snapped him out of the darkness this time, a cold blast that bit through
to the core of his being.
He
could not move. His wrists and ankles
were bound. He kept his eyes closed,
straining his other senses.
Two
people carried him like a rolled-up carpet.
They did nothing but grunt and complain.
At first they were inside: the
atmosphere was damp and musty, and sounds echoed off walls. An odd vibration filled the air, a hiss that
seemed faintly familiar.
His
captors carried him into the open. He
felt a cool breeze and smelled earth and vegetation. They conveyed him across a level space; he
could hear the crunch of boots on shale.
They started up a hillside, dragging him through brush like ants with a
dead beetle.
Eventually
his kidnappers crested the hill and started down. They reached a grassy field -- John could
hear the breeze whistling through the stalks -- and then a strange, rattly voice hailed his captors.
*Thool! Urlak! You have
him?*
"That
we do," answered the man holding John's legs.
There
were stompings and snortings,
as if horses stood nearby. The musky
smell that reached John's nose was not an equine odor, however.
*Where
are the others?* demanded the reedy voice.
"
Kristine! No! thought
Colonel Jameson. He still did not reveal
his wakeful state.
"The
others . . . did not make it," continued the man holding his legs.
The
reedy speaker hissed. *What went awry?*
"We
were observed and pursued," said the man holding John's shoulders. Both kidnappers released him, and he landed
on bristly stalks. The third voice
hissed again.
*So
much for
"The
plan was Tyrk's, Klaktar. From him came our instruction in Earthly
matters. There are powers on that world
whose attention we dare not attract -- yet."
All
three voices gave out ugly laughter. The laugh of a rattlesnake, a shark, and a scorpion, if such
creatures could laugh.
Wait, thought John.
They said, "powers on that world."
An
icy hand twisted his intestines. He had
to open his eyes. He saw two bright
moons and impossible floating mountains.
"No!"
he gasped.
A
figure occulted his view. From the
shoulders down it appeared to be a muscular man wearing archaic armor. Instead of a neck and head, however, this
creature had only a stack of vertebrae surmounted by a jawless skull, like a
gourd on a stem. Jameson let out a sound
of disgust.
The
skeletal creature spoke, despite the lack of larynx and throat and
mandible. Its was
the reedy voice.
*So
-- this is the Awaited One who destroyedd a hundred of my carrion-brothers. Hah!
Without the Godstone, he is a coward, like all
his ilk.*
John
Jameson frowned, anger replacing shock.
He struggled onto his side and looked the pseudo-living creature in the
eye-sockets.
"Untie
me, Skinny, and we'll see who's the coward!"
The
jawless skull atop the creature's neck could display no emotion, but John
received the impression of a scowl -- just before he received the heel of its
booted foot.
*Silence,
cur. Klaktar
of the Undying Legion has not given you leave to
speak.*
John
was almost used to pain by now, but this kick sent his brain spinning. He flopped onto his back and watched a ballet
of asteroids and clouds.
"Beware,
Klaktar," warned a new voice. A white-eyed man with a mop of black hair
strode angrily up from the trees. "Urlak has had sport enough with Jameson. Arisen Tyrk will
wax wroth should we bring him a lifeless husk."
A bald warrior -- Urlak? --
stepped into view, scanning the trees at the edge of the clearing.
"
"That
fool!" said the mop-headed one, spitting into the grass. "He allowed the Earthman to overpower
him. And during their struggle, he
managed, somehow, to destroy the Portal.
He, too, was destroyed in the process.
I barely escaped, myself."
The
bald one grumbled as if unsatisfied. A
third White-Eye, presumably Thool, spoke.
"And the prisoners?
Jameson's woman?"
"Most
likely dead," answered the one called
[.
. . dead. . .]
*Perhaps,
"I
do not believe they pose any threat, even if they live," he called back,
"but I shall make sure."
With
that, the white-eyed man mounted the red thing.
The thing spread vast wings and leapt into the air like a
springbok. A few mighty flaps, and what appeared to be a dragon out of a fairy tale
vanished over the trees with
[make sure. . .]
The
two remaining white-eyes watched the horizon even after
"The
very elements celebrate the re-ascendance of Arisen Tyrk,"
remarked Fringe-Hair. The bald one
grunted.
*I
have no wish to be caught aloft in such a storm,* hissed Klaktar. *Osfiric! Rani! Let us hurry the prize to our master!*
Two
skeleton-men bent over to the inert form of John Jameson.
[NO!]
The
word had not been spoken, yet it was louder than the thunder and wind and
rustling leaves. There was a snap
of ropes parting, and two white-furred hands cupped themselves on the sides of Osfiric and Rani's skulls.
[What
have you bastards done?]
The
skeleton-men's heads came together and shattered like eggs. John Jameson sprang to his feet, but he was
Jameson no longer. In his place stood an
ivory-furred creature with the head of a wolf.
A Man-Wolf, with gleaming fangs and eyes like coals.
"Look!"
cried Thool.
"He takes the form of the blasphemous wolf-god!"
"I've
had sport enough with him?" asked Urlak. "He needs a stronger lesson, I
say."
With
that, the bald warrior charged. The
Man-Wolf leapt forward to meet him. He
did not even notice Urlak's blow to the muzzle.
[If
you've hurt her I'll kill you all!] the werewolf cried
telepathically.
The
Man-Wolf plunged his clawlike nails into Urlak's abdomen. The
bald man screamed. The white-furred
creature lifted the warrior over his head with one hand and hurled him through
the air as he might have tossed a softball.
Urlak came down upon Thool,
and both soldiers of Tyrk sprawled on the grass.
*Hold,
False One!* called
the lich. *We have wasted enough time on
you! Klaktar
of the Undying Legion will tame you his way!*
The
skeletal warrior drew his sword from its scabbard. Beyond the bronze hilt flickered a jet
of fire in the shape of a blade. The
other Undying Ones approached from the edges of the camp, wielding more mundane
swords. An order from their leader
halted them.
[Tame
this!] cried the Man-Wolf.
He
leapt for Klaktar, clawed fingers reaching like
eagle's talons. The Undying One
sidestepped and slammed the flame-blade against his ribcage. There was nothing human in the lycanthrope's
howl of pain. He crashed to earth,
panting.
*Where
are your brave words now, cur?* asked Klaktar. Fat raindrops splattered on his skull,
changing its color from chalk-white to yellow-brown. *I am tempted to risk Arisen Tyrk's anger, in order to rid the Realm of -- eh?*
A
palpable tension filled the air, then a shaft of fire lanced from the sky to
strike the Man-Wolf. The shock of the
thunderclap knocked Klaktar backwards, but the
Undying Ones knew no pain, so he simply climbed once more to his feet.
He
was not beyond surprise, apparently, for the sight that met his empty eye
sockets bade him pause. The Man-Wolf
stood unscathed, though even yet wisps of smoke rose from his fur. His human garb had vanished, and now a scaled
corselet clothed him. At his hip hung a
scabbard of red and gold, and from this the beast-man drew a long blade.
[Well,
well,] he commented with a toothy smile.
[And I didn't even say 'Shazam'! What was that about ridding the Realm of me,
Bonehead?]
Klaktar merely raised his fire-sword again. The Man-Wolf met the flaming blade with his
own weapon. The fire-sword was
surprisingly solid, but it bent beneath the lycanthrope's blow, straightening
as Klaktar readied himself for another swing.
John
knew many forms of combat, but he was no swordsman. A blow against his furry knuckles caused him
to drop his weapon. Klaktar cackled as the
lycanthrope clutched his hand to his breast, but then the Man-Wolf launched
himself forward.
[Laugh
this off, Skullface!]
The
beast-man's fist shattered the upper half of the Undying One's torso. Klaktar's arms, one
with the fire-sword still clutched in its fingers, fell to the earth.
The
Man-Wolf turned to face Thool and the four skeletal
warriors remaining.
[Who's
next?] he demanded.
Before
anyone could accept the challenge, another thunderbolt shattered the air. The werewolf fell flat, howling in pain.
Tyrk's underlings looked up. The clouds flowed in from all directions to
converge overhead. They seemed to climb
on one another, forcing the lowest nearly to the ground. A third bolt of lightning smote the Man-Wolf,
then a fourth.
The
fringe-haired warrior and the Undying Ones ran for the trees.
"Thool!" cried Urlak. The bald warrior climbed painfully to his
feet and hobbled after the others.
****
John
dug his fingers through the dirt until his sharp nails bit into his palms. The lightning bolts burned like the
skeleton's sword, only they seared his whole body at once.
Why?
he asked himself in the seconds between two
blasts. Why me? What have I done to deserve this?
No
answer came. Only
another thunderbolt. He wondered
why the electrical bursts didn't kill him.
He opened his eyes upon the massing storm clouds above. The clouds rotated at the point nearest the
ground; soon they formed a tornadic funnel.
Rather
than sucking him up, the funnel infused him with something like an monstrous hypodermic needle. His head and body seemed to swell, and the
pain became so great that consciousness fled him again.
****
Eventually
John Jameson woke, amazed to be alive.
He opened his eyes and could not help but see the ivory-furred snout
jutting out from under them. He couldn't
even hope it had been a dream.
He
rolled over and sat up, rivulets trickling from his furred and armored
form. He felt no pain, his corselet was unbreached, and the golden sword lay several feet
away. A few final drops plopped on him
from the clouds, which thinned as he watched.
Soon the twin moons peeked down as if the storm had never been.
He
rose to his feet. Human bones lay strewn
around him. The rest of the living
skeletons were gone with the white-eyed warriors.
The
Man-Wolf retrieved his sword and staggered across the grassy field. The storm had not lasted long enough to wipe
out the scents of Urlak, Thool,
and his human self.
He
fought his way through the underbrush and followed the trail back up the
slope. At the end would stand the Portal
through which they had carried him . . .
And
Kristine! The white-eyed men spoke of
her. The one who flew away on the dragon
said --
The
Man-Wolf broke into a lope, as tireless as the animal whose likeness he bore.
Memories
passed across his mind as the leaves brushed his lupine muzzle, images of the
long, strange string of events that led him here. Colonel Jameson had been the last
After
years of fear and wandering, the moonstone had been destroyed by radiation
treatments. He and Kristine had their
ups and downs since, but they found each other again at last. They were now married.
Happily ever after.
But
that was not the whole story. His
recollection of events that occurred when he wore this werewolfish
form were hazy.
That was understandable on Earth, where the Man-Wolf was no more than a
raging beast, but it was also true of this world, the Other Realm, where John
retained his human intelligence as the Man-Wolf.
He
might have spent the rest of his life in ignorance of the Other Realm, but
Kristine remembered, and a deejay named Richard Rory had recorded a broadcast
"from space" -- actually from a dimension near the Realm -- made by
Jameson himself during a months-long exile from Earth. Finally Dr. Ashley Kafka drew the story forth
using experimental hypnotic techniques.
He
remembered more as he ran through the forest:
passing through a Portal on Earth's moon, being greeted by the oppressed
populace of this world as the living incarnation of “Stargod”,
and defeating the minions of Arisen Tyrk.
He
recalled the explosion that destroyed Tyrk's
stronghold. The white-eyed tyrant had
survived it only to be blasted down with one of his own ray-guns. Did he survive that, as well?
The
Man-Wolf burst out of the woods into the rocky clearing before the
Portal-cave. Questions could wait, for
now he caught a scent he would have recognized even with a human nose.
[Kristine!]
****
The
cave was empty. The Portal had been
destroyed. No Kristine. No way home.
John
dropped to all fours to inspect the jumbled scents They told him their stories.
There
had been six persons altogether, John himself being one. Two men had carried him to the skeletons'
camp; that was the trail he had backtracked.
A third man-scent left the cave alone and paralleled the first
trail. Kristine had apparently started
in the same direction, but she went off on a tangent at the edge of the
trees. Thank God, the warrior on the
dragon had missed her.
That still left scent number six, however.
This
mysterious character's scent never strayed far from his wife's. However, that was not why the Man-Wolf whined
in fear and uncertainty. It was because
his lupine instincts could not identify the scent. This -- person -- wore size nine hard leather
shoes, but he or it was not human.
The
beast-man loped off, following his wife and her strange companion with the
persistence of a bloodhound.
Chapter Six
The Other Realm
"What
-- where is this Other Realm?"
"I'm
not sure, Mr. King," answered Kristine Jameson. "Another planet,
or another dimension."
Now,
I'd been in what you call your other dimension before, with Dr. Strange. However, the Doc wouldn't go off without
having a way back.
I
indicated the cave behind us with my thumb.
"And
without that mirror, we're stuck here?"
Kristine
nodded weakly.
I
crouched down a few yards from the cave.
The ground hereabouts was sandy.
I located the Stooges' trail in the light of the lunar orbs. They'd taken off north (or what would have
been north on
I
studied the forest with some trepidation.
It looked ordinary enough, but I couldn't tell the difference
between a truffle and a Triffid. And no telling what might be lurking in
the forest . . .
"These
mystery men of yours, Mrs. J," I said.
"Would they happen to have any spare Portals sitting around?"
"I
really don't know that much about them, Mr. King --" she began.
"Ya know more than I do," I snapped. "In fact, Mrs. J, I've gotten the
impression that you were withholding a few vital bits of information. Like the fact I'd be going up against
white-eyed goons from Planet Arous."
Mrs.
J got a little steamed.
"We
couldn't be sure who they were, Mr. King.
Anyway, if I had come to you with a story of white-eyed goons
with ray-guns, what would you have done?"
She
had me there. I let out my anger in a
long, slow exhale.
"I'd
have glued a shit-eating grin on my face until I could put a call through to
She
smiled a little.
"Seriously,"
I continued. "Do you think there's
any chance they might have another of these Portals?"
"They've
come to Earth before, Mr. King, or at least their leader has. It's possible."
"Then
I guess we follow them. Besides, they
still have your husband."
We
started for the trees; I did a little thinking out loud.
"Our
biggest problems are going to be their numbers and our lack of fire-power. And the fact they have a hostage. On the other hand, they must think we're
dead. If we could only get the drop on
one of them and snatch his ray-gun . . ."
Mrs.
J glanced back at the cave.
"Mr.
King -- I grabbed for your gun -- but there was that explosion, and I dropped
it."
"Don't
feel so glum, Mrs. J -- I found it, see?"
I held up my .38, then I holstered it. "And it stays with me, this time."
Mrs.
J gave an embarrassed grin.
"Sorry. But I just had to --"
"Yeah, sure. It
would have been hard to explain in time.
But that was an idiot stunt, Mrs. J.
From now on, I'll do the idiot stunts."
"All right."
By
now we'd almost reached the trees. A
breeze picked up, and the branches beckoned us like skeleton hands.
"I
may have to try bluffing them," I remarked. "I try to keep track of how many shots I
pop off. Unless I miscounted, there're
only two left.
"The
Stooges went that-a-way," I continued, pointing to the trees ahead. "They can't travel too fast, lugging
your husband, but we'd better hoof it, or we'll lose their trail."
Mrs.
Jameson might have wanted to say something, but she didn't get the chance. She was cut off by a voice from on high:
"You
shall lose more than that, Earthling!
For your impertinence, you forfeit your life!"
It's
difficult to take seriously anyone who refers to you as "Earthling",
but when I glanced up, my jaw dropped around my knees again.
Above,
higher than the tree-tops but lower than the flying mountains, there wheeled a furshlugginer dragon -- big, red, ugly, and
mean. Sitting between two vast crimson
wings was Moe in his Logan's Run uniform.
I
pulled out my revolver, then I paused. If I wasted my ammo now, we were screwed.
The
dragon dove like a Messerschmitt. Moe held
his Buck Rogers pistol ready.
"Get
down!" I yelled.
I
fired off one round as I threw myself in front of Mrs. J. With a loud ZAAK!, a
sparkly beam of light sprang down and hit me.
My every nerve and muscle jangled, and Mrs. J and I collapsed like Raggedy
Anne and Andy.
Out
of the corner of my eye I saw the dragon angling around again. I barely had time to drag myself over Mrs.
J's body before another sledgehammer blow hit me in the kidneys. The electric cloud that burned through my
nervous system was too much even for my vampiric
resilience; the night grew black again, and it was a toss-up as to whether I
was undead or just plain dead.
#
Wind
whipped over me. Fat raindrops plopped
onto my face. I rolled off Kristine
Jameson groggily and stared up into the sky.
Some sort of freak storm was in progress -- clouds slipped over and
under the sky-mountains, spitting out red, orange, and blue lightning. The mountains bobbed like icebergs around the
Titanic, and to the north -- or what had been north on
I
tore my gaze from the storm when I remembered Kristine. She didn't look too good. I lifted her gently and hugged her to me.
Her
breathing was shallow but steady, and her pulse strong. She'd probably feel worse than I did when she
woke up, but she'd pull through.
A
gust sent a barrage of broken limbs down from the trees. The storm grew wilder, and I didn't like the
looks of that funnel. It seemed to be
the center of the storm, and all the clouds flowed toward it like suds towards a
drain. I was loath to move Mrs. J, but I
wanted to get her away from the eye of this nightmare tempest. I lifted her inert form carefully and carried
her back the way we'd come.
#
I'd
made maybe a hundred yards when I realized we had company again. We watched each other by the flashes of
multicolored lightning, which were so frequent now,
you'd have thought we were in the world's biggest roller disco.
There
were three of 'em, two men and one woman, all decked
out like extras from Conan III.
The first guy was tall, handsome, muscular and clean-shaven, and he had
long, blond hair down to his shoulders.
The perfect Aryan; Hitler would have been proud. He wore some sort of chainmail
sweater, and boots that went all the way up to his crotch, and in one hand he
carried a sword at least four feet long.
The
second guy was a flat-out barbarian. He
wore little more than a furry loincloth, held up by a wide yellow belt, and
brown mukluks. He was shorter and
stouter than the Aryan, but his reddish-brown hair was just as long, and he
also had a beard that reached way down his chest. He carried a staff of some sort, about six
feet long; otherwise he was weaponless.
The
woman wore a chainmail bikini straight out of Tina
Turner's closet, and she carried a sabre in her left
hand. Her right hand was gone, replaced
by the business end of a pickaxe. It
might have been an effect of the rainbow-lightning, but her hair looked --
purple.
"Whaddaya know!
Lambert was right for once!" yelled the bearded barbarian -- in
English, yet. "There are outworlders here!"
"By
their clothing, I mark them Earth-folk!" cried
the blond Aryan. "Halt, you, and tell
Garth of Mournhelm what you know of yon sorcerous storm!"
I
had halted, and I was pretty confused.
What the hell did I know about the weather on their
world? Did I look like Al Roker?
"Garth! Gorjoon!" yelled the Amazon, pointing with the tip of
her sabre.
"That woman he carries like spoils of war -- do you not recognize
her?"
The
men's eyes grew wide, like I was Frankenstein carrying off a village beauty.
"Duna's eyes are sharp!" cried the Aryan. "'Tis
the Bride of Stargod!"
"He's
got Stargod's wife?
Get him!" yelled the Barbarian.
Bride of Stargod? I didn't like the sound of that, and I sure
didn't like the way these rejects from Lord of the Rings were advancing
on us. They probably wanted to toss
Kristine into a volcano or something.
I
lay Mrs. J down and placed myself in front of her, glaring my patented hellfire
glare.
"The
lady's with me, boys and girls," I yelled above the wind. I pulled out my revolver. "And she's stayin'
with me."
"'Ware,
Gorjoon, he has an Earthian
firearm!" cried Blondie.
"Not
for long!" the barbarian yelled back.
The
auburn-haired Neanderthal flipped up his staff and aimed the end at me like a
spear. I smiled my toothiest at the
brute's audacity, but then the smile was wiped from my lips.
There
was a loud noise, more of a shhhha-tow
than a ZAAAK, and another damned energy ray spewed out of the rod. My arm felt like it had been yanked out by
the roots.
I
stared down numbly. The barrel of my revolver
had been melted off as if with a blowtorch.
My hand was black and smoking up past the wrist, like a well-done steak.
I
fixed the hairy savage with my evilest vampire-look.
"Brother,
you just pissed me off!"
There
was maybe thirty feet separating the three warriors from me. I ran three steps and broad-jumped the rest
of the way. The smirk on the barbarian's
hirsute face disappeared as I bore him to the ground.
"Gorjoon, is it?" I snarled, entwining my fingers in
his beard. "How's about I call you
Goon for short?"
I
dragged him up with both hands.
"Better
yet, how's about I don't call you at all?"
I
swung the Neanderthal's head around like an Olympic ball on a chain. He was lucky it stayed attached to his
neck. I let him go, and he crashed into
Blondie with all the grace of a Brontosaurus.
I
turned to the lady with purple hair. She
was rearing back with her curved sword, but a vamp's reflexes are fast. I caught her by the wrist, and she couldn't
wriggle free.
"Look,
Miss, it's against my code to beat a woman into a bloody pulp --"
I
grunted involuntarily as the cut-rate Red Sonja sank her pickaxe-hand into my
abdomen.
"Correction: it was against my code."
I
cuffed her on the side of the head so hard she did a couple of cartwheels before
she landed.
"Turn,
knave, and face the blade of Garth," came
Blondie's voice.
So
I turned, hands out and fingers crooked like the Boston Strangler coming in for
the kill. My whole body jerked to the
left, and a searing pain flared across my chest.
We
were both stunned. Blondie had swung his
broadsword into my side with all his might.
The blade cut its way to my spine before stopping. The hilt, still gripped in Blondie's hands,
jutted out of my solar plexus.
I
stared down at the sword embedded like Excalibur in my torso. Then I fixed Garth with a stare that would've
melted a submarine.
"That
hurt."
Blondie
backed away and tripped over Goon.
"By
Stargod -- he is a demon! 'Twill take
Lambert's magic to deal with such as he!
We must report this at once!"
"Aye,"
called Goon. He scrambled a safe
distance away on all fours before getting up.
"And methinks I left my steed unhobbled."
The
purple-haired Amazon was the last to get to her feet and the last to back off.
"Don't
press yer luck, sister," I warned.
"Aye,
we go," she muttered, her sabre cutting slow
infinity signs in the air. "But
mark me, demon, you have not heard the last of us! We shall persevere -- for honor! For the Other Realm! For Stargod!"
"Duna, come on!" cried Goon from the edge of the trees.
The
warrior woman crept backwards, her spine arched like an angry panther's, 'til
she was hidden by the forest. I allowed
myself a grin of victory.
"J-John?"
I
strode quickly back to Mrs. J's side. I
suddenly realized the storm-wind had died down.
The clouds that had piled up like football players on a fumble were now
fading as if nothing had happened.
"Mrs.
Jameson?" I asked timidly as I knelt by her side. "Kristine?"
"John?" She struggled to rise. I took her hand and helped her sit up.
"'Fraid not. Just little old me, H.
King, Boy Detective."
"Oh
. . . Mr. King . . ."
Suddenly
her eyes went from slits to doorknobs.
She was staring at my chest.
"What's
wrong?" I demanded. "What
--"
Oh,
cheese and crackers! Garth's sword was
still buried to the hilt in my old trench coat!
I
drew it out slowly, like a magician producing a line of silk hankies, and I
babbled as I did so.
"Oh -- this little thing? It's just a flesh wound. I mean, it's an optical illusion. I mean --"
Mrs.
J wasn't buying it.
"That
sword in your chest -- it doesn't even
have blood on it -- and your eyes -- like a cat's -- and your teeth --
you're -- you're --"
I
sighed.
"The
word you're groping for is 'vampire'," I informed her helpfully.
The
woman drew herself up into a little ball, nodding in agreement.
"Oh, gimme a frickin'
break, Mrs. Jameson. If I had my
sites set on your jugular, I'd have been there by now. I've never killed a living creature for
blood, and I'm not going to start with a client here in
I
gave her a long spiel as to how Hannibal King, Detective, had tangled with a
white-bearded blood-sucker named Deacon Frost and ended up Hannibal King,
Vampire. Mrs. J loosened a bit.
"Now,
I've spilled my -- er, I've let you in on my little
secret. How's about telling me about
this Other Realm? Like how did you come
to know it even existed?"
Mrs.
J smiled in embarrassment.
"I've
been here before. Briefly."
"Huh?"
"You
see, the people here look upon John as a -- well -- as a deity of some
sort. They call him Stargod."
I
facepalmed.
"That's
what they meant by Bride of Stargod!"
"They?"
asked Mrs. J.
I
described my close encounter with the trio of warriors. Mrs. J nodded sadly.
"They
were on our side, Mr. King."
"Well
-- the way they talked -- the way they wwere dressed -- I thought they were going
to sacrifice you to a volcano or something."
"Sacrifice
me to a volcano?" repeated Mrs. J incredulously. "Where do you get that?"
"Uh
-- Gilligan's Island, I think.&quuot;
"Oh,
yes. A veritable Bible
of cultural anthropology."
I
smiled. So did Mrs. J. Underneath her matted blond tresses lurked a
brain. Mr. J was a lucky guy -- if he
was still alive.
"They
ride those dragon-things too, I think, and they have a castle --
somewhere," she continued.
"And they obviously remember me.
They'd help us find John, if we can find them."
"Yeah? Well, the
goon with the staff melted my gun, and we sure can't keep up with the Stooges'
dragons on foot. I guess we'd better try
to find these warrior-people. But next
time, you do the talking."
#
Mrs.
J soon felt fit enough to walk, and we started off like Dorothy and the
Scarecrow -- except we didn't have a convenient yellow brick road.
Out
of curiosity, I carried along Goon's staff, trying to figure out the
trick. It appeared to be nothing more
than a wooden pole, painted a goldenrod yellow.
I asked Mrs. J about it, but she just shrugged her shapely shoulders.
"I
don't understand this place any more than you do, Mr. King. They dress and act like it's the Dark Ages,
but some of them have weapons and machines more advanced than Earth's. That staff may be a magic wand or a Phaser, for all I know."
Mixed signals. Magic or science? Futuristic or medieval?
I never did like mixed signals . . .
Chapter
Seven
Stargod
As
we tramped eastward (I considered north to be the direction of the brief
twister), Mrs. J outlined the strange experiences of her husband and
herself. John Jameson had been sent up
on a rescue mission to a space station, when somehow (the details were still
classified), he managed to get hijacked to the moon. Once there, he found one of these wacko
Portals and ended up here. In the Other
Realm, Blondie and his cohorts took him to be their "Stargod"
-- an Ancient Astronaut scenario, I guesssed.
Meanwhile,
Mrs. J -- back then, Kristine Saunders -- was abducted by Arisen Tyrk, would-be conqueror of the Realm. He used Kristine as a hostage, trying to
weaken Colonel Jameson's resolve to lead the Good Guys to victory. But, like all baddies, he got it in the end,
and the happy Realmites sent John and Kristine home.
"I
hoped against hope it couldn't be, but I know now that John's kidnappers are Tyrk's former followers.
I don't know why they waited so long for revenge -- or why they didn't
just kill us outright. I'm sorry I
didn't tell you about Tyrk earlier, Mr. King, but --
well, it would have been a little difficult without bringing up the Other
Realm. And I was afraid that was a bit
much to swallow."
"Never mind that.
I'm more interested in the part where they sent you home. Any chance of an
encore?"
"I
don't know," admitted Mrs. J, ducking some skeletal tree limbs. "But I'm sure that if anyone can help
us, it's these Stargod worshipers."
And
I'd about killed the only ones I'd come across.
I groaned.
We
trudged on, backtracking the strange trio. I had to pace myself to Mrs. J; not that she
couldn't hack it, but there were plenty of logs and rocks and branches to trip
over, and I was the one who could see in the dark.
And
I didn't like what I saw. This was a
kid's nightmare-forest straight out of Snow White, and I could imagine
groping claws and glowing eyes everywhere.
Imagine?
I
froze, holding the Goon's staff like a baseball bat. There had been cricketlike
noises all around, but they suddenly stopped.
"What's
up?" asked Mrs. J.
"Rig for rough seas." I whispered.
I
glanced from tree to tree. Nothing. I was almost
ready to chalk it up to my inflated paranoia, when I heard leaves brushing
against something big -- overhead!
I
looked up to see blackness -- only a couple of feet away. Several limbs like hairy boathooks reached
down and sank into my body. I heard Mrs.
J scream, and whatever it was gave an answering shriek.
I
beat on a rubbery, bristly body, and I pulled futilely on the giant tarantula legs
grasping me. I heard a slurp, and
something white and acid-stinky dribbled on my shoulder.
I
still gripped the Goon’s rod in my hand.
I aimed it upward and thrust several times, like someone trying to quieten the people upstairs. The rod sank into something soft -- the
mouth, I hoped -- and I sent out mental commands like my 33 1/3 mind had jumped
to 78.
C'mon,
you stupid bastard stick, c'mon, do something!
Ya worked for the Goon, do something for your ol' Uncle Hannibal.
Do something or I'll smash you for kindling!
There
was a muffled Whoomp!,
like a depth-charge going off, and the stick jerked down with the force of a
piston-rod, despite my death grip on it.
More digestive juice or poison or whatever it was splattered on me. The creature spazzed
and dropped me like a used condom.
I
landed on my back, and I watched the dark outline of the Thing recede into the
sky. It was two parts tarantula and one
part praying mantis, with a couple of scorpion-tails added for good
measure. It had been hanging down on a
cord like a spider from a flying mountain.
I could see a white patch of webbing near the asteroid's inverted
peak. I guess the monster nested up
there and went trolling for supper on the earth below.
"Mr.
King! Are you all right?"
Mrs.
J gave me a hand up. My legs jittered
like a newborn foal's.
"N-never
felt better," I muttered. I
gathered a handful of leaves and rubbed as much of the digestive juice off my
shirt as I could. "I hate to
say it, Mrs. J, but this Other Realm of yours is not going on my list of
vacation wonderlands."
#
We
came upon a clearing, and in patches of mud I found the warrior trio's
footprints, along with some odd paw-prints that started and ended nowhere.
"Flying dragons?" I queried.
"Probably,"
Mrs. J answered.
"Then
we'll have to choose our own direction to go."
We
stared at each other like zombies.
Finally, I spat in my right hand and slapped my left index finger on
it. A string of spit flew off at two
o'clock.
"Thataway."
Mrs.
J was looking rough around the edges, but she smirked at my decision.
"What
do you call that?"
"My detective's infallible intuition."
"Looked more like blind chance."
"That's
another term for it. But Blondie and
company came from this general direction on foot. Maybe they kept the same heading while
flying."
Mrs.
J held her arm out stiff, palm open.
"Lead on, MacDuff."
"OK,
Mrs. J. But call me Hannibal."
"OK,
Hannibal . . . If you call me Kristine."
#
We
traveled a couple more hours before Kristine reached the end of her rope. I was getting tired, I should hope she
was. She certainly looked exhausted --
her breathing was ragged, her clothing was torn, and her stride became more of
a limp.
We
stopped beneath a willow-like tree.
Kristine stretched out without a sound and made like Sleeping
Beauty. I sniffed the air; somewhere
close was fresh water.
"There's
a stream nearby," I said.
"I'll see if I can find it.
Don't go away."
"You're
joking, right?" Kristine asked without opening her eyes. Seconds later she was snoring.
I
climbed a small knoll, using the Goon's rod as a hiking staff. I glanced back occasionally to make sure
nothing crept up on Mrs. J. I weaved my
way past a number of white boulders that jutted out of the ground like
thousand-pound molars. On the other side
of the hill I found a brook, its waters dancing in the twin moons' light.
I
pulled out my handkerchief, intending to soak it and carry it back to
Kristine. I figured the touch of it on
her face would encourage her to climb those last few yards to the water's edge.
As
I approached the shore, a tickle like an electric current buzzed in my
stomach. It grew to a jangling pain as I
reached the brook, and I could barely force myself to soak the hanky in the icy
flow.
Running
water, I thought. I could not pass
it without help.
When
I crested the hill again, I saw someone new crouching over Kristine's inert
form. I couldn't leave her alone for a
minute. Then I realized it wasn't someone,
but something.
It
was built like a man, and it walked on two feet, but it had a head like a
wolf's. It had snow-white fur, a mink
stole of a tail, and wicked fingernail/claws like guitar picks. A frickin'
werewolf!
Wolfie bent over Mrs. J a little too friendly-like, so I
made like the cavalry and charged. I
would have thought he possessed senses as keen as mine, but he didn't seem to
notice me until I was on top of him.
"Hey, Fangpuss! Heads up!"
The
wolf-man looked up just in time for my shoe and his jaw to meet with a loud crack. Wolfie somersaulted
backwards, and for the first time I realized he wore clothes. They grew 'em
modest hereabouts.
He
had on some sort of armor made of green lizard scales. His limbs were bare, except for gold
wristbands that covered his forearms, and big green boots on his feet. His boots were open at the front, which was
just as well, because his claws would have probably poked holes in steel-toed
work shoes. He even had a long red
scabbard hanging from a belt, complete with sword -- as if Beastie-Boy needed a
weapon.
Wolfie crashed on his yard-long tail, but he bounced like
rubber to his feet. He was snarling now,
and I had the sneaking suspicion he was going to be a bigger pain in the butt
than all three Realmites put together. I hopped over Mrs. J, wondering if I could
get Goon's zap-stick to work again.
[You!]
I
didn't stop, but I did slow, when I heard a word that had not been spoken.
[Yours
is the scent I've been tracking! You
look like an Earthman, but you're not human!]
He
started toward me, the hair on his head and arms bristling.
"Jeez! It talks, too!"
Goon's
rod wouldn't give out a spark, so I held it horizontally,
ready to give Fangpuss a smack with either end.
[That
staff!] came Wolfie's silent
speech again, superimposed over a snarl.
[Where did you get it?]
"None
of your beeswax, Wolfie," I snarled back. "But you're gonna
get it if you don't back off!"
Wolfie leapt then, and I fell forward into his pounce. We collided and he grabbed the stick, and
then we both pushed like Sumo wrestlers.
Wolfie craned his neck and sank his pearly whites into my
shoulder. That gave me the impetus to
shove him away. I felt a painful rip as
his fangs came out, but he lost his hold on the staff. I let him have the end of it under the chin;
he stumbled back and tripped over a chunk of marble. This time he didn't bounce up.
I
launched myself in a flying tackle to keep him down. Wolfie yanked out
his sword in the blink of an eye and held it up like a stake in a tiger
trap. So it's detective-on-a-stick time
again. The sword wasn't silver or wood,
though, so nothing much happened.
Except
I rose, royally pissed.
[What? You don't fall?] asked
Wolfie.
My
answer was to hook my fingers over the neckline of his scaly armor.
"Lissen, Fangs, this is the second time tonight I been shish
kebabbed!"
I
grabbed a handful of fur 'round his thigh, then I
hoisted him over my head.
"And
I'm gettin' damn tired of it!"
I
hurled Wolfie with all my might. Even I was amazed how far he flew. He flipped head over heels and hit a tree so
hard that bark splattered in all directions.
The tree shook with a shoosh, and half
the leaves came loose like confetti. Wolfie slid down the trunk and disappeared behind a white
boulder.
I
circled the rock. Even now Fangpuss might not be out of it. I curled two fingers under the crossbar of
his sword and yanked it out with an ugly shluup. It felt like I'd ripped out a handful of
chest hairs.
It
was about this point that Mrs. J finally rejoined us.
"John! Where are you?"
I
looked hard to starboard. Kristine was
sitting up and glancing around wild-eyed, like a kid snapping out of a bad
dream.
[Kristine!]
I
blinked. That came from Wolfie. How did he
know her name?
I
heard a loud brrrip, which dragged my
attention back to Fangpuss. He was up again. His eyes blazed like the two moons above, and
his hair stood out in a lion's mane around his head. He had plucked the boulder out of the ground
like a turnip, and now he lifted it as easily as I'd lifted him.
[Enough! We end this
-- now!]
Wolfie chucked the boulder up in the air. I didn't think the Hulk could have done it so
easily. I had a second to decide what to
do. I could have dodged, but I thought, Anything you can do, so I scowled and met the rock with a
stiff-armed volleyball save.
THOOMP.
I
felt like the recipient of a Sixteen Ton Weight on Monty Python. There didn't seem to be anything left of me
but my head, shoulders, and arms; the rest was buried under a new
Mist,
some part of my throbbing brain whispered.
You can turn into mist, dope!
True. But back on Earth, when I first awakened with
a new set of fangs, I swore never to change into mist or a bat. I refused to acknowledge the curse . . . But
even then circumstances dictated otherwise.
I
had to do something before Wolfie got it into his
head to lop off mine with his fancy pigsticker. My pain became a mild vertigo as my body
dissolved into impalpable fog. I
billowed out from under the rock and pulled myself together a few yards away. As my ears solidified again, I heard a most
unexpected exchange:
"John! I knew you were near! I heard you, even asleep!"
[Kristine! Are you all right?]
"Yes,
but -- but you're the Man-Wolf again . . ."
[I
know, Kristine. Some power of the Realm
itself appears to use me as a receptacle.]
Wolfie was John Jameson? Well, knock me over with a boulder!
Mrs.
J got around to asking, "Where's Mr. King?",
just as I became solid enough to speak.
"THAT'S
your husband?"
[You!] exclaimed Fangpuss.
[Materializing out of thin air?]
No
telling what would have happened then, but Mrs. J jumped between us and played
ref.
"John
-- Mr. King -- wait!
This is all a terrible misunderstanding!"
Then
she started babbling, alternating between Wolfie and
me, and eventually we learned each other's story. Wolfie found out
how I'd been hired by his wife, and I found out how John Jameson had become --
the Man-Wolf!
He
had discovered an odd gemstone on his lunar expedition, which he kept as a
souvenir. He decided to wear it around
his neck as a pendant, which proved to be a mistake. The gem was alive, after a fashion; it
grafted itself to his throat and transformed him into the Other Realm's lupine
deity.
Unfortunately,
only a fraction of this "Stargod" power
leaked down to Earth, enough to give Jameson his fiercesome
exterior, but not the powers or wisdom of "Stargod". Even his normal intelligence was usurped, and
he roamed the land as a Grade B movie monster.
He decided to go AWOL before he injured or killed Kristine.
Eventually,
though, he turned himself in to the authorities at
So
he did. . . and once up yonder, so close to the Moon,
he became the Man-Wolf again with a vengeance.
He managed to crash his rescue ship on the lunar surface, near a Portal
to the Other Realm. Once there -- I
mean, here -- Jameson's mind took control of the Man-Wolf's body. The Realmites
declared him to be the living incarnation of their god, and --
"--
The rest is pretty much as I told you before."
I
held a staring match with the wolf-headed humanoid Mrs. J claimed as her
husband. Finally I addressed her.
"Mrs.
J -- after all we've seen tonight, you know I would have believed you. You could have at least given me a
hint!"
[Do
not blame Kristine, Mr. King,] said Wolfie. [As far as we knew, the Moongem
was the only cause of my transformations.
It was finally destroyed, and it is an episode of our lives we've been
trying to forget.]
I
eyed Mrs. J again.
"So
you thought I could be spared these embarrassing details of your past? Like Arisen Tyrk
and the Other Realm?"
She
avoided my gaze and wrung her hands.
"Er -- yes."
"Mrs.
Jameson -- are there any other details you thought I could do without?"
She
grinned in embarrassment and spread her hands as if to show she hid nothing.
"No. I believe we've covered most
everything."
"OK. Just wanted to make
sure."
Wolfie glanced from his wife to me and back as he followed
our exchange. Then he advanced on me,
his fur all ruffled again.
[Mr.
King --]
"Yeah?" I
puffed up myself, like a Rhode Island Red.
His
muzzle split in a toothy smile.
[I
want to thank you for all you've done for us.
And apologize for --]
He glanced back at the boulder he'd chucked at me -- [-- any
inconveniences.]
I
deflated again in relief. I didn't want
to get on Wolfie's bad side. I followed his gaze and gave a snort.
"Is
that what you call it?"
[This
has been a long, trying experience for us all.
And it isn't over yet. My captors
spoke of Arisen Tyrk as if he still lived. If he does, then Kristine and I will never be
safe.]
Wolfie -- that is, Colonel Jameson -- turned to his wife
again. They joined hands and looked into
each other's eyes. Beauty
and the Beast time.
[Kristine
-- I must remain here long enough to putt an end to Tyrk
and his followers permanently.]
"I
understand, John. And I'm staying 'til
we've seen this through."
[But
--]
"But
I should pop back through the first Portal that comes along?" Kristine
asked, smiling. "I almost lost you
once, doing that. Not again."
This
was all very noble, but it sounded mightily like we weren't going to try too
hard to get back to terra firma.
As
if sensing my thoughts, the Man-Wolf and his Missis glanced my way.
[Mr.
King, it is not fair to drag you into all this.
As Stargod, mine is the highest authority in
the Realm. If there exists any way of
returning you to Earth --]
I
raised my hand to stop him.
"Ahh, who am I tryin' to kid? I'm in it up to my neck, already. Mrs. Mulberry'll
have to wait for the rent again."
John Jameson, Man-Wolf, Hannibal King, and all related characters are copyright © by Marvel Entertainment. The articles and fiction on these web pages are not for profit and are not meant to infringe on the copyrights of Marvel Entertainment or the Walt Disney Company.
Onward, Realmites, to STARWOLF Part Two!
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