High adventure and intrigue in the African jungle, on the high seas, and in the city! There is always justice that needs to he served, whether it’s in the present or the past.

Nearly five centuries ago, during a daring raid at sea, pirates took the life of merchant ship captain Christopher Standish. In the heat of the pitched battle aboard the ship, Standish’s son was knocked overboard to wash ashore on a remote beach where he was found by a friendly pygmy tribe.

After stumbling upon the body of his father’s killer, young Standish swore an oath on the murderer’s skull to devote his life, and the lives of his sons and their sons, to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice.

To the outside world, this man, seemingly immortal, has always worn the mask. As the legend grew, it transcended the life of any one mortal.

And that legend became THE PHANTOM!

Featuring: Jim Alexander, David Bishop, Mike Bullock, Ron Fortier, Craig Shaw Gardner, Clay & Susan Griffith, C.J. Henderson, Nancy Kilpatrick, David Michelinie, Will Murray, Mike Oliveri, Martin Powell, Ed Rhoades, Trina Robbins, Grant Sauvé, Richard Dean Starr, Dan Wickline

Introduction by: Valerie Falk

First MOONSTONE Edition
2007

THE PHANTOM CHRONICLES
Published by Moonstone

Copyright 2007 King Features Syndicate, Inc.
All Rights Reserved

The PHANTOM is a trademark of Hearst Holdings, Inc.
Produced under license

ISBN: 1-933076-21-6

Cover painting by Doug Klauba
Interior illustrations by: Rubén Procopio

Printed in USA

Without limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior express written consent of the publisher and copyright holder.

Published by Moonstone, 582 Torrence Ave, Calumet City, IL 60409

www.moonstonebooks.com

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Valerie Falk

WHITE KNIGHT

Mike Bullock

THE GHOST WHO DIES

Clay & Susan Griffith

DEBT OF HONOR

C.J. Henderson

THE FASTEST ANIMAL

Ron Fortier

TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

Jim Alexander

STRANGER FROM WALKER’S TABLE

Will Murray

THE SERVANTS OF SET

Michael Oliveri

HERE, THERE, EVERYWHERE

Nancy Kilpatrick

BAD MEDICINE

Mike Bullock & Ed Rhoades

HOUSE OF GHOSTS

David Bishop

THE PROMISE

Grant Sauvé

NOT THAT KIND OF GIRL

Trina Robbins

LESSONS LEARNED

Richard Dean Starr

REFLECTION OF THE GHOST

Dan Wickline

A GHOST WITHOUT YESTERDAY

David Micheline

THE HUNGRY SWAMP

Martin Powell

THE GHOSTS WHO WALK

Craig Shaw Gardner

Introduction

I heard my first Phantom tale when I was 6 or 7 years old, sitting on my father’s lap. He had always told me stories—my favorite was about the fat lady’s behind that ran away from her and climbed a tree and wouldn’t come down until she promised not to sit on it so much—he had a VERY wild sense of humor!

This story was different, however—it was full of mystery and adventure and had a wonderful hero—a man in a mask who’s best friends were a mountain wolf and a horse (I spent much of my childhood trying to be a horse.) It was thrilling! I hung on every word until I heard . . . “To be continued”. “Noooooo!!! How can I wait—how can I sleep?! What happens next?!”

I was practically grown up before I realized that my father was not simply tormenting me—he didn’t know the end because he hadn’t written it yet. I did eventually hear the whole story and many more but I never heard one from beginning to end. He was always working—always creating. And it was always hard and a little scary. What if he “dried up”—couldn’t find the next idea?

Lee Falk wrote two comic strips, “Mandrake the Magician” and “The Phantom”. Each strip ran in both daily and Sunday papers, each story was different. That’s four stories running simultaneously. Between the two strips, he had 100 million daily readers. That may not qualify him as the greatest writer of all time (Shakespeare and Homer certainly have their claims, which my father would enthusiastically support!), but it does put him in the running for most popular writer of his day.

My father was a terrific story-teller. He mastered the hugely difficult skill of keeping his audience interested, moving the action forward and leaving them wanting more, all in the space of 4 or 5 panels in a daily newspaper strip. He created a separate, detailed, rich world for each strip and he filled them with wonderful, odd and noble characters. He would never admit it, but he was an idealist in the best sense of the word. The Phantom never killed a person, he shot the guns out of the bad guys hands. Love, in his strips, was true and friendship beyond price. When governments in Australia or Africa wanted to get kids to brush their teeth or be careful about strangers, they used the Phantom to get the message across—he was a good role model.

There are many wonderful anecdotes about both “the Phantom” and “Mandrake”. For example, during WWII my friend, Luciano, then a small boy living in Rome, fed his parents and siblings with the money he made selling his collection of “Mandrake” comic books. During the same war, while my father worked in the Office of War Information desperately trying to communicate with folks in the occupied countries, “The Phantom” was published daily in Scandinavia. The Nazis were telling everyone that the United States had been defeated, yet here was this strip that everyone knew originated in the US showing up every day in their local paper. Phantom even became the password for the Norwegian underground.

My father didn’t start out to write comics—his first love was the theater. He wrote many fine plays, some of which are performed today in schools and local theaters around the country. At one time he managed several summer theaters in New England and a winter theater in Nassau in the Bahamas where he produced and/or directed most of the plays. The Paul Robeson/Uta Hagan “Othello” was given its first American production in his Cambridge Summer Theater. He wrote poems—mostly lost, but a few of which I still have. He was endlessly curious, interested in everything—and what he cared about found its way into the strips. I believe that is what kept them so alive. He spun his magical tales for over sixty years. During his last illness, while he was being wheeled into intensive care, he was dictating “Phantom” script to his wife, Elizabeth. He never stopped. He may not have fulfilled his dream of becoming “the great American play-write” but he entertained and inspired millions of people all over the world for more than half a century. Still today people gasp “You’re Lee Falk’s daughter? I LOVE The Phantom!” Not a bad epitaph, Daddy.

—Valerie Falk

THE
PHANTOM
CHRONICLES

White Knight

By Mike Bullock

“How could you help them, if they’re all dead?” The soothing tones of Dr. Eichmann’s voice belied the intense stare burning into Jaime Salamy’s flesh. He looked at her as one might gaze at a lab experiment that failed to yield the desired results. His voice echoed ever so imperceptibly in his modest, sterile office. Several certificates hung on the walls, while the only door in the room had the words: “Head of Psychiatric Evaluations, Saint Elizabeth’s” displayed on the beveled glass.

“Okay, let’s start over from the beginning. Tell me again why a woman of your upbringing would join the Peace Corps, Ms. Salamy.” The Doctor laid a file on his desk marked “Pre-Trial Examination”, before sitting down in his brown leather armchair.

“What does my “upbringing” have to do with this?” The annoyance with his questions began to color Jaime’s tone in shades of anger as she fidgeted with the tight curls of her auburn hair, trying unsuccessfully to keep it out of her piercing brown eyes.

The soft edge of his voice momentarily gave way to reveal the seriousness of his concerns. “I’m merely seeking a foundation for your actions, nothing more.”

“Try self-preservation.” She spat her answer at him as if her thin mouth had suddenly filled with poison.

“Please answer the question,” he replied, unfazed by her growing agitation.

“I joined for the same reason any one else joins: I wanted to help people!” Jaime was shocked to find herself nearly yelling the response at him, a shock that evidenced itself as she leaned back sharply as if she was recoiling from her own anger. Jaime quickly raised her hands to cover her tear stained face as she leaned forward on the couch. Her shoulders tightened as she began to rock back and forth, clearly agitated by the Doctor’s invasive queries.

“Then, I’ll repeal my question: How could you help them, if they’re all dead?”

The nearly tangible impact of his words struck Jaime like a bolt of verbal lightning. She dropped her hands and started upright; her face contorted in pain as the memories came flooding back to her.

“Look! I know what I saw!” She blurted out. “It doesn’t surprise me that you think I’m crazy, hell, I thought I was crazy when it happened.”

“No one thinks you’re crazy, Ms. Salamy,” the Doctor’s words came back as bereft of emotion as if they were uttered by a machine. “We just need to know the truth.”

“I TOLD YOU THE TRUTH!”

“Tell me again.”

“I went there to help the Jumballa tribe, to teach their children to read and help the elders in their dealings with the larger tribes.” As she began to retell her story, the memories of the Jumballa children washed over her, easing some of the tension from her rigid form. She leaned back on the couch, dropped her arms into her lap and began rubbing at some imagined bit of dirt on her right hand.

“Their children were so innocent, not like the kids here. They didn’t demand toys or act out for attention. They simply wanted to help their family get along.” A smile broke out on the corner of her mouth, quickly washing some of the anger from her face. “I was amazed at how well behaved they were. Some ‘civilized’ people think they’re savages, but at the end of the day, those people were more gentle and kind-hearted than any one group of people I’ve ever met in a first world nation.”

Jaime paused before continuing, her voice nearly cracking. “Th-this made their predicament all the more heart-breaking. Th-the children were slowly starving to death. An-and they didn’t care. They just wanted to live their lives.”

She broke off for a moment to lift her right hand up and wipe a stillborn tear from her eye. Her bottom lip quivered slightly as she went on.

“At first I couldn’t understand. Why were they starving? Where was all the humanitarian aid sent over by the UN? I had to know what was happening to their food and supplies,” she said, as the veil of anger once again began creeping down her face.

“If everyone here only knew where all their money goes. Too many people think all they have to do is sign a check every month and send it off. But the truth is the majority of the money we send to sponsor those children, the lion’s share of the food, clothing and medicine shipped over there to keep poverty at bay never makes it to the impoverished.”

The Doctor raised his pen from his notepad briefly and placed it against his temple as a quizzical look shrouded his eyes.

“Where does it go then, Ms. Salamy, if not to those in need?”

“The Warlords, they take it all,” her angry tone returned as her eyes tightened and her face constricted in hatred.

“They take everything long before it gets to those poor souls we think we’re saving. Sure, every once in awhile something will make its way through to the poor, or whenever a group of sponsors go over for a visit, airs will be put on to hide the truth from the outside world. But, when you’re there for any length of time, they can’t hide it from you.

“I’d been there nearly four months when I caught my first glimpse of him.”

“Him, who?” inquired the Doctor, as if he were clarifying a food order with an inattentive waitress.

“General Zamuli. I told you about him before.”

“According to our records, the man you refer to as ‘General Zamuli’, is in fact, one Ackbar Antoli, the UN commander in charge of that region, Ms. Salamy.” While the Doctor’s voice carried no inflection of accusation, his eyes spoke volumes.

“Believe his lies all you want!” This sudden outburst from Jaime quickly brought Dr. Eichmann’s pen back to the notepad, where he scrawled furiously for a moment before asking her to continue.

“And when was it you concluded that this ‘General Zamuli’ was in fact leading a double life, Ms. Salamy?”

“It was three weeks ago, today. Gullian, one of the village elders, began avoiding me after I’d questioned him numerous times regarding the food shortages. This unwarranted behavior made me suspicious. So, I started paying closer attention to him. After three days, I realized that every night, as the rest of the village lay down to sleep, he would disappear into the rainforest and return two to three hours later.

“Another thing I noticed was that of all the elders, only Gullian seemed to be well fed.” Her speech slowed a bit to allow this last bit of evidence to sink in.

“On the fourth night, I slipped out of my hut and followed him into the forest. It seemed like we walked forever, but after looking at my watch, I decided we’d gone approximately four or five kilometers, when I noticed a light up ahead.

“As we drew closer, I could see the light came from torches around an encampment. It was a military encampment. They had jeeps, Humvees and enough guns to kill off the entire country.

“Gullian walked right in like he owned the place and marched over to a central tent, where a man in UN dress walked out and greeted him.”

“This was Ackbar Antoli, oh excuse me, General Zamuli, I presume?” While Dr. Eichmann’s facial expressions feigned a subdued apathy, his eyes and ears devoured every word and non-verbal tidbit of information provided by Jaime.

“You tell me,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her words like some bitter syrup. “All I know is he was the leader of that militant group. I don’t care how white his uniform was, his eyes and expression were certainly those of a man who doesn’t care about the children he’s killing by starvation, or the mothers and fathers who have to mourn their babies.”

“You seem to want to vilify him at every turn, Ms. Salamy. Why do you think that is?”

“Because HE’S A VILLIAN!” Jaime startled herself with the ferocity of her response. She looked around, as if embarrassed that someone else might have witnessed her outburst, and then sat back down on the couch, noticeably shaken.

“I see . . .” The Doctor’s response did nothing to soothe her frazzled nerves. “And what brings you to that conclusion?’

“Actions speak louder than words and his words were so damning I’m surprised God didn’t open the heavens and strike him down where he stood . . .” Jaime paused for a moment before continuing. “Mixed in with all the crates full of guns, bazookas, grenades and bullets were cases and cases of food marked ‘UN Humanitarian Aid’. He had one of his hired thugs break open one of those cases and he and Gullian sat and feasted on some sort of meat for what seemed like hours before the General turned to Gullian and told him he wanted more from the Jumballa.

“Gullian asked what more there was to give, explained that his people wore rags, lived in straw huts and each family had to make it through the day with what little food he brought them from ‘Zamuli’s overwhelming generosity’.” Jaime’s penchant for sarcasm returned with those final words.

“What was it he asked of Gullian?”

The strain of what she was remembering tapped a well of tears in Jaime’s eyes, “He told Gullian of another Warlord, one in Uganda who was building himself an empire on the backs of slaves. Slaves he’d abducted as children and indoctrinated into his ‘new world order’.

“He told Gullian he wanted their kids, he wanted them for slaves he could train to be fanatical fighters for his cause. He wanted to build his own army on the backs of innocent children, just like the other Warlord was doing. At that moment, I found myself coming out from behind my hiding place and marching right up to the General to give him a piece of my mind!” The smoldering anger in Jaime’s eyes left no room for the sarcasm to remain, but it was quickly replaced by a look of horror welling up from memories any sane mind would seek to repress.

“In hindsight, I’m lucky that this wasn’t the last thing I ever did. The General’s men had guns pointed at my head as soon as they noticed me. It was a blur. It all happened so fast.” Her voice began trembling from the strain of her recollections. “I-I had no more than stood up and started towards him when I found myself trying to escape their rough hands as they dragged me across the camp by my hair and threw me to the ground at his feet.

“As I lay there in the dirt, realizing I should have listened to my Father when he told me not to get involved, Zamuli debated over whether or not to make me his concubine, allow his men to ‘take their passions out on me’ or have me killed on the spot. Gullian quickly told him who I was and begged the General to rid the forest of me.

“I’ll never forget that moment.” Her irises went wide as her voice dropped to nearly inaudible levels and she continued in a hushed whisper of someone whose mind cannot grasp the enormity of one’s own memories.

“I looked up at the General and everything seemed to go into slow motion. He drew his pistol and pointed it right at my head. I thought for sure that was the last thing I’d ever see.”

“And then what happened?” Dr. Eichmann’s voice seemed to have no respect for the hushed tones of Jaime’s words, smashing through them like a bulldozer through a mud hut.

“That’s when I saw him.”

“Him who?”

“The Phantom . . .” Jaime’s voice trailed off into nothingness as her breath reacted to the whirlwind of memories that played in her mind’s theater.

“Your imagined hero? The masked man riding through the jungle on a white horse, come to save you from the evil ‘villain’?” The doctor could have been talking about tongue depressors for all the emotion he allowed his voice to convey.

“He’s not imagined. He’s a jungle legend and a hero to those people . . . He’s a hero to all people.” The reverence in Jaime’s tone would have been surprising to anyone witnessing this conversation. She spoke of this hero as if he were God himself.

“And what exactly did your ‘White Knight’ do when you first saw him? Shall we assume he saved the Damsel in Distress and put an end to this upstart empire you’ve told me about?” Although trying to remain as clinical and detached as one in his line of work should be, the Doctor’s skepticism was finally beginning to cloud his words like a monsoon rolling over a clear sky. The Prosecutor had told Dr. Eichmann what a monster Jaime was, but he was beginning to draw his own conclusion: she suffered from paranoid delusions.

“He wasn’t a ‘White Knight;’ he wore purple. But his horse was white, and one of the most magnificent animals I’ve ever seen.” The roller coaster of Jaime’s emotions now ran from amazement to outright awe as she spoke of her hero and his horse.

“Purple? He wore purple in the jungle? Quite a bold fashion statement, wouldn’t you say?” The Doctor caught himself as his voice began sliding from skeptical to contemptuous. Recovering his composure in an instant, he asked her to continue.

“He burst through the wall of underbrush behind the General and by the time his men sounded a warning, he’d already ridden past, knocked the General to the ground with a well-placed kick and scooped me up before darting back into the forest near my original hiding place.” Her nostrils flared as her knuckles turned white from the force of her grip on the couch cushion she was sitting on.

“Please continue.”

“He set me gently on the ground and told me to remain hidden, then wheeled his magnificent horse around and darted off into the darkness, perpendicular to the camp.” Jaime’s words began piling up on themselves, creating a lingual traffic jam. “I barely had time to take this all in, it happened in a matter of seconds. As he rode off, I turned and looked back at the camp, and saw a dozen of the General’s men charging towards the forest where we’d made our bold exit.”

“So your hero saved you, and then abandoned you in the darkness?” The clinical tone seemed to vie with skepticism for equal reign of the Doctor’s words.

“I thought that as well, but only for a moment. I saw him once again burst from the jungle on the other side of the camp and charge right at the General, who had stood up and was facing towards me.” A brief smile played across her lips as she continued. “I’ve said this a million times in my life, but never truly meant it until now.”

“Said what?”

“He never knew what hit him. The General, that is.” The corners of Jaime’s mouth turned up in an almost devilish smile as her eyes gleamed with the thought of what she was about to say.

“And what hit him?”

“The Phantom.” The conviction of her words made the Doctor recoil ever so imperceptibly in his chair.

“The yelling of Zamuli’s men must have drowned out the hoof beats of the Phantom’s horse, because the General didn’t turn around until seconds before the Phantom reached down and cold cocked him right in the jaw.” Jaime paused for a minute, relishing that memory.

The Doctor laid his pen down and brought the fingertips of each hand together in a peak before leaning forward and uttering his next words. “That doesn’t explain how everyone died, nor does it shine any light on your alleged innocence, Ms. Salamy. So far, all you’ve done is further the Prosecutor’s case that you are criminally insane.”

“Can I finish?” Jaime spat these words at the Doctor as one might scold a belligerent child. “Or are you going to continue to interrupt me?”

The Doctor once again picked up his pen and placed the tip on the paper. “My apologies, by all means, please continue.”

“The General let out a scream that was extremely un-general like, I must say—when The Phantom hit him,” the momentary anger at the Doctor’s rude behavior was quickly wiped away by the smile involuntarily brought on by her story. “He sounded quite like a little girl; in fact, I would have been embarrassed for him, were I not so happy to seem him fall.

“The scream brought his men about and they immediately opened fire but none of them seemed to be able to hit The Phantom or his horse; it was as if he were a ghost floating through their camp. He no sooner knocked one man to the ground, then he turned and decked another. Within minutes, the entire camp was ruined from soldier’s gunfire and The Phantom’s actions. Several small blazes burned where random shots had hit torches or ignited jugs of lamp oil placed amongst the crates and boxes.

“Once he’d taken out the last of the soldiers, he wheeled his horse around and darted back into the jungle, away from my position.” Jaime’s words once again flitted between excitement and awe. “He was magnificent!”

“Magnificent? An entire tribe dies and you say ‘magnificent’?” The Doctor’s clinical guard dropped once again as a bit of incredulity washed over his words.

“I told you already, I’m not done yet!” Her voice gained a sharp edge one might enunciate when talking to a petulant child. “Are you going to let me continue or not?”

“Again, my apologies. Please continue.”

“No sooner had The Phantom disappeared into the darkness, when Gullian—who had fallen to the ground of his own accord, proving to me he was indeed a coward at heart—jumped to his feet and started yelling at the downed soldiers. He ran over to Zamuli and helped him to his feet. Zamuli angrily pushed him away, bent down, picked up his gun and shot Gullian in the chest.

“It was at that moment that I really began to lose it.” Jaime’s fingers tried, unsuccessfully, to tie themselves into a knot in her lap.

“Most of the soldiers had gotten up by then, bruised and bleeding as they were. Some looked like they might not be able to walk, much less fight, for some time, while others looked angrier than I can ever recall seeing a man become. And the angriest of them all was Zamuli.

“He ordered his men to find me and The Phantom and bring us back to him, then continue on to the Jumballa village and kill everyone there.” The apparent strength in her voice began to falter as she continued. “He told them the Jumballa had to pay for this outrage. He told them to burn them all alive.”

“So, you’re telling me a UN Officer ordered the executions of the Jumballa? A man sworn to protect them murdered them instead?” The Doctor had regained his composure and completely returned to his detached demeanor.

Jaime flashed him an annoyed look for interrupting yet again before she continued. “I stood up and turned to run back to the village when I ran right into him . . . it was like hitting a brick wall, a very masculine brick wall.”

“This would be your jungle ghost again? This ‘Phantom’ person?”

“Yes. Once again, he scooped me onto his horse and we darted into the forest, heading straight for the Jumballa village. I asked him his name, but he said nothing. We rode through the jungle at breakneck speed, with only the sound of hoof beats and my pounding heart to mark our passing.

“Within minutes we arrived at the Jumballa village and he spoke for the first time . . .” Jaime once again let her voice trail off, as if she were floating back in time on a river of memories.

“And what did he say?”

“He told me to wake everyone and get them out of there. Without taking a moment to think, I raced from hut to hut and woke the entire tribe. I told them bad men were coming and we had to flee. As sad as it is, this wasn’t the first time they had to abandon their homes in the middle of the night.

“The Jumballa are something of a nomadic tribe and as such, they had some caves they would occupy in a nearby mountain range from time to time. The Phantom told us to go there immediately but began speaking with one family. As we poured into the jungle as fast as possible, I noticed he and that family were still in the village. I turned and saw them going into each hut and then coming out and going into another hut. They quickly made their way through the village, and then when they were done, he guided his horse and the family into the jungle where I was watching. He gestured in either direction as the father and son ran into the darkness around the perimeter of the village to our left. He then pointed to the right and the wife and both daughters raced that way. He then walked up beside me and held his index finger to his lips before pointing back to the village.

“My eyes followed his gesture just in time to see Zamuli’s men come into the village across from us. Some of them held torches and went from hut to hut, lighting them on fire while several others stood in front of the hut doors, guns aimed at the doorways, presumably to shoot anyone who came running out. I began to hear Jumballa voices screaming in agony and found myself trying to run into the village to help them. I thought we’d left someone behind. Luckily, The Phantom held me back, and walked me a few meters to the left, where I could see the young boy standing near the back of a burning hut, screaming as if he was burning to death.

“A few moments later, the Jumballa family stopped their seemingly agonized cries and returned to our side. Together we watched as the last of their village burned to the ground. General Zamuli tossed his head back and laughed and then said the funeral pyre for the Jumballa would be a lesson to all who would oppose him. He ordered his men back into the jungle to search for The Phantom and me.”

“And what of the Jumballa?” queried the Doctor.

“The Phantom then gave me his ‘Good Mark’ necklace, which he said would protect me and sent us off to the caves. The Jumballa were there, alive and well when I left them,” Jaime’s voice was almost overcome with the exasperation of one who grows tired of telling someone the same thing over and over again.

“And was your mission over when you left?”

“No.” Jaime sighed heavily, releasing pent up exhaustion brought on by a nearly three week long emotional roller coaster.

“I told you, I left them to come back here and tell the UN what Zamuli was doing. To tell someone how the aid isn’t getting to these people. To find help for them, real help,” her slumping shoulders and eyes, now growing increasingly sullen, punctuated her tone of exasperation.

“Yet, you have no proof to back up your fantastical tale. Ackbar Antoli is a highly respected UN officer, appointed by the Secretary of State. The investigators sent to the Jumballa village can find no evidence that anyone is still alive, nor is there any proof anyone inhabited the caves you mentioned. When questioned, Antoli claims it was you who set the fire that killed them after he fought off your sexual advances, and then laid the blame at his feet in an attempt to discredit him for what he did to you. And while his story is far from rock solid, yours is Freudian Psychology 101. Rebuked woman has psychological breakdown that leads her to commit a heinous crime. Her subconscious, unable to deal with what she’s done, creates a delusion, complete with a White Knight who saves her, and in turn alleges misconduct, committed by the man who she feels catalyzed her pain, as the true cause of her crimes. If you at least had this ‘Good Mark’ necklace you told me of earlier, we might have some shred of evidence to validate your claims that this jungle legend is anything more than your tormented mind’s way of contriving some sort of alibi.” Doctor Eichmann stood and took Jaime by the arm, leading her towards the door.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Salamy, but my diagnosis only strengthens the Prosecutor’s case. I’m worried that you’re suffering paranoid delusions and that it may take years to rehabilitate your mind from the trauma you’ve caused yourself and others.”

The Doctor opened the door to his office and motioned for a rather large man in a white uniform to come over to him. “Orderly, please escort Ms. Salamy back to her room. My examination is over.”

“No! It can’t be over, you still don’t believe me!” Jaime pleaded with the Doctor, but when the orderly’s powerful hand closed on her arm, it was as if all the hope left her body and she submitted as he led her from the room.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Salamy, I’ll recommend to the court that you enter a treatment program here at St. Elizabeth’s to help you find your way back.” Eichmann watched as Jaime was led from the waiting room. He turned and went back into his office, where he sat down at his desk and looked over his notes for several minutes before his secretary buzzed him on the intercom.

“Dr. Eichmann? You have a man here to see you. He says it’s about the Salamy case.”

Eichmann looked at the intercom quizzically before pushing the call button. “Send him in, Angela.”

The door to his office swung open and a powerfully built man, dressed in a trench coat and top hat entered the office. The man’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, which struck the Doctor as odd on this perpetually overcast day. Without saying a word, the man walked over to Eichmann’s desk and pulled one hand from the pocket of his trench coat. He set something round and shiny down on the Doctor’s notes, along with a manila envelope. A silver chain was attached to the shining object.

“Please see that Ms. Salamy gets this, she left it near the caves. And you might want to take a look inside the envelope as well.”

The Doctor stared at the man, speechless, as he walked out of the office and closed the door behind himself. Once the door shut, the Doctor reached for the object. The chain was roughly twenty inches long and held a circular, silver medallion on it. As he held the necklace aloft, the medallion rotated slightly, drawing its face into view for the Doctor. On that face was a symbol of four intersecting “P”s, surrounded by an unbroken circle. It was the Phantom’s Good Mark, exactly as Jaime had described it.

The Doctor set the necklace down and picked up the envelope. From it, he withdrew several photographs. Within seconds, he extended his other hand, depressing the call button on his intercom.

“Angela? Get the Prosecutor on the phone. Tell him I may have some evidence that might shed a new light on Antoli’s testimony . . .”

After pausing and contemplating the necklace, as it stared up at him from the desk, he once again hit the intercom button.

“And Angela, have Ms. Salamy brought back up here, I have a few more questions for her.”

The End

MIKE BULLOCK is an international award-winning writer of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. After over a decade in the music industry, where he ran his own production company, Mainframe Music, Bullock returned to his first love of writing, Lions, Tigers & Bears, his first published foray into comic books, debuted in January 2005 from Image Comics, and wasted no time garnering awards from around the globe, including the prestigious Discovery Prize at the 2007 Angoulême International Comics Festival. Bullock is currently writing the regular Phantom comic book series for Moonstone Books, in addition to several other comic series and chapter book collections for other publishers. More information on Mike Bullock can be found at www.runemasterstudios.com

The Ghost Who Dies

By Clay & Susan Griffith

Africa. 1896.

The jungle was alive and conversing. Trees creaked in the motionless heat; animals chattered and squawked in the heavy foliage; insects buzzed and hummed from their dark hideaways. In contrast, the man who crept through the tangled vines kept his movements slow and precise. Nothing knew he passed this way.

He was hunting.

And his prey was just ahead. His hand dropped to the ground and lightly touched the imprint by his foot. Water had not yet collected in the indentations. He was close. A few minutes more and the track would have had a liquid puddle in it seeping up from the damp ground. A few hours later and the heat of the jungle would have dried it till it was hard and baked. Yes, he was very close.

The hunter was a professional. Trained by one who came before him, skilled in the arts of detection and fighting. It was his destiny after all, passed on from generation to generation. And yet he still exercised caution. His prey was intelligent and deadly, quite capable of turning the odds on him. There wasn’t a more dangerous prey alive than that which he hunted.

He could just see a shape through the tangle of brush ahead, a dark shadow that moved despite the windless day. Finally he had his quarry.

There was only one thing that separated this hunter and hunted. One was in the right while the other was in the wrong. He had been taught from birth to fight for what he believed in, guard against usurpers, and defend oneself from those that seek him harm. That which he hunted had stolen something precious and must be punished. None can enter this domain and betray the laws that have been in place for centuries. No one was above the law.

He eased his pistol from its holster. In truth he did not like to use the weapon. He much more preferred to use his wits and fists, but some prey was too dangerous to leave to chance.

Suddenly he heard a snap of twigs and everything quieted. Birds stopped their discussions, earthbound animals paused in their breath, all listening for danger.

The hunter froze with them. He cast his gaze to his left without moving his head. He could just make out something moving on his flank.

There was no more time. The hunter took aim and fired.

The Ghost Who Walks spun as a bullet impacted on the tree in front of his face. Fragments of wood exploded outward like searing blades. One sliced along his cheek drawing blood. Apparently, he was not alone in the jungle. He fell silently to the ground. Every sense was tuned to the jungle. Normally it told him all he needed to know, but suddenly the forest was deathly quiet, refusing to tell him where his attacker was. It meant that his foe was intelligent enough to know how to make the jungle keep his secrets. It meant that his attacker was as good as he. It meant trouble.

The crack of a second shot split the air. The Phantom jerked to the side as the bullet burned a furrow across his shoulder. That was a rifle shot. And the bullet came from an entirely new direction. He was up in the trees. Smart.

Maybe too smart. This was no ordinary man that pursued him. He was skilled in the hunt, and had the gall to think he could best the Phantom in his own home. That was extraordinary in itself. But the enemies of the Ghost Who Walks were endless after so many centuries, and blood feuds could run through many lineages just like his own bloodline. It was time to see how smart this hunter really was.

The hunter had taken the second shot anyway, despite the fact that he had lost the advantage. His target stumbled, but didn’t go down. Two shots and two near misses. The Phantom was extraordinary; his senses were so keen he moved just at the point when the trigger was being squeezed. Like a jungle cat sensing a coming attack.

A flash of purple slashed beneath the hunter’s position, but the thick foliage didn’t afford him a shot. The hunter jumped from limb to limb, darting after the Phantom, hoping to cut off his retreat, perhaps herd his prey back toward a clearer area.

The Phantom’s strength saw him through and he disappeared into the tangled shadows of the thick forest. The hunter pulled up, knowing that pursuing pell-mell onto his target’s ground wasn’t wise. He rested his rifle in the cross of his arms.

Years of labor and planning, and five days patiently stalking, and he had blown it all in seconds with his carelessness. Next time he would not be so reckless. The first kill jitters had been exorcised. The next time the Phantom would not be so lucky.

Now the hunter had to make good his withdrawal from the field. The Phantom, though wounded, would not let him escape easily. But his own skills rivaled the ghost of the jungle. He kept to the trees. Their thick foliage afforded him cover. The myriad of crisscrossing branches and tangled creepers offered him a multitude of routes in this jungle highway.

Dark purple moved not more than ten meters below. The hunter stopped abruptly and watched as the man he had hunted snaked up into the trees as fluidly as if he had been born there. The hunter melted back into the green; the color of his clothes were chosen specifically for this region’s vegetation. He barely breathed knowing that the Phantom’s search was not as easy as it would be on the jungle floor, There was no way to know how high the hunter had climbed. The Phantom not only had to look horizontally, but vertically too. It increased the odds in favor of the hunter. It was an old trick passed on down through the line which gave advantage to the Phantom over his enemies, made him a god on the field of battle. But the hunter knew these tricks and could play them as well as any Phantom.

The hunter debated taking another shot but the angle was wrong and the Phantom was on alert. Before, the Phantom had moved with confidence on his home ground; now he realized he could not be so bold. But he was also a master of the hidden, and within seconds the Phantom faded from the hunter’s sight. This Phantom was so eerily skilled. It gave the hunter chills. And filled him with pride.

It wasn’t until the jungle came alive again that the Phantom realized his stalker had escaped. Either he had gone so deeply to ground that the forest forgot about him or he was long gone. The Phantom searched for signs, but all he discovered was a single trail leading toward the river that soon vanished.

The assassin had left no trace, a ghost unto himself.

The Phantom turned toward home, wisely deciding to take an alternate route that he rarely used. It was disturbing to face an adversary so capable and so close to home. He had only been a mile or so away from Skull Cave. It made the Phantom shudder to think what could have happened if the attack had occurred there. No, actually it made him angry. What if he had had a family and they had been there waiting, unsuspecting? He bristled. It was a good thing he had never gotten around to creating a family. The thought of their vulnerability made him ill.

Someone dared to invade his home and strike him in the only place on Earth where he felt safe. Surely the would-be assassin would strike again.

The hunter did not feel secure till he was on his boat with the engine thrumming, steadily churning him out to sea. He needed to put distance between himself and his enemy. The Bangalla coast was fading into the darkness, so he left the rail and went to his cabin.

The hunter’s cabin was filled with memorabilia, mostly from his mother collected from her adventures, keepsakes from the days when she fought her own adversaries. He traveled with them everywhere. Her photograph rested between the Azande chief’s headdress and the Zulu witchdoctor’s bone necklace. Her long hair was tied back. She wore the costume. He used to think it was a silly outfit. It was not an outfit one would wear at the end of the nineteenth century without a few disapproving eyes. But now all he wanted was to wear it for himself. Because he was supposed to wear it. It was his.

He slammed his fist against the bulkhead. He had his chance and he had ruined it. His mother had trained him better than that. She would be ashamed of his failure.

His arm swept across the desk beside him, shoving the artifacts off in a fit of rage.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” His fist’s clenched. “I won’t fail again. This is what you wanted for me. It will be mine soon. I swear it!”

He paced back and forth in his cramped cabin, seething at the situation. He had to start again. His next attack must be more cunning. He would not catch the Phantom unaware in the forest again. If he couldn’t go to his target, he would bring his target to him. And then the Phantom would pay with his life for what he had stolen.

The drums announced turmoil in the village of the Bangalla chief. The Phantom’s arrival only seemed to exacerbate their anxiety. He noted spears bristling in the crowd. Never a good sign.

Chief Mutesa approached with a stern expression as the Phantom dismounted his steed. Dropping the reins, knowing the horse would remain where he was until he was needed, the Phantom greeted his old friend, Mutesa, grown grayer and thinner, but still carrying the physical memories of the powerful man he had been. He wore the leopard skin of his rank and his hair was intricately braided and greased. He was unarmed, carrying only a lion hair whisk.

“Honorable Mutesa. Lord of the Bangalla. What has happened here?”

The chief arched an eyebrow. “You do not know, Ghost Who Walks?”

“No.”

“Then that is good news.” Mutesa waved him into a nearby hut which the Phantom knew belonged to Nzige, a young shaman.

Inside the hut, the cold body of a young man lay on the floor. Death came from an obvious bullet wound in his chest. It was Nzige.

“What happened?” the Phantom asked.

“He was apparently executed.” Mutesa looked down at his feet. “By you.”

Shock radiated through the Ghost Who Walks as a murmur arose from the crowd gathered in the doorway of the hut. His eyes scanned the floor. The packed red dirt was disturbed by only two sets of footprints, both wearing Bangalla sandals. “How many people have been in here since the body was discovered?”

“Two,” the chief answered. “Myself and my son.”

The Phantom regarded Mutesa. “I don’t execute criminals. You know that.”

“That is truth to me, but there were witnesses.”

“Who? Are we sure they’re reliable?”

“My son. And my own eyes.”

“You? Mutesa, you saw me kill Nzige?”

“No.” The old man did not lower his head. But there was pain in his eyes. His voice was low to keep his words away from the crowd outside. “But I saw you leaving his hut after I heard the sound of the gun. I cannot explain it.”

“I can’t either,” the Phantom said. “Not yet anyway.”

This was bad, the Phantom thought. Mutesa was the most honest man he had ever known. Clearly, the old chief was troubled by what he had seen, and what he was saying now. The Phantom wasn’t overly troubled by the specifics of a murder accusation because he didn’t kill Nzige. But more disturbing were the ripples of suspicion that would emanate from the Bangalla if this story gained strength. Reputation was everything. Appearance was reality. Killing defeated his purpose and went against what he stood for. The Bangalla had always understood that and, though he walked with the status of a god in their eyes, if they thought he could betray his beliefs, that he killed Nzige, it would lessen their faith in him. Plus the Phantom had no quarrel with Nzige. The young sorcerer had been a bit of a firebrand; he had even preached violence on occasion. But the Phantom would not have shown his disapproval with a bloody execution.

The Phantom regarded Chief Mutesa with an unwavering stare. “Nzige didn’t die by my hand. I swear it.”

“Then there is another Ghost who Walks!” shouted an accusing voice from the crowd. As it parted, Mutesa’s son stalked into position beside his father. Kagame was a predator, a tall lean man with a shaved head to accent his sharp features. Muscular and regal, he was the mirrored reflection of Mutesa when a youth. He carried an assegai, a short stabbing spear, as his baton. His chin lifted defiantly. “Can there be two gods in one jungle?”

“No,” the Phantom agreed.

Kagame smirked. “I saw the killer. He moved as you, arising from the shadows.”

Chief Mutesa stepped forward. “This requires further discussion. But not here. We shall retire to my boma.” His aged eyes swept over his people. Their faces were filled with fear, mistrust, and confusion. It was best to remove the debate from public attention until the truth could be discovered.

Mutesa’s enclosure was spacious and surrounded by a wall to keep out prying eyes and hopefully ears. The Phantom stood like a statue near Mutesa’s stool with arm’s crossed. Insects buzzed in the growing heat of the tropical day. Kagame paced, flicking the assegai from one hand to the other.

The Phantom asked the young prince, “Tell me about Nzige’s death?”

“Why?” barked Kagame, boldly staring into the Phantom’s blank eyes. “You already know! You were there! You came into Nzige’s hut while he slept. You pulled your gun and shot him. The whole village heard the shot! You vanished as you’d come. I saw you go with my own eyes. My father saw you go. I cast you down as the Bangalla’s protector!”

“Enough!” Mutesa shouted with a quaver of fear in his voice. He motioned his son back with his chiefly whisk. “You do not dare question the Ghost Who Walks.”

“I am not afraid!” Kagame snarled. “Not like you and your fathers! No one is above recrimination. The guilty must be held accountable! If we do not make justice for our people, then how can we deserve to be their chief?”

The Phantom said calmly, “I’m telling you it wasn’t me. I will find Nzige’s killer. But I must know more.”

Kagame shook with anger. The sincerity, the rawness of the indignation impressed the Phantom. Kagame was wracked with passion for his people, and for his dead friend. It did him credit. But the prince glanced at his father sitting frozen on the chief’s stool as if waiting to be struck dead, and he felt pity for the old man. He held his rage in, which did him more credit.

“Kagame, why do you believe Nzige was killed?” the Phantom asked the young man.

“Why is that important? Obviously you thought he warranted death.” Kagame’s eyes glistened.

The Phantom remained quiet.

Mutesa spoke, “Nzige was a friend of my son’s. They grew up together. Please excuse his temperament in this matter, O Ghost Who Walks. He is young. He does not always think clearly.”

Kagame swung angrily to his father. “Nzige did nothing wrong! How dare you make excuses to his murderer!”

Mutesa stared into his son’s eyes. “I am not blind. I know what Nzige was doing.”

Kagame blinked and paused. Then he regained his furor. “It does not warrant murdering him in his own hut!”

“I agree, my son. But the Ghost Who Walks waits patiently for the truth. Let us offer it to him.”

“He knows the truth! He was there!”

Chief Mutesa turned back to the Phantom. “Nzige exchanged our ivory to foreigners for guns.”

“Guns,” the Phantom repeated darkly.

“He was protecting our people!” argued Kagame. “And we do not need to account ourselves. It is our duty and right to protect ourselves! Should the white man be the only one with guns?”

The Phantom rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his chin, where there was a hint of bristle. It had been too long since he had seen to such simple things as shaving. Simple things. He almost smiled.

Chief Mutesa continued, “I don’t need Nzige’s medicine to know that change is coming. The Europeans gather on the coast and everyday more white men move through our country. Nzige believed that the coming storm would break the Bangalla like a twig unless we acted.” The chief regarded the Phantom with sad eyes. “Nzige reached out to the foreigners because he felt he must. To fight fire with fire. He met regularly with those who buy and sell for a living.”

“Who are these foreigners?” The Phantom looked pointedly at Kagame. The returned glare was long and menacing.

Mutesa repeated the question sharply to his son. Kagame could not disobey a command from his father, and his chief.

Kagame was petulant with head bowed. “A man named Horn. From Rwlimu, the traders’ town downriver.”

“Was Nzige meeting Horn soon?”

“Yes. In two days time.”

The Phantom said, “I know Horn. Smuggler. But not a murderer.”

Kagame muttered, “If he is not a murderer, then it would seem that you did kill Nzige.”

“Hmm.” The Phantom rolled his sore shoulder. “Well, truth isn’t always what it seems. There may be a stranger in the district who could pull off this murder.” The Phantom told Mutesa about the recent attack in the forest near Skull Cave. “That man was very wise in my ways.”

“So another Ghost was there?” Kagame asked derisively. “Father, are you sure the killer does not stand before you?”

Mutesa regarded his son, now calm and in control. “Yes. I’m sure. There are things in this world we do not understand. We cannot understand. The Ghost Who Walks has explained himself. Why do you still question the way of things?”

“Because we must!” Kagame knelt in front of his father. The glittering blade of the assegai wavered between them like an iron flower. “Our people lose ground every day. Our heritage slips away from us. Please do not tell me you think Nzige deserved to die because he wanted to bring us guns to protect ourselves?”

Mutesa took a deep, halting breath and placed his long fingers over his son’s strong hand on the shaft of the assegai. He seemed lost staring at the blade for a long moment, turning the sharp metal in the honeycombed sunlight that filtered through the hut. “Kagame, it is hard for young men to look at an old man and see a lion. But in my youth, I fought like the lion. Many times. The beautiful young girls whispered behind their hands when I passed. I ran endless miles with my regiment. I washed my spear in blood more times that I can remember. I sang so many songs of my dead friends on countless nights.”

Mutesa released the assegai back to his mesmerized son. Then he swatted a buzzing fly with the lion’s tail whisk. “But now, in the comfort of my boma with the company of my wives and the friendship of my son, I find I do not wish to fight. I wish for another way. If only there is one. The Ghost Who Walks has spent centuries watching over the Bangalla. My father trusted him. His father trusted him. And your father trusts him. Why should he choose this time and place to deceive us?”

Silently, Kagame stood and took his place at the right side of his father’s stool. Finally it seemed as if the young prince had reluctantly given in to his father and chief.

Chief Mutesa lifted his head regally. “What do you require of us, O Ghost Who Walks?”

“Just your trust, as always. I’ll go to the traders’ town to find Horn. And I want your son to accompany me.”

Kagame murmured, “It is not necessary. I believe you will return.”

“That’s not the reason I’m asking you to come.”

Kagame glanced between his father and the Ghost Who Walks. Why would the Phantom want him to go? Would the Phantom kill him too on a lonely path in the forest? The cold, lifeless face of the Ghost watched him. The assured visage of his father watched him. Kagame was a chief to be. He could show no fear, even though he felt it. He had to be willing to sacrifice his life for the good of the Bangalla. Like Nzige had done. Kagame hardened his gaze and looked at the jungle spirit.

“If you wish it, I will accompany you.”

Now the Phantom smiled paternally at Kagame. The young man truly did not understand his role in this, and that was all right. All truths revealed themselves with time.

Two days later they entered Rwlimu, the trading settlement on the river. The town was alive with activity. Traders bargained in the streets that turned into muddy quagmires by the rains. Europeans gathered outside depots, inspecting vast piles of tusks, bales of hides, and large factory floors stacked with bundles of raw rubber. There were endless bolts of cloth and coils of wire. Africans from the surrounding countryside sold produce, handicrafts, and even themselves, eager for work and money to feed the new economy that swept over them. Rwlimu was a slice of the West on the edge of the uncolonized interior, but the most avaricious and lawless slice possible. The Phantom hated to see it come so close to the home he loved.

Kagame, tired and bristly, followed the Phantom as he strode past amazed eyes. Local merchants smiled from behind their stands at the thought of the justice that was coming to some criminal, perhaps someone who had once stolen from them. Elders pointed out the figure in purple to young children; the Ghost Who Walks, they said, if you are bad, he will come for you. Shady figures in discrete conversation slipped deeper into the shadows and breathed a sigh of relief when the Phantom passed them by.

The ramshackle taphouse was in the middle of town. Typical of Rwlimu, the saloon was the only two-story building in the town. Compared to the stifling moist waves of tropical heat outside, the dark shady air of the interior of the building seemed welcoming. The tavern was filled with unsavory characters, men with hooded eyes, dark expressions, and menacing glares. White. Black. Yellow. Christian. Hindu. Muslim. Pagan. Men from the world over come to Bangalla to wrest fortunes from fate or from the weak. Kagame hesitated; these were not types a chief’s son was used to dealing with.

But the Phantom glided through the dark men without fear. To Kagame’s amazement the Phantom’s mere presence caused numerous chairs to scrape against the dusty floor as men stood and left the relative safety of the taphouse.

Giving them no notice, the Phantom aimed for the long plank of wood that served as a bar. The bartender shifted nervously, but didn’t bolt as the god cloaked in purple approached him. In the dim light the bartender couldn’t be sure if the Phantom was man or spirit.

The Phantom said, “Still catering to lowlifes, slavers, and gun runners?”

“No! These are legitimate commercial interests here. Ivory. Hide. Rubber.”

“I’m looking for Horn. He’s selling guns.”

The bartender looked appropriately shocked. “What? I . . . uh . . . didn’t know he was running guns again. He’s been here for three, four days, waiting for someone. He’s up in Room 8. Take him.”

“I intend to.” The Phantom turned away from the bar, but then glanced back. “And if you don’t clean up, I’ll come back and take you too.”

As Kagame fell in step, he whispered to the spirit beside him. “If this Horn has been here waiting for days, then your alibi is lost.”

“We’ll see.”

The knock on Room 8 received a muttered “About time!” from inside. As the door opened the Phantom anticipated the bad reaction his presence would have on a guilty conscience. He jammed in a shoulder and pushed through the door sending the man sprawling. The Phantom’s pistol was out and pointed at the little man in dirty khaki lying on the floor of the spartan room.

The Phantom said, “Are you reaching for something, Horn?”

“W . . . wha . . . what do you want?” The man snarled, his hand caught midway to his own holster. He eased his hand back flat on the floor. “I ain’t done nothing.”

“I understand you know Nzige, the Bangalla shaman.”

“Big deal. I know a lot of natives.” He spat on the floor. “I’m very cosmopolitan.”

“You’re exchanging guns for ivory. Don’t bother to lie. I’m in a hurry.”

“There’s no law against ivory trading. I was giving that witchdoctor a few old muskets. Most of them don’t even work. There’s no law!”

“My law forbids it,” the Phantom said. “You were supposed to meet Nzige today, yes?”

“Yeah, sure.” Horn slowly crept to his feet. He kept his hands out. “But he’s late.”

“He’s dead.”

Kagame shoved forward. “He was murdered! Did you do it?”

Horn fumbled back till he was near the window. “I had nothing to do with it!” With manic desperation, he smashed his elbow through the cheap glass and jumped out onto the overhang directly beneath.

Kagame rushed to grab him, but the man jumped to the ground below, he turned on the Phantom ready to berate him for his inability to stop a common criminal, but the room was empty. Kagame spun around in confusion, then turned back to the broken window and scanned the crowded street below. He didn’t see Horn, but he did see the Phantom as he slipped out of the shadows and signaled up for Kagame to follow.

It took only a moment for the young man to race out of the taphouse and find the Phantom. He was breathless by the time he caught up, but the Phantom immediately took off at a run. The two men raced through Rwilmu, flashed past the African huts on the edge of the ragged trader town, and dove into the forest beyond.

Kagame followed, with his breath pounding out. “How could he escape? From you?”

“He hasn’t.” The Phantom didn’t pause to explain, but he did slow his pace, focused on following the prints his quarry left plainly in sight on the jungle path. Plainly in sight to the Phantom anyway. He put out a hand to slow Kagame who abruptly snapped out in frustration.

“Why do you delay?”

“We won’t lose him. He isn’t that good.”

Kagame regarded him coldly and intelligently. “So you do not think he killed Nzige?”

“No.”

“We have learned nothing then!” Kagame exclaimed.

The Phantom continued moving. “I hope he’ll tell us a great deal yet. But from here out we must be absolutely silent.” He turned to Kagame and regarded him compellingly. “You must trust me.”

A retort stood ready on Kagame’s lips, but he offered a curt nod instead. He knew well the stories of the Ghost Who Walks, who was eternal and just. Still, he had seen the Ghost kill Nzige with his own eyes. But he had to admit the hunt they were on called to the old ways when, with spear in hand, the Bangalla hunted prey and their enemies. It was real. It was powerful. And sharing the hunt let you learn a man’s heart, perhaps even a god’s heart. Kagame wasn’t so sure of his convictions anymore. Was this what his father had felt and why he had placed such blind faith in this god?

The two men stopped at the edge of a clearing where a deafening roar filled the air. The river in flood, and not far away. On the far side of the clearing was a ramshackle hut, a shack slapped up by ivory hunters decades before while obliterating the district’s elephants.

Kagame was drenched in sweat and exhausted though the Phantom seemed unfazed by their exertions. The African sank to a crouch, grateful for the respite. He felt a cool breath of wind and then the first splash of raindrops. In seconds, the air was filled with pounding water. The hut was now a vague gray shape through the deluge.

The Phantom didn’t say a word, but motioned for Kagame to stay put. One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Kagame blinked as if his vision was no longer reliable. It made him realize that he was indeed walking with a spirit, and again his shame swelled.

In just a few minutes, the Phantom returned. “Horn is in that shack. You wait here.”

“Why are we waiting?” The roar of the rain and the river made it hard to hear.

“We’ll know soon enough.” The Ghost Who Walks melted into the dripping foliage.

Kagame huddled in the wet for a long while. The rain stopped but the heavy dripping continued all around. Mist began to rise with the returning heat.

Finally he saw the Phantom slipping silently through the high grass as he sidled up the bark wall of the hut where Horn was hiding. The mysterious figure pulled out his gun as Horn shuffled again to the doorway to peer out. The Phantom stepped round, his arm swung hard, connecting with a startled trader. The Phantom took aim at the helpless man on the ground.

Kagame leapt to his feet and shouted with a stricken voice, “No! No more killing!”

The Phantom turned and saw the young man tearing through the sea of sodden grass, waving his arms. The soulless eyes of the Ghost Who Walks tightened on Kagame, in a way they never had before. The prince staggered to a halt as the Phantom turned his gun on him. Now the young Bangalla knew what Nzige felt when the god took his life. A cold gripped him as if he were already in the bowels of the deep earth.

Then from Kagame’s right came another flash of purple.

There were two Phantoms!

The two spirits crashed back into the hut. One rolled smoothly into a crouch on the far side, while the other fluidly came to his feet near the door.

The Phantom stood and stared at his double. The stranger was just as tall and lithe, well muscled without massive bulk to slow down the power. It was obvious he had trained well. He had been so stealthy that the Phantom had almost missed him as he approached the hut.

The imposter smiled. He wasn’t alarmed at being discovered. It was then the Phantom’s gut twisted. He had used Horn to lure the killer. But now he realized this fake had hoped he would show. This was the man who had hunted him in the jungle. He was in the same trap.

“Who are you?” The Phantom wanted to know this above all. Who was this man who had dared to strike at him in his home and attack those he had sworn to protect? And dared to dress as the Phantom.

The stranger answered, “I’m the eighteenth Phantom.”

The Phantom stared at this man in his purple costume, unsure how to deal with what he’d just heard.

The imposter said, “You have my life!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“My mother’s legacy should be mine! Not yours!”

The Phantom started. “Your mother?”

“My mother.” The imposter’s face was flushed with rage. “Your aunt.”

“Julie.” The Phantom knew the name well. It was part of his family history. The lineage had been recited to him over and over by his father. Julie was his father’s twin sister. And she was the only woman ever to have taken up the mantle of the Phantom. When his father was injured, she donned the cowl and carried on the fight for justice in his absence. When he was able to fight again, she stepped aside and eventually moved to England to live a normal life.

The imposter snarled, “Did you forget my mother was the Phantom?”

Suddenly, everything fell into place. This was Julie’s son.

“You’re Daniel,” the Phantom said. “My cousin.”

“I am the Phantom!” the other man screamed, as if that alone would make it true.

“No. You are not.”

“I am justice incarnate!” The imposter pointed at Horn cowering on the floor. “He is a criminal and I will make him see truth right before your eyes.”

“Like you made Nzige see truth?”

“He was a criminal! He was bringing illegal guns into my jungle! He deserved his fate! And I knew such drastic action would bring you out.”

“You killed Nzige?” Kagame stepped forward angrily from the doorway.

The Phantom put out his arm to stop the young African from going any closer to this mad man.

“The Phantom doesn’t kill,” the Phantom pointed out to Daniel.

“We do when we have to.”

“Nzige was asleep in his home!” Kagame cried in shock. “There was no need to kill him.”

“It was justice,” Daniel said.

“It was murder,” the Phantom replied. “Which proves you’re not the Phantom.”

The eyes of the imposter narrowed, filling with rage. “A Phantom seeks out criminals and delivers punishment!”

“Brings criminals to justice. At least get it right.”

“Don’t lecture me!”

The imposter rushed toward him like a bull, anger seething from him. The Phantom shoved Kagame backwards out of the hut and then had just enough time to brace before his opponent hit. Miraculously he kept his feet, sliding out of the hut into the mud.

The sun blasted out in a suddenly blue sky. Mist began to rise and roil around the two spirits in the waist high grass. They fought like two devils. They were matched strength for strength, move for move. The Phantom’s adversary mirrored each carefully honed strike. He had been taught all the self-defense arts also. It was like fighting a shadow of himself. Strike. Feint. Retreat. The Phantom’s greater skill was evenly matched by Daniel’s crusading passion.

Their struggle passed from the grass to the forest. They danced deftly around massive roots exposed above red earth. Water dripped into pools around them. Birds fluttered up through the shafts of light penetrating the cathedral-like canopy of green. Dwarfed by the giants around them, the two ghosts fought on, silent except for the creak of leather and the sound of flesh against bone. Their faces showed no pain, even from the worst blows.

Then Daniel started to fall. His booted foot slipped in the mud. The Phantom sensed advantage and charged. But at the last instant, he saw an unnatural arch to Daniel’s back, an odd tenseness to his muscles. He wasn’t falling at all. The Phantom rolled to one side as Daniel’s feet flashed past in what would have been a devastating blow to the head. The imposter clutched a thick creeper for leverage. But now he was off his feet and vulnerable so he pulled himself aloft as easily as a great ape. In seconds he was beyond reach in the trees. The Phantom followed.

They leapt and swung in a dizzying chase, two purple shades slipping through a bright green world. Separated from the ground by a hundred feet of merciless air crowded with bone-cracking limbs and neck-snapping creepers.

Finally, they stood face to face. The two men were only a few feet apart on a branch barely four inches wide extending over the roaring turmoil of the river that boiled white and spit fountains. Below them, chunks of riverbank tore free and tumbled helpless into the churning chaos, tumbling red and green in the white water.

The Phantom kept both feet anchored while Daniel lashed out at him with devastating blows. The Phantom’s forearms took hard strikes as he blocked. He landed three solid hits on Daniel, but the imposter slipped through his defenses and slammed a wrenching shot to his ribs. The Phantom caved at the waist. Daniel moved in, but sensed the trap and flinched back as the palm of the Phantom hit him a glancing blow on his hip. But it was enough. His mud-covered boots slipped on the moss that covered the branch. The moss was as slick as ice when wet, a fact the local Bandar pygmies—and the Phantom—knew so well.

Daniel lost his balance. And it was no feint. His face broke from the terrifying realization of failure as he toppled toward the monster waters below.

A strong hand seized Daniel’s wrist and used his own falling momentum to propel him over the river’s edge and back over the quagmire of a bank. The Phantom flipped to the ground after him as Daniel was already struggling to his feet.

The Phantom’s right fist struck like the dart of an adder and landed on Daniel’s jaw, whipping his head around with a crack. The imposter grunted in pain and for the first time paused in his attack, his hand snapping up to hold the left side of his face. He knew what burned there. His eyes were riveted to the Phantom’s fist and the skull ring glittering there.

Daniel’s jaw clenched and his eyes widened in horror. He was marked! He was marked as a lowly criminal! He had the skull on his jaw line. No Phantom could ever carry that mark!

“No!” he screamed. He straightened up and glared at the man who had scarred him for life.

“No criminal deserved it more,” said the Phantom quietly. “Your mother would be ashamed of you. This is not what she wanted.”

“My mother risked her life to carry on the legacy! And yet when it came down to choosing who would be the next in line, she was cast aside! I was cast aside! She trained me as well as any of the others!”

“She knew and understood the tradition.” The Phantom knew this to be true in his heart though a part of him wondered why she would have trained her son at all.

“You aren’t even married!” Daniel shrieked. “You have no sons. You don’t care about the future of the line. My mother thought about it constantly. If you die the line will end! She knew that could happen. It almost happened to your father.”

That explained things a bit more clearly to the Phantom. Daniel’s mother had only been insuring the line held, that just in case there would always be a Phantom. It had been a contingency plan only. Unfortunately Daniel took it to heart. He had spent so much time training, he came to believe that he would be a Phantom. And when that didn’t happen, he must have snapped.

“The line will remain secure.” The Phantom made a final plea to the hero inside the man. “But having backup is always wise in this line of work. You could have been my backup, just as your mother was for my father.”

For a split second, Daniel considered that possibility. But the burning on his cheek told him otherwise. The legacy of the Phantom was beyond him now. Whatever his adversary offered him now it was a lie. A scarred criminal could never be a Phantom.

He regarded the Phantom. “You’ve won, just as your father won.”

“This was never a competition.”

“Only to those who already have the prize.” He reached up and pulled back the cowl. Sweat dampened his hair, the small red outline of the skull burned bright against his pale skin of his jaw line. He took a step back.

“Wait!” The Phantom stared into Daniel’s eyes for the first time. They were green like his mother’s, but full of despair.

Daniel look a step back as the riverbank beneath him crumbled. Without a struggle or a sound, he disappeared into the water’s furious maw. A single flash of purple and then he was pulled under.

There was no hope. There was no saving a man from that fury.

The Phantom shuddered, but he quickly realized it was because the ground under his own feet was tearing itself apart. Water surged up, shredding the mud, and rising around his booted ankles. He turned to escape, but his legs sank into the mire. It crossed his mind that he was going to join his cousin. And he felt a surge of hateful disappointment that there was no Phantom to carry on the line.

Something strong grabbed him. The red mud dissolved and vanished into the churning water as the Phantom fell back onto solid ground. Another figure fell beside him. The two rose at the same time and scrambled back to a massive tree where the earth felt solid.

The Phantom turned to Kagame. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Kagame breathed heavily with a look of youthful exhilaration. “So, you are a man. Like me.”

“Yes. Very much like you.”

“Does my father know?”

“Yes. The chief of the Bangalla has always known the secret of the Ghost Who Walks. You would have been told in time.”

“What became of the other Ghost?”

“He’s gone.”

“He was your kinsman?”

“Yes. My cousin. He thought he should have been the Phantom. He was wrong.”

Kagame smiled. He understood power struggles on a basic level. He had heard stories of his father’s climb to power. And he expected he would face challenges in his time too.

The Phantom asked, “Where is Horn?”

Kagame replied, “Back in the hut. He will not escape.”

The Phantom eyed the young man questioningly.

“He is alive,” the African replied with a grin. “I left him for your law.”

“Thank you. What will you do now?”

Kagame thought for a second. “Return home. Take my place at my father’s side. Help him preserve the Bangalla. I will do what I can.”

The Phantom nodded. “You are your father’s son. Time passes. History will change again and again, perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worst. But you must keep the things that matter. Justice. Honor. Family.” He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s all any of us can do.”

The large mahogany door swung open and the aged butler gazed at the man who stood on the landing. There was something odd and imposing about him. Carriages and hansom cabs clattered along the cobblestones behind him, hooves beating a steady rhythm. The streets were crowded with people rushing home in the darkening winter evening. Still, this stranger seemed apart from the London night. Even the damp English wind that swept in behind him, fluttering his long black cloak, brought a strange hint of warm earth and lush blossoms. The stranger’s strong face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat and smoked glasses.

The butler asked, “Yes sir?”

“Is Her Ladyship at home?”

The butler’s face remained impassive. “She is, sir. Who may I say is calling at this hour?”

The tall man slipped a leather glove off his right hand. He worked his fingers. He then held out a closed hand to the butler. The servant instinctively raised the silver platter he carried and heard a heavy clang as the stranger dropped something on the tray. The butler looked down at the object. It was a ring with a startling skull design.

“Sir?” the butler whispered, staring at the dreadful jewelry.

“Please show that to Her Ladyship. She’ll understand.”

“But, sir, I don’t . . .”

A voice came from the dark foyer behind the butler. “Let him in, please, Hampton.”

The stranger stepped into the dim townhouse. His shaded eyes pinned the woman standing at the base of the stairs. She was aging and slight and gray-haired. But she stood with the sureness of a tiger. He could sense her power in that still lithe body and strong face.

Studying her face, he searched for any emotion other than what he would expect under normal circumstances. He knew his aunt from his school days in England. He had never sensed resentment over his assumption of the Phantom role. And he never would, he admonished himself. Her Ladyship would never seek to do him harm on purpose. He had faith in her as the Bangalla had faith in him.

She approached him with genuine affection. “How wonderful to see you! It’s been far too long.” Curving an arm through his she led him to the sitting room. Hampton followed and set the tray on the table next to them. “What peril brings you all the way to London?” Her eyes glinted with excitement, remembering all too well the heady thrill of adventure.

His face remained grim and she sobered. “What is it?”

“It’s about Daniel.”

“Daniel? He’s been traveling for years. What’s happened?”

As she watched the face of the man beside her, she understood that the news he had brought was not good.

The sparkle in her eyes diminished. And as he watched her, the strength faded from her. She took the ring from the offered tray. She clutched it in her hands and shut her eyes as tears dropped wet on the marble floor.

Her voice was pained, “Won’t you tell me about my son’s death, Mr. Walker?”

“I will,” replied the stranger. “It is a tale of honor and sacrifice.”

The End

CLAY and SUSAN GRIFFITH have combined their love of pulp, horror, science fiction, heroic fantasy, and general off-kilter weirdness into both a marriage and a writing career. In between arguments about writing, they write. Their first novel was Banshee Screams (Pinnacle Entertainment, 2002). They have contributed short stories to numerous anthologies, including “The Source” to Kolchak: The Night Stalker Chronicles (Moonstone, 2005). And they have written comic books for over a decade, most famously The Tick (NEC Press) and closest to their hearts “Raja Yah” in Moonstone Monsters: Ghosts (Moonstone, 2003). They are currently at work on their newest novel, more short stories, and new comics. The plan is to continue writing for many years. And they intend to stay married for at least that same length of time.

Debt of Honor

By C.J. Henderson

“A man has honour if he holds himself to an ideal of conduct though it is inconvenient, unprofitable or dangerous to do so.”

—Walter Lippmann

“So, Chun, looking forward to the weekend?”

The speaker was a large man, sporting a shaved head and a close-cropped beard. He was more than just tall. Beefy across the shoulders, thick-necked, barrel-chested, he was a veritable giant. This made him perfect for his job, which was chief block guard of the Kitgum National Prison, a dark and foreboding stack of steel and stone—a brutal facility, one lost in time.

“Perhaps not as much as you are.”

The man who answered the guard was a smaller individual. It was not the only way in which the pair differed. In fact, outside of their gender, it was possible the two had nothing in common at all. The man called Chun was indeed smaller than the guard—lean and wrinkled. He possessed a full head of hair, but was clean-shaven. And, where the guard had spent most of his life developing his body, Chun had spent his years honing his mind.

There was another difference between them as well—

“You might be right about that, Mr. Chun.”

The guard was not awaiting his execution.

“You might certainly be right about that.”

In his time, Wei Chun’s name had sparked terror across the waters surrounding both Africa and India. He was a pirate, or more correctly, he was the premier pirate of his time. In an age where civilized types pretended that such men no longer existed—the way they ignored roaming gangs of thugs within their own streets—he was regarded as the most brutal, the most ruthless, and by far the most efficient pirate who ever lived.

“Although,” Chun said calmly to the guard, concealing the smile he so dearly wished he could reveal, “it is possible that your vision of the coming weekend—as it concerns me, that is—and my own, may not be so similar as you might be assuming.”

His fleet had remained undetectable for decades. Merchant ships, private yachts, ocean liners, party cruisers, even small military vessels had fallen to his patience, planning and rather expert admiralship.

“Is that so?”

The guard’s ebony face shone with perspiration and interest. The Kitgum National Prison was in no way a modern facility. Created from cut blocks of heavy rock, each several feet thick, piled one atop another by men who worked or knew the lash, the facility was a harsh, blunt reminder that time could stand still if properly coaxed. In Kitgum, there was no air-conditioning. There was no recreation yard for prisoners; no electronic controls for cell doors, no gleaming chrome or library or television room. There was no gymnasium. But then, the prison’s cells did not even hold toilets, so expecting much more in the way of amenities was a fool’s game.

“It’s true,” said Chun, his voice relaxed. Peaceful. “I think come the weekend, I will most likely be somewhere else.”

“Chun, you amaze me. I admit it here and now, true to God, I say to you, Mr. Chun, you do amaze me.” The guard stood before the prisoner’s cell door, his hands on his hips, a mirthful hint of the laughter to come gurgling in his throat. Smiling wide, his mind wondering if the inmate before him was preparing to make some grand joke, exorbitant bribe, or if like so many others in his situation, his mind was crumbling under the pressure of his upcoming execution, he asked:

“And what is it that makes you believe you might be somewhere else this weekend?”

“Because, my brutal friend, I shall be leaving your charmless company . . . actually, in but a matter of moments.”

The guard started to make a reply, but something in Chun’s voice caught his ear. There was a hint, a note buried deep within the pirate’s tone warning him something was not right. Even though the smaller man was sitting against the far wall of his cell, still did the chief block guard back away from him. Chun’s reputation for being dangerous was a hard-earned thing, one the guard knew was well deserved. Unfortunately for him, he chose the wrong direction in which to move.

Without warning, a pair of powerful hands gripped the large man, one by the back of the neck, the other by the shoulder. The guard’s first instinct was to grab his baton, but it had somehow been silently stolen from his belt. As his hands wasted precious seconds searching for the missing dudgeon, however, those hands holding him wasted no time at all. With an almost relaxed efficiency, the one gripping the big man’s shoulder so painfully secure turned the guard to the left while the one gripping his neck propelled him forward into the nearest wall. Held precisely, the big man’s forehead crashed against the flat stone surface with just the right amount of force to render him unconscious.

The guard had been disabled with a minimum amount of both force and noise, as had some five other men between the outer wall of the Kitgum National Prison and the cell holding Wei Chun. As the pirate stood up from his cot, the man who had disabled the half-dozen unconscious men unlocked the cell door with the key he had taken from the chief block guard’s belt at the same time he had removed the man’s weapon. Chun greeted his liberator, saying:

“I must admit, I did not really think you would come.”

“It’s not like you to judge the actions of another based on your own way of thinking rather than theirs,” answered the pirate’s rescuer stiffly. There was nothing of friendship or even accommodation in his voice. Indeed, any who heard him would have thought him quite hostile toward Chun.

“Well, regardless,” answered the pirate, his spirits much enlivened by the sight of the open door before him. “Let us depart. We have a long way to go.”

And they would have been right, for the man breaking Wei Chun out of prison, mere days before he was to be executed for his numerous crimes was the man who had spent nearly two years putting him there in the first place.

“And not much time to get there.”

The only man alive who could have captured him—the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks.

“Tell me it’s not so. Tell me this is just another one of your ridiculous jokes, Mugari.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” answered the frightened looking Mugari. Hunched over his superior’s desk, thin hands filled with papers, he repeated his news. “But I swear it is true. The word just came over the wire service. The Phantom has broken into Kitgum and released Wei Chun from custody.”

Inspector Gim’ano Najar stared at his aide as if the man were naked. At their face value, his words made no kind of sense the policeman could accept. Wei Chun was one of the most dangerous criminals the modern world had ever known. Hundreds of boats and ships captured, their crews and passengers slaughtered or sold into slavery. Coastal towns raided, thousands more dead. When not pillaging the open seas, Chun had fomented more death and terror by selling illegal arms throughout Africa, often to both sides of a conflict at the same time. His fleet had smuggled terrorists—individually or entire cells—across channels, seas and even oceans. The estimate on his drug running operations alone was in the billions.

Chun was one of the most ruthless men to ever live. It was simply inconceivable that a man such as the Phantom would have anything to do with breaking him out of prison. In fact, to Najar it was inconceivable that the Phantom would break any man out of prison. If the legends were to be believed, the Ghost Who Walks had fought against evil in all forms across the continent for hundreds of years. Never once had there ever been the slightest hint that he could possibly commit the slightest of criminal acts.

Well, yes, thought Najar, he might bend the law, even break a bad law, but never in the name of any other end except justice. It cannot be the Phantom.

As the inspector turned to his aide, Mugari said:

“Borders are being closed all around us. The military of three countries have already been alerted. Two are mobilized. Their orders are to shoot on sight. The idea of Chun being loose pleases no one, it seems.”

“But, this has to be some kind of hoax,” suggested Najar. “Surely no one believes it was really the Phantom.” Mugari cast his eyes to the floor, not afraid to speak, but not wanting to hear his mouth utter the words he knew must follow. Knowing his aide all to well, the inspector coaxed him with a tone not harsh nor demanding, to speak his mind. In a voice filled with regret, Mugari said:

“No, the one witness who reported actually seeing the Phantom enter Kitgum . . . he was not believed. But, as he was all they had, they did search for evidence based on the only suspect they had. The Phantom, he must have been very careful—must not have struck any of the guards directly where it would leave a mark. But, on Chun’s cell door . . . they found the imprint of . . . the Phantom’s ring.”

Najar felt betrayed, wounded. Not as a man does when another man seduces his wife, or steals his property, but as a child does when it discovers there is no Santa Claus, or that justice is merely a word. Sitting at his desk, his heart broken, inspector Gim’ano Najar gave the order that the Phantom was to be stopped at all costs—suddenly knowing that all his presents had been bought by his parents, and that nothing would ever be fair in the world again.

Two “borrowed” vehicles and ninety some miles later, the Phantom and Wei Chun stopped to rest in a grove of thorny trees surrounding a little known well spring. The Phantom had left a not too difficult trail to follow, hiding the second car he had appropriated off the road at the base of the Kalmotai mountain range covered in brush. It was certain to be found, its location a dead give away that he and Chun were attempting to escape over the mountains. It made sense. The Phantom knew the area well, and could easily make his way across them, even with the burden of Chun.

The Phantom knew his pursuers would know this, of course. He also knew they would be well aware that several of Chun’s former associates ran thriving criminal enterprises on the other side of those mountains. Which is why he and Chun were proceeding away from the mountains instead. While the authorities concentrated their initial search for the pair across the Kalmotai, he would be doing the best he could to take Chun in the opposite direction.

For the moment, however, the pair waited quietly, Chun regaining his breath, the Phantom sitting across from him on the other side of the well, his ears alert for any noise out of place. Feeling his heart somewhat relaxing within his chest, Chun spoke softly:

“You’re not very happy about all of this, are you, Walking Ghost?”

“Let’s make something clear between us,” the Phantom answered. “You’re a clever man, I’ll give you that. And you worked this whole deal as well as any man could. No, I’m not happy. But what has to be, has to be.”

“You fascinate me, Phantom,” Chun said honestly. “ ‘What has to be’ . . . you say that with such conviction, as if anything ‘has to be.’ I have no gun to your head, no hostage I can threaten, no tangible reward to hand you when all this is done, and yet here we are . . .” The pirate spread his arms wide before him, palms turned upward, offering:

“Comrades in a reality completely of your making. For the first time in my life, I am but a helpless player on the grand board of existence. You, however, the supreme piece on that same field, you have chosen to see up as down, and have reversed our positions. Are you such a complex individual, Walking Ghost, or are you a fool?”

The Phantom made no answer, instead rising slightly, his expression intent. Chun made to comment, but his rescuer held a hand up firmly before him, ordering him to silence. After another few tense moments, the muscles of the Phantom’s legs and arms and shoulders noticeably relaxed as he called out:

“In here, Sekula.”

Minutes later, a trusted friend of the Ghost Who Walks had made his way into the thorn-laden thicket. The meeting had been prearranged, of course, and the two old friends greeted each other quietly, fearing that even their remote location and the cover of night might not be enough to keep their meeting sale from unwanted ears or eyes. Sekula had brought horses for the pair, as well as several days’ worth of water and dried food, plus burnooses with which they might disguise themselves.

“So, this is the great pirate, Wei Chun?” Sckula’s voice ran deep with contempt. Recognizing the tone, Chun did his best not to antagonize the man. Even in the extreme dark of the moonless night, the pirate could tell Sekula was a young man, young enough to be governed by his passions despite any warnings or oaths to the contrary.

Standing next to the well, his hands clenching into fists which trembled with rage at his sides, Sekula turned to the Phantom, urging:

“This man does not deserve the kindness you show him.”

“The son does not deserve the house his father gives him,” answered the Phantom. “It is the father who deserves the right to give what is his to whomever he desires.”

“Still, all he has done—”

“Is not our concern at this moment.”

The Phantom took his young friend by the shoulders, turning him from the sight of Chun, pulling him close enough so that they could look into one another’s faces. In the thin light of the stars which could penetrate their thorny canopy, he told Sekula:

“You know why we are doing this, and who we are doing this for. Tell me now, my friend, would you have us stop? Would you have it any other way?”

Sekula’s mouth opened, then closed again into a grim line. His head bowed, he shook with intensity for a moment as he wrestled within his mind over the Phantom’s question. Finally, however, after a handful of eternal seconds, he raised his head, his eyes open, saying:

“He has ruined enough souls. He will not drag mine down as well. Not . . . not when you are right, and I—and I am not so right.”

“You’re a good man, Sekula.”

“Certainly,” answered the younger man, turning to head back into the darkness, knowing it was not safe for any of them to stay where they were. As he moved off, though, he added, “I know this thing, for I know myself. And you know this, for the Ghost Who Walks knows all. But, still . . . try telling my wife.”

“First chance I get,” answered the Phantom. Smiling thinly, glad to see that his present circumstances had not ground him down to where he could not do so, he gave his friend a short salute, and then returned to the business at hand.

“I tell you, and I am most sincere in this, I do not believe they are in these mountains.”

The speaker was a Colonel Dimbuta, the officer assigned by his government to recover Wei Chun at all costs. Kitgum National Prison stood within a relatively poor country, but what expense could be spared had been thrown into recovering the pirate so he could not only be executed, but so that it could happen as planned. The nation’s leaders were not happy about the embarrassment to be earned from not having Chun’s death arrive on schedule. Such gave the colonel a very short amount of time to recover the pirate and return him to Kitgum.

“What makes you think so, colonel?” The man asking was the diplomatic liaison attached to the U.N. forces that had been rushed in to aid in the search for Chun. There was no challenge in his voice. Indeed, the colonel’s counterpart did everything he could to imply he felt equally in his beliefs. It was assumed the third man at the table felt the same way simply by the way the diplomat’s question caught his interest.

“We’ve sent a lot of helicopters in there. A lot of teams with heat-seeking technology, and a lot with dogs. We’ve spent several large bushels of money here—and you and I both know money has to be accounted for.”

“Oh, just say it,” interrupted Inspector Najar, the third man in the room, “you think the government was suckered in this direction, don’t you, Dimbuta?”

“Yes—I think we were suckered like very large pigs, fat and stupid and—although interesting in our advanced capability, for pigs, that is—still incapable of seeing the obvious.”

“The car was a plant,” filled in the UN man. “We were supposed to believe they would go over the mountains because a number of Chun’s old cronies are on the other side.”

“It was easy to believe,” said the colonel, his left eyelid rising in a self-mocking gesture, “because we wanted to believe it. It was easy to believe because it fit the standard pattern—didn’t clutter the profile . . .”

The three men stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, the diplomat made a gesture with his left hand. As his aides made a quick sweep of the hotel room, the colonel made eye contact with his sergeant. The man gave him a nod, letting him know his own people had already checked. Najar simply sighed at what he considered meaningless shenanigans. Turning his attention back to his counterparts there at the table, the liaison said:

“That’s what we get for thinking Chun was in charge of what was going on.”

“No,” answered the Colonel softly, “it’s what we get for thinking there are no heroes in the world. For thinking there are no exceptions any more. If the Phantom takes a man out of a jail, he has a reason.”

“But we’re talking Wei Chun, for God’s sake,” protested the UN official. “Don’t you understand? It’s like losing Hitler three days before his execution—with international television covering it!”

“They’ve attempted to cover the moments of the Phantom before.” Najar smiled at some private memory he did not chose to share. Mistaking the look for mockery, the diplomat made his own mistake:

“Believe me, Inspector, if anyone understands the political ramifications of a white man running around as the protector of Africa, we are the first to try and minimize any kind of coverage that man generates.”

Najar sighed, shaking his head slightly from side to side. Pursing his lips, knowing that not everything about the diplomat’s attitude was incorrect, he asked delicately:

“Tell me, sir, when you say ‘that man,’ in such a weary and condescending manner, what are you implying, exactly? What I mean is, just who or what do you believe the Phantom is?”

The liaison officer blinked several times.

“You think you understand the Phantom? The best of us can not understand such a one. We can only appreciate them. You do not know what he is—no one does. He has done as he will for hundreds of years. He has befriended men, and their sons, and the son’s of their son’s sons—and they have all sworn it was the same form, the same warm heart, same dark smile. He is the Ghost Who Walks, and yes, we were foolish to think we could find him thinking like a criminal.”

“If that’s the case, then let me pose a question,” the diplomat said, lowering his voice, “do you think the Phantom’s done this simply so he can kill Chun himself?”

“What makes you say that?”

“We’ve had on record as, admittedly, the unsubstantiated reason the Phantom waged such a war to put Chun away was that in one of his raids, Chun either hurt, or killed, some person close to him. I’m beginning to wonder, if that’s the truth, and if we’re going to go on the premise from here on in that the Phantom is the engineer behind where this is headed, then to proceed, we have to assign some reason to his actions.”

The diplomat was not arguing with Najar, nor challenging him. He was simply a desperate man grasping at straws. Clutching as many as he could against the pull of the bureaucratic ocean in which he was drowning, he asked:

“Can you give me one, Najar? Can you tell me—why did he do it?”

The UN liaison then simply stared, back and forth from the colonel to the inspector and back again, looking for some kind of guidance. If they felt the way they did—and his orders were simply to keep a political cap on the situation—then let them explain the Ghost Who Walks, and why he had suddenly started walking into prisons and releasing World Court master criminals.

So far, he had no idea of how many millions had been wasted, squandered on the useless searching of an entire mountain range. Millions that could have gone to so many other purposes, gone, thrown away on political posturing. The wasted effort meant nothing to the man personally, of course. He had overseen enormous outlays of capital thrown down so many bottomless drains he had lost count. All that mattered to him was that someone else’s name was signed on the dotted line of accountability. Looking to see that either the inspector or the colonel would be the one signing there instead of himself, he asked:

“Do we have any ideas?”

“I might have something,” admitted Najar.

It took them an entire day, moving steadily, but the Phantom and Chun came off the long stretch of plains between the Kalmotai range and the beginnings of civilization without experiencing any trouble. The Phantom had planned his movements carefully, taking into consideration every movement those governments and agencies concerned were likely to make. He had not worried overly about interference from any other direction. For the most part he was correct to do so. The outside world was not comfortable with the idea of the Phantom. He did not sit well with certain political leaders, or makers of public opinion. Actually, it was not so much that he, himself, did not sit well with them. It was the idea of him they found unsettling.

Over the centuries, one of the most important rules the Phantoms had passed down, father to son, was to trust men, but never organizations. Trading companies, governments, religions—any group could change its collective mind at any time on any thing. He had known there would be no news release linking Chun’s escape to the Phantom. The government would not want to welcome that kind of embarrassment. Their official position on him was much the same across political Africa—the Ghost Who Walks was a quaint legend, like King Solomon’s Mines, or the Kongamato.

There would be rumors, of course, but there were always rumors. As far as the authorities were concerned, the Ghost Who Walks was not overly worried about their interference. There were several men he trusted within various enforcement agencies to deduce what he was doing. In some ways, he was even counting on it. But as for the rest of the world, the Phantom had not expected anyone else to discover what he had done until it had been accomplished. That, it turned out, was a mistake.

As the two fugitives rode into the outskirts of Lodwar, they found themselves surrounded before they knew what was happening. The men waiting for them had been in place for almost thirty hours. They were by no means officials of any kind, but they were dangerous. Gambling on an idea of where the pair was going, and why, one of Chun’s former associates had ringed the town with spotters some twenty miles outside the city limits. There had been several false alarms, but their leader worked on the premise, “better safe than sorry,” and had dealt no punishment for being over-zealous. The previous spottings had been logically made, and the stakes were too high for failure.

And, since working from such a premise had shown the results he desired, the man who had once been Chun’s main receiver of shanghaied human flesh now sat quite pleased with himself. Far from the center of the city, out where police rarely travelled, he had his former associate and the Phantom surrounded. The two had ridden down the center of the street made up of one and two story private homes, trusting their deception of the world had succeeded. Now they sat on their horses with some eight rifles trained on them, and the sound of laughter ringing in their ears. Sitting on a terrace above them, a glass of iced tea in his oversized hand, the slave trader known as El Carunn called down to them, saying:

“Now I ask you, Chun—who knows you better than I?”

“Carunn, my old friend, what brings you here so far from home? With so many eager guns searching for me, I would think you might be wanting to keep your distance these days.”

“How you wound me, my old friend,” answered the corpulent figure sprawling across his well-cushioned bench. “And here I have only your safety and best wishes within my heart.”

“Well then,” answered Chun, his tone steeled with false cheer, “with both of us so concerned for the other, I will wish you much good fortune, and proceed upon my way before any misfortune arrive to plague either of us.”

“Would that life were so simple for either of us, Chun,” answered El Carunn. “But I am a father with many children dependent on me. With you safely in Kitgum, and your meeting with whatever comes to all men at the end of their days a matter no longer a theory, I was quite relaxed. But now, with you defying your destiny so blatantly, I see no other course but to intervene.”

The afternoon heat blazed down out of the cloudless sky. Wrapped in their burnooses, surrounded by so many guns, the Phantom and Chun sat waiting, neither knowing exactly where the slave trader was headed. Both knew, however, that he would not be long at arriving at his destination. Their silence prompting him, El Carunn continued, telling them:

“I will state the obvious. I know what brings you here, and you know I know. But simply because you desired to be in Lodwar was not enough. There was the matter of your execution to be circumvented. And there is only one way I know of that would allow you release from Kitgum—the exchange of the names of your former associates.”

“I would never!” The words roared forth from Chun. “Even if I were to reveal the names of every other soul I had ever dealt with over the years, I would never add yours to the list. You must know this is true. The fact I am here should prove that to you.”

“You would think it would,” answered the slaver. “But that would be so if you were some humble farmer. And a humble farmer would never possess the means to leave Kitgum.”

“He might.”

Chun let the words hang in the air. As El Carunn and his men waited for him to continue, actually interested in what he might say next, the pirate reached inside his burnoose with extreme deliberation, announcing:

“Do not mistake my gesture. I am merely reaching for something you will need to see if you are to believe.” And, so saying, Chun pulled forth a medallion from around his neck—or, more precisely, half a medallion.

“Two hundred years ago, this half coin was given to my ancestor by the Phantom. What deed he had performed no one now knows. All that is remembered today is that the holder of this half has the right to call on the holder of the other half to repay that now ancient debt. That is how I eluded the noose, for now. If you want the beating of my heart to cease, I will not contest with you over it. As you said, you know why I am here. All I ask is you let me finish my journey, then . . . then you may do with me as you wish.”

El Carunn stared off into space for a moment as if considering Chun’s offer. Then, mischief in his voice, he answered:

“But, my old friend, I can do with you as I wish right now. And ‘right now’ is so much the safer time, wouldn’t you agree?”

While the two murderers had been conversing, all attention riveted upon them, the Phantom had been preparing. Slowly, painfully, his motions hidden by his long and flowing burnoose, he had pulled his right foot out of its stirrup, and then slid it up and over his mount until both his legs were positioned on the horse’s left side. At the same time, with the same careful deliberation, he had freed his left arm from the burnoose sleeve covering it, and then removed the automatic stored in his left holster. He might have tried a different tactic if he had been riding his own mount, but the steed was too recognizable, and he had opted for anonymity. Thus, knowing from the tone of El Carunn’s voice that he had but seconds to act, the Phantom fired through his burnoose, knocking over the closest rifleman even as he slid behind his mount for cover.

The gun shot filled the quiet street with instant bedlam. Both horses reared and then bolted, throwing off the aim of those surrounding them. The Phantom took immediate use of his advantage, emptying his first .45 in a handful of seconds, bringing down three more of the riflemen.

“Kill them,” screamed El Carunn. “Kill them both!”

Gunfire filled the street. Not bothering to reload his first .45, the Phantom pulled his other automatic instead, clearing their path in swift measure of the slaver’s minions. He did so without anger or remorse. Emotion destroyed one’s ability to fight. As the horse which had carried him across the plains went down in his stead, uncomprehendingly screaming its last, he stepped away from its kicking, thrashing form, using the dust cloud it raised as cover to reach the building from which El Carunn was giving his orders.

Though several of the slaver’s men saw what had happened, none of them could make themselves heard over the din of combat. Seconds later, both weapons reloaded, the Phantom emerged upon the terrace where Carunn waited with his guards. The first man turned at the motion of the door which he caught from the corner of his eye. Before he could react he was spun around bodily as the Phantom caved in his throat with a perfectly placed blow.

“Ghost—Ghost who walks!”

The second to spot the Phantom was so unnerved by the sight of him he could barely move. The Phantom merely kicked out, sending the shaking target falling backwards into the third and last of El Carunn’s personal guard. With a rush and a shove, the Phantom then sent both men over the terrace railing into the street below. That left only the slaver himself. In less than a minute he had dispatched all of Carunn’s men, rendering them unconscious, or leaving them rolling on the ground, gasping in pain at their wounds. Approaching the slaver with the caution one used with any reptile, he said:

“Your kind really are stupid.”

El Carunn felt dread panic crawling across every inch of his bloated frame. He was alone now—defenseless. His target, Wei Chun, had ridden off, was lost to him. His prize, the Phantom, whom he had dreamed of selling into slavery, was now approaching him. In the flash of speed born of desperation within any who see the end drawing near, the slaver reviewed all his options, of which he found few. Finally, seeing no other option he could bear, he labored to pull his own weapon, a revolver waiting just beneath a pillow off to the side of his lounge.

While the fat man struggled to draw his weapon, with quiet ease, the Phantom pulled one of his .45s. Aiming it at the larger man, he made no attempt to disguise the fact El Carunn had no chance at gunning him down. The slaver saw the automatic aimed at him, even hesitated a moment. But then, not believing in anyone’s ability to feel mercy, he moved his arm further.

With a sigh, the Phantom fired once more, sending El Carunn’s weapon spinning away from his fingers. The slaver screamed, grabbing at his bloody hand. His cries lasted only a moment, however, as the fist of the Ghost Who Walks crashed against the fat man’s face, tearing the shape of a skull into his jaw and rendering him unconscious.

Knowing there was no reason for haste, the Phantom left the wailing and weeping thugs in the street behind for whomever’s duty it was to cart away and lock up such scum, heading for a small mission church and hospital center only a few blocks ahead. He arrived without fanfare, almost unnoticed. Everywhere he looked, everyone in the gathered crowd’s stood in mourning. They had been coming for weeks, all of them there to pay their respects to Sister Mary Zeng, the tireless nun the news services called “The Mother Theresa of Africa.” For a quarter of a century, the woman had quietly, patiently tended to the sick and the dying, and now was dying herself, victim of one of the diseases she had struggled against for so long.

As the Phantom entered the mission, all parted way for him to pass. Many knew the great service he had done their beloved sister that day. The others did so merely because he was the Phantom. For them, that alone was enough. Silently, simply following the throng of visitors through the building, the Ghost Who Walks made his way to the bedside of Sister Mary Zeng, where he found her father kneeling next to her, his eyes filled with tears.

“Were we in time?”

Chun nodded slightly. So shallow was the nun’s breathing, the Phantom was not certain the slight woman still lived. On the other side of the room, seated behind a nurse and several other care givers who refused to leave Mary Zeng’s side, sat Inspector Najar, Colonel Dimbuta and their U.N. counterpart. Najar, the only one to have remembered a small item about Chun’s several appeals to be allowed to visit the nun, had convinced the others the mission was the place to await the pirate. Giving the Phantom the slightest of nods, the inspector let him know everything would be taken care of from that point onward.

The Phantom gave Najar the slightest nod in return, wanting him to know his message was understood. He knew Dimbuta by reputation, did not know the UN official at all. Best to keep it that way, he thought.

Knowing it best if he disappeared soon, the Phantom allowed himself a moment to pay the dying nun his own respects. She had done much, not saving millions or performing miracles, but by devoting herself to humanity, and thus proving to the world that such was not an outmoded idea. The daughter of the world’s most fearsome pirate, she had joined the convent to atone for her father’s sins. Now, a woman who might have had all life’s comforts in any amount was dying because of her decision to do what she believed was right and proper.

Knowing all of this, Chun had indeed petitioned the authorities at Kitgum for the opportunity to see his daughter one last time. He had begged the prison system to allow him this single wish, but they laughed at him. They, of course, did not believe she was his daughter. The liar could not be trusted. Afraid for her remaining days with El Carunn so close, he could not offer information in exchange for his request.

“You are thinking too hard, father,” came the woman’s tiny voice. “You should be at peace.”

“Be still, Zeng,” said Chun, his voice struggling not to break. “You need to rest.”

“Not anymore,” she replied. “You have come. If you have done that, you will do all the rest God requires.”

“That’s what you’ve been after all these years, what I couldn’t understand. You wanted to save my soul.”

“Father,” the woman said weakly, all knowing from the sound of the word she had not the breath for many more. “No one can save the soul of another. We can only bring them to where they can save themselves.”

And then, with so much more unsaid between them, father and child were separated by the terrible void. Chun’s eyes closed against a flood of tears as he stared into his daughter’s unmoving, still smiling face. Turning to the Phantom, unable to talk, practically unable to breathe, he fumbled with one hand to remove the half-coin medallion he had shown El Carunn, his other hand tightly squeezing Zeng’s cooling hand.

“Here,” he gasped, holding the piece out to the Phantom. “Take it back. You earned it. Next time, don’t give it out so indiscriminately. You can see what happens.”

The Ghost Who Walks accepted the half-coin and chain silently. The ancient debt of his ancestor had been paid. It was enough. As he turned to leave the room, Wei Chun’s voice pulled at him once more, asking:

“Did you ever read Schopenhauer?” The Phantom nodded in response, though Chun did not take note of the motion. Lost within his own thoughts, he continued quietly, saying:

“He once wrote that ‘fame is something which must be won; honour is something which must not be lost.’ The two of us, we’ve both gained much fame during our lives.” The pirate stopped briefly, his eyes finally leaving his daughter for a moment. Spotting the officials waiting for him, with shoulders sagging, he said:

“Me, I gained mine by losing my honor. You, Ghost Who Walks, your fame keeps growing, because your honor is intact.” With his free hand, the pirate pointed toward Najar and the others, then added:

“Maybe if I give them those names they want so badly, maybe I can do as she wished after all.”

“Afraid of Hell?” asked the Phantom.

“Not really,” answered the pirate. Then, staring down at his daughter’s lifeless form once more, he said, “But if there is a Heaven, I would hate for her to be there all alone.”

Chun blinked at the tears still blurring his vision. It was only an instant, but when he opened his eyes once more, the Phantom was gone, making his way through the wailing throng. Word was spreading all about him that Sister Mary Zeng had passed, and their pent-up agony finally released was a mournful noise powerful enough to rival the thunder.

Moving away from the mission, the intensity of the continual bereavement touched the Phantom, making him wonder. When he died, would the world react such? Would the multitude beat their breasts, tear their hair, weep uncontrollably because he was no longer among them? The answer, of course, to such a ridiculous notion, almost made him chuckle.

His was the death that never came—could never come. He did as he would, and all he had done that day would only add to his legend. The laws of man, and the laws of God, meant nothing to him for, after all, he was the Phantom.

The Ghost Who Walks.

The End

C.J. HENDERSON is the creator of the Teddy London supernatural detective series, the Jack Hagee hard-boiled PI series, the author of the Encyclopedia of Science Fiction Movies and some 50 other novels and books. He has also written hundreds of short stories as well as comics where he worked with everyone from Batman to Archie and Kolchak: the Nightstalker to Cherry Poptart. A beloved storyteller, admired womanizer, brilliant gambler and always last picked for most sporting events, he has so far been translated into as many foreign languages as there are gym teachers who were severely disappointed in his performance. For more info and a chance to not only make up your own mind, but to read more of his work for free, he invites you to join him at www.cjhenderson.com.

The Fastest Animal

By Ron Fortier

Diana Palmer bounced up in the cab of the dilapidated old Ford quarter ton truck and banged her head on the steel roof. “OUCH!” Her driver, Walter Mudama fought to keep the steering wheel from following the muddy rut into the ditch. Roads into the Deep Woods of Bangalla were notoriously awful, as she had been discovering since they had left Jungle Patrol Headquarters three days earlier.

“Do you have to hit every sink hole in the jungle?” she complained, trying to stop herself from the constant bouncing up and down. The truck itself was almost ten years old and not only were its shocks worn and useless, but the cab’s seat had lost its padding long ago and been restuffed with old newspapers and rags that didn’t do Diana’s posterior any good at all.

Since entering the verdant world of the Deep Woods, the air had been stifling and the humidity cloying. Her clothes were always damp and what she wouldn’t give for a good torrential downpour about now. But Diana was not a novice to the African wilds of Bangalla and knew the wet monsoon season was still several weeks away.

“I’m sorry, Miss Palmer,” the likeable African apologized, still wrestling with the wheel as if it were a contentious wild beast. “I’m an intern, not a driver. It is not my fault there are no experienced drivers at the village hospital.”

As the truck navigated a sharp turn through the thick jungle foliage, the sparse road almost completely disappeared from view.

“When Dr. Hayworth requested someone to meet you and the crates of medicine, there was no one but your humble servant to answer the call.”

Diana looked at the sweating young black man beside her and forgot her discomfort for a moment. He wore rimless glasses and was having a difficult time keeping them on his short, flat nose. Still, he never lost his sense of humor and actually enjoyed his surroundings. After all, he had been born in the Deep Woods twenty-three years earlier.

Diana had been impressed with Walter from the moment she had first met him. Her friend and college chum, Dr. Jessica Axel had mentioned him often in her past letters. The son of the tribal chief, Walter had been taught by the missionaries and they had sponsored his tuition at a prestigious French medical college. When the war to end all wars erupted across the continent, the lad had volunteered for the medical corp., and spent the next few years driving an ambulance for both French and ultimately Allied Forces.

After the peace was signed, he headed for home, vowing to some day return to finish his medical training. But right now there was a plague sweeping through Africa and Dr. Hayworth needed new supplies badly. Only then would she be able to stave off a serious catastrophe among the isolated villages of the Deep Woods. Jessica thought of her socialite sorority sister and sent off an urgent telegram outlining her needs.

With her many connections among New York’s elite, Diana Palmer was able to quickly raise more than adequate funds and purchase the much needed drugs. Then it was simply a matter of having them shipped to Bangalla and flying out to take them the rest of the way herself. She had found both the medicines and Walter Mudama awaiting her at Patrol Headquarters.

Now, according to Walter, they were only hours away from his village, Lomwe, and Dr. Hayworth’s missionary hospital.

The sooner the better, Diana thought to herself. Her poor butt just couldn’t take much more abuse. Besides, once the medicines were delivered and her task completed, she hoped to spend some time with another resident of the area; one a bit more reclusive and unique.

“Do you really know The Ghost Who Walks?” Mudama asked out of the blue, as if he had picked up her very thoughts.

Diana looked at him curiously. “What brought that up all of a sudden?”

The young man looked at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry; I did not know any other way to phrase my question. I’ve wanted to ask you ever since we left the fort but didn’t know how. If I have offended you, I’m very sorry.”

“No offense taken, Walter. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

When she didn’t say anything further, he looked at her again, his eyes inquiring.

“Well, yes, I do know him.”

The lovely brunette felt herself starting to blush. “Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far. Let’s just say we’re acquaintances.”

Another look of question followed this neutral statement. He wasn’t going to let up.

“Oh, alright. We are friends. Very good friends. In fact I hope to be able to visit with him after we’re done delivering the medicines to Dr. Hayworth.”

“I saw him once,” Mudama offered. “When I was a boy. An elephant bull had gone mad and was attacking my people when they would go out to plant and hunt. After he had killed two of our hunters, my father, Ibo, had the drums call The Ghost Who Walks.”

“What happened next?” Diana forgot about the truck’s roller coaster mayhem for a while as she listened to this new story about the amazing man she had come to know briefly.

“The very next morning he was there. He spoke with my father and the other men, and then together they set out into the jungle to find the rogue. Miss Palmer, I can still remember how he looked that day. He was the tallest, most powerful man I had ever seen. Yet even with his black mask, when he walked pass our hut, he looked down at me and my sisters and he smiled. And all of a sudden I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.”

“What happened to the mad bull?”

“The Ghost Who Walks slew it with one shot of his rifle even as it charged him through the brush. My father says he never moved, but merely waited as the monster cried out its awful rage and then fell upon him. He merely raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired. The bull was stopped dead in its tracks and fell to the ground to expire only a few feet from where he stood; The Ghost Who Walks.

“If you stay in our village a while, you will hear it told many times. It is my father’s favorite story.”

“Ha, I can see why.”

The truck plowed through a thick curtain of vines and suddenly they were in a clearing where the dirt road divided into two; one fork going straight while the other veered to the right. The canopy above them also opened to allow the noon sun’s rays to penetrate the area and Diana had to squint. Mudama instinctively eased his foot off the gas pedal and the truck slowed down.

Something black and metallic spun through the air in front of them, bounced onto the hard packed earth and then exploded with a tremendous bang. The young intern jammed on his brakes and worn tires froze in mid-revolution as dirt, leaves and other detritus rained down on them.

“What was that?” Diana gasped, trying to collect her thoughts.

“It looked like a German hand grenade?” Mudama said as if he didn’t believe his own words.

“You are a smart lad,” a voice from the jungle spoke out. “Now please get out of the truck before we blow your brains out.”

From where the voice had originated a man appeared, in his hands an Enfield rifle. He carried it loosely as he stepped out of the woods and onto the road before them. He was African, with yellow-brown skin, of average height and build, wearing sandals, cotton pants and a sleeveless tee shirt. Around his middle was a gun belt holding a German Luger. In his mouth was a British cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. When he spoke it bobbed up and down, smoke curling from its tip.

“I do not want to repeat myself. Shut the engine off and step out of the truck.”

Diana tilted her head towards Walter Mudama and whispered, “Run him down! It’s our only chance.”

But her words failed to register in time and before the boy could follow through with her advice, Diana’s door was pulled opened and a giant hand the size of an anchor took hold of her right shoulder. It lifted her out of the truck and threw her to the ground. Caught completely off guard, she landed roughly on her side and rolled over onto her back to look up at the biggest man she had ever seen in her entire life.

“Nangwaya,” the man in the road called out. “Try not to hurt the pretty lady.”

The giant grunted. He was at least seven feet tall, bald, and wearing torn khaki shorts. His dusky torso was muscle laden, his chest bulging and his arms massive like tree trunks.

At the same time Diana was confronting the Herculean Nangwaya, Walter Mudama was being introduced to a third outlaw. A small, rat-faced fellow had materialized along the side of the truck, jumped onto the running board and shoved the point of a razor-sharp dagger into the side of the driver’s neck.

“The boss told you to shut off the engine, boy,” the squeaky voice admonished as the point of the blade dug into his flesh. “Do it before I slice your throat open.”

Nodding fearfully, Mudama reached out with his right hand and turned off the starter key; the beat-up six-cylinder motor shut off. The man on the running board pulled his knife away, jerked open the door and motioned for him to climb out. “Hurry it up. We don’t have all day!”

“I am the famous bandit, Kafara,” the man in the road announced proudly. “If you do what I say, then I will not have to kill you and leave your bodies for the jackals.”

Diana, slapping red dust off her pants, pushed past the towering Nangwaya and strode up to Kafara with absolutely no fear. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but all we are carrying is medicine for the hospital in Lomwe. We don’t have anything of value for you to steal.”

Kafara smiled and showed yellowed teeth. “Lady, you ain’t got no clue just how valuable your cargo is.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There are many places in the world still recovering from the big war. Places that don’t have medicines like what you are carrying and would be willing to pay lots of money to have them.”

“That’s insane,” Diana retorted. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

“Lady, it is not my job to educate you,” Kafara said becoming annoyed with her. “We are taking those crates to the river post at Ndali over the mountain where I have buyers ready with their cash.”

“But what about the sick, the women and children of Lomwe. If they don’t get those drugs, many of them will die.”

Kafara grinned cruelly as he blew out a final puff of cigarette smoke and dropped the butt to the ground. “Lady, that’s the law of the jungle, ain’t it. The strong survive and the weak do not. Now you and the boy step out of the way and we will be on our way.”

Diana was boiling up inside. She couldn’t let this two-bit road pirate drive off with their supplies. She was fuming when Nangwaya took her by the arms from behind, picked her up and deposited her on the edge of the road as if she were weightless. He gave her a disgruntled look and returned to Kafara’s side.

“Fante, drive,” Kafara ordered the rat-faced knife wielder. The man gave him a mock salute and climbed into the cab of the Ford.

Watching all this, Walter Mudama shared Diana’s frustration at his inability to do anything. Then he remembered exactly who Diana was.

“Miss Palmer,” he ran to her side, excited. “Show him your medal. Show him the sign of the Phantom!”

Kafara’s head turned at the name. “What did you just say?”

“The Phantom,” Mudama repeated, only louder. “These are his woods. All know that. And besides, this is his friend.” He indicated Diana. “She bears the mark of his personal protection.”

At that, Diana reached into her shirt and found the chain wrapped around her neck. At one end it held a silver medallion, which she now held up for the outlaw leader to examine. Kafara came closer and peered at the quarter-sized medal. On it were what looked like four crossed swords, but their hilts were shaped like the letter P.

“See,” Mudama pressed. “That is the good sign of The Ghost Who Walks. Now do you believe us?”

Kafara stepped back and tugged on his stubbly chin. He eyes kept staring at the medal around Diana’s neck. He was no stranger to the stories about the protector of the Deep Woods. But he had always assumed they were mere fairy tales told around village fires to amuse and frighten the children. But there it was, the symbol of the Phantom.

Then the drums began to beat.

“What’s that?” Fante asked, sticking his head out of the cab. He had yet to start the engine and the noise of the beating drums was a soft sound rising with each passing second. It was coming from all around them.

The giant Nangwaya swiveled his blockish head around, trying to fathom the strange, rhythmic noise that was now filling the jungle around them. Monkeys in the trees began to screech and birds, cawing wildly, took flight overhead. All added to the insane cacophony caused by the steadily pounding drums.

“See,” Walter Mudama proclaimed confidently, “the old jungle saying is true. The Phantom hears and sees everything!”

Kafara bit his lower lip and looked from the dense jungle that surrounded them to the smug expression on the Mudama. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but the uncanny timing of the drums was unnerving. What if there were such a man as this Phantom?

His mind began to explore his options and quickly settled for the most obvious.

The outlaw raised his Enfield and shot Mudama in the right leg.

“UGHH!” the lad cried out and collapsed, blood seeping through his pants.

“NO!” Diana yelled at Kafara. “Why did you do that?”

Kafara put down the barrel of the rifle and dug into his pants pocket for a crumbled pack of his cigarettes. He lit one with a wooden match and inhaled deeply before replying. “Well, on the off chance there is a Phantom, I’ve just given him something else to think about instead of chasing after us.”

“You monster!” Diana knelt down beside the groaning Mudama who was clutching at his leg. It was bleeding freely and she began tearing away at the hole in the pants leg.

As she did so, Kafara jogged to the truck and climbed into the passenger side while the big Nangwaya made himself comfortable in the canvas topped rear. “Go,” Kafara barked and Fante started the truck, stepped on the gas and pointed the grill towards the right fork. As they rolled past, the outlaw gave Diana and the wounded boy a last glance and then forgot about them. Whether they survived or not was no longer his concern. The law of the jungle would decide as it always did. He simply wanted to get away from those infernal, ceaseless drums.

“How bad are you hurt?” Diana asked as she tore off strips of his pants to expose the bullet hole. It was centered in the meaty part of his thigh just above his knee. Blood continued to spurt out of it.

“I think it went right through my leg,” Walter Mudama said through clenched teeth. “It hurts like the dickens.”

“Like the dickens?” Diana arched an eyebrow. “What part of France did you say you studied in?”

The joke won her a feeble smile and the boy tried to muster his courage. “I don’t think it hit any major arteries, but we’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

“I know, I know. I took a class in first aid while at college.” Diana looked around the jungle clearing, her eyes seeking anything that might help staunch the flow of blood. It was pointless and she began pulling her shirt out of her pants. “There’s never a good drugstore around whenever you need one.”

Taking hold of her shirt tails, she tore a section from the bottom then proceeded to rip it off as evenly as she could. When she was done, she had a swatch of cloth two and half feet long and six inches wide. “There, that should do the trick.”

“First get some of those big leaves on that bush,” Mudama pointed out the shrub across the dirt path. “They have natural oils in them which help to keep the wound free of germs.”

Diana did as he told her, gathered the leaves hastily and returned to his side. “Good,” he said, rising up on his elbows. His face was starting to go pale and Diana worried he would pass out before they were done administering to the wound. “Now crush them until you see the milk sap on your fingers.”

Again Diana obeyed. “Got it, Walter.”

“Good, that’s it. Now take a small piece of the crushed leaf and push it into the bullet hole . . . aghh . . . at both the front and back of my leg. Then wrap your bandage about it tightly.”

His gasp of pain was all the motivation she needed. Within minutes Diana had complied with his instructions and had the makeshift bandage tied securely around his leg.

“There, done.” She leaned back on her heels and took a deep breath.

“There is nothing else we can do now,” the would-be doctor said and lay on his back in the grass trying to calm his own breathing. “Listen, Miss Palmer. Do you hear it?”

“Huh, what?”

“The drums. They have stopped.”

“Hey, you’re right. They have.” It was eerie. All of sudden they were surrounded by quiet and she began to wonder at the mysterious nature of this strange and beautiful world.

“Someone comes,” Mudama announced.

Diana listened carefully. Sure enough something was moving through the brush and coming on fast. She tried to pin point where the loud crashing came from when there appeared before her a vision of unequalled drama and majesty.

The Phantom, astride his pure white stallion, Hero, came leaping over the bushes before them as if materializing out of some ancient epic sage. He reined up upon seeing them and the magnificent Hero reared up on his hind legs and pawed the sky with his hooves. Diana had a twinkling memory of being eight years old and finding a picture of Sir Lancelot in an old school book. Knights in shining armor had been her fantasy from that day forth and now here was a true paladin come to her rescue.

“Diana,” he called as he vaulted out of the saddle and came to her. “Are you alright?”

She was in his arms and the safety they offered was truly wonderful. “Yes, yes I’m fine. Really. But it’s Walter, he’s been shot.”

As the Phantom knelt to examine the lad’s injury, his face became hard as granite. He looked up at her. “Tell me everything that happened.”

Ten minutes later, the Phantom gently picked up the hurt young man and put him on Hero. He then turned to help Diana get up behind Mudama.

“I don’t know about this,” she said nervously as he hoisted her up effortlessly. “What if I get lost or something.”

“You are an excellent rider and we both know it,” the masked man chided. “And the trail leads directly into the village. It won’t take you more than an hour to get there. Trust Hero, he knows the way.”

The beautiful adventuress brushed a lock of black hair from her forehead. “But what are you going to do? Go after those thugs on foot?”

The Phantom turned his gaze to the mountain rising from the woods to the East. “If they are going to Ndali, it will take them a good three hours to get there. I will get there first.”

Diana peered at the lofty monolith and shook her head. “Exactly how many miles is it over that thing?”

“Approximately thirty.”

“And you think you can cross it in a few hours?” She studied his face, what she could see around the mask. His jaw was strong, determined, his mouth set with a purpose.

“I’m a fast runner,” he said and smiled. She knew then he was serious. And she also knew if anyone could do it, he was that person.

He handed her the reins and she gripped them expertly while wrapping her left arm around Mudama. He was starting to fall into unconsciousness.

“No more talk, Diana. You must go!”

“Very well. I’ll see you at the village.”

With that she gave Hero a nudge with her knees and the graceful stallion bolted down the jungle road. The Phantom stood watching them go and then turned towards the other road. He looked up at the mountain and began to run.

Old jungle saying; The Phantom is the fastest animal in the jungle.

Kafara reached the Ndali trading outpost right on schedule. His wrist-watch told him they were only a few minutes from their rendezvous with the river pirates. As he guided the truck through the main road past the trading building, he saw the docks were deserted except for a few fishing boats and canoes.

An Irishman named Patrick O’Hara operated the trading post, but he was nowhere in sight. Which Kafara, reflected, was a good thing. The sooner they unloaded the boxes of medicine, were paid and out of there, the better.

He drove right up to the main dock, a long platform of logs that reached out into the Nagumbo river a good twenty yards. There were several old men from a nearby village sitting on the dock, drinking Dutch bear from a keg and dangling their long, skinny legs over the dark blue water. But there was no outboard waiting as it was suppose to be.

“Hey! Look out there!” Fante was getting out of the cab and now pointing to the center of the wide river. “It’s them. Kotai and the others. But they’re going away!”

Killing the engine, Kafara leaped out of the truck, rifle in hand and raced down the slope and on to the wobbly dock. Fante was right. The green painted boat was moving away from them making for the opposite shore.

Kafara started yelling and waving his arms. Finally he lifted the Enfield, chambered a round and fired a shot into the air. This brought results, but not the one he expected. Harry Kotai, one of the three men aboard the quickly receding craft, turned, spotted him and shook his head.

“What the hell is going on here?” Kafara swore, as Fante and the big Nangwaya came up behind him. “Why are they running away?”

“Because he told them to,” one of the old natives answered, looking up from his comfortable perch.

“What?” The outlaw looked at the white haired old man and blinked. “What are you saying, old man. Who told them to leave?”

The smiling elder turned and pointed back up towards the top of the slope. “He did. The Ghost Who Walks.”

Kafara had all he could do stifle the scream that rose up in his throat when he looked up at the figure on the rise. The man was decked out in some kind of body-hugging suit which did nothing to disguise his powerful physique. He wasn’t as big or as muscular as Nangwaya, but there was about him an aura of power that even the broiling afternoon sun could not diminish. And then there was his ominous black mask. He stood with his mighty arms folded over his chest studying them with obvious contempt.

“Who are you? What do you want with us?” Kafara finally manage to blurt out, clutching the Enfield to his chest.

“You know who I am, Kafara.” His voice was cold, merciless. “I’ve come to take the medicine truck to where it belongs and bring justice to you who deserve it.”

Kafara felt his knees starting to shake and knew shame. No, his mind rebelled. No man would cower him like this. He fought his fear and swung the rifle up.

“Kill him,” he yelled to Fante and Nangwaya.

At that, the two old men on the pier shook their heads in disbelief and tumbled into the water. Better to be wet than dead.

Even as the last word was coming out of the bandit’s mouth, he had his rifle up and had started to squeeze the trigger. But then the Phantom moved his right arm and in a blur his .45 automatic was in his hand and firing. The first shot hit the rifle’s stock and sent it flying out of Kafara’s hands. “AGHH!”

Fante, the little thief wasn’t about to be caught so easily. Dropping to a crouch, he ran toward the Phantom at the same time pulling two daggers from their sheaths stitched to the back of his leather belt. Moving to his right, he threw one under hand, and aimed straight for the Phantom’s chest.

As the first blade spun through the air, he immediately tossed the second for the same target. Let’s see him dodge those, the small outlaw thought.

The Phantom’s gun hand twisted upward and he fired again, his second bullet hitting the first knife in mid-air. Fante, still in a crouch, came to a stop, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. Then, the jungle avenger tossed his pistol to his left hand just as the second blade was inches from his face. He snatched it by the handle, flipped it and caught the tip and hurled it back to where it had come from. Fante’s mouth opened in horror as his own dagger hit him in the arm and buried itself into his flesh. “EEEAHH!”

Kafara couldn’t believe what was happening. In a matter of seconds the Phantom had managed to disarm both of them without the slightest bit of effort. Nursing his stung hand, the infuriated bandit chief turned to his dimwitted giant. “Well don’t just stand there, you oaf. Crush him!”

Nangwaya looked down at the yelling Kafara and simply nodded. He started across the pier, his tree like limbs swaying at his side. The Phantom watched him approaching and pointed his pistol. “Stop. I won’t tell you a second time.”

Nangwaya either didn’t hear or understand him. Or care. The Phantom was many things, but a murderer he was not.

“Go head,” Kafara shouted from the pier. “Shoot him. But it won’t do you any good, Phantom. Mere bullets can’t stop Nangwaya. You’ll see!”

Kafara was getting his old confidence back.

Reluctantly the Phantom holstered his .45 and braced himself. It was always a pity when his foes chose to do things the hard way. He balled his right hand into a fist and waited. Timing was everything.

The man-monster lumbered right up to the Phantom and opened his arms up to pummel him. It was the only way he knew how to fight; simply to drive his opponents into the ground with his powerful blows. What Nangwaya had never met was another with the same kind of strength, and with the cunning to employ it judiciously.

One step closer and suddenly the Phantom cocked his right arm back and unleashed a thunderbolt punch to the brute’s jaw. The impact sounded like a hammer blow on an anvil and echoed over the river. The two old natives, waist high in the water, watched in awe as the Phantom’s punch stopped the giant in his tracks.

Nangwaya’s head lifted up and his eyes rolled white in his head. He stood like that for several long seconds, then toppled over like a fallen timber, senseless. The ground shook when he hit. On his jaw was an imprint that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

It was in the shape of a skull.

The sun was just beginning to disappear over the horizon when the Phantom drove the old truck into the village of Lomwe. Crowds of villagers followed the truck to Dr. Hayworth’s hospital compound where he was met by Chief Ibo, Dr. Axel and Diana Palmer.

“How’s Walter?” the Phantom inquired, after he told them what had transpired at the trading post and how he’d left the three bandits bound and in O’Hara’s care until the Jungle Patrol was notified.

“He’s resting peacefully,” Dr. Hayworth, a comely American with pepper red hair answered. “Thanks to Diana and that beautiful horse of yours.”

“Ah, where is Hero?”

“I have some children taking care of him,” Diana offered. “Come, I’ll show you.”

She took his arm and they excused themselves from the others. It was clear to Dr. Hayworth that her friend wanted to be alone with her special friend. She started directing the native men where to bring the boxes of medicine.

As they strolled through the peaceful village, Diana hugged the Phantom’s arm and smiled up at him. “You know, once this story gets told throughout the Deep Woods, you are going to have to get use to an entirely new name.”

“Oh,” the Phantom said, his dark eyes flashing with warmth. “How so?”

“Well, from now on they are going to be calling you, The Ghost Who Runs.”

They both startled laughing.

The End

RON FORTIER is best known for reviving the Green Hornet as a comic series at Now Comics in the 80’s, Ron admits to coming to exciting world of pulps late and is now making up for lost time. Plus editing a dozen new pulp anthologies, he writes the new Captain Hazzard series for his recently launched Airship 27 Productions, found at www.thrillingtales.net. Updates to his many projects are posted weekly at his own site www.Airship27.com.

Truth or Consequences

By Jim Alexander

At any given time it could have been the last Paradise left in the world.

Of course, then, the heavens would open.

Jungle rain formed arterial lines on giant leaves. Insects and bark were swept away in the torrent like so many lost dead souls. Like most things in the jungle, the rainstorm was a silent assassin.

Pools of water accumulated at the end of a long stone wall. Some of the stone had already been washed away, eroded in time, analogous to the race that had built it. Still, as it went along, the wall grew taller, prouder, a more fitting monument than most to another forgotten tribe. Eventually, the wall reached a German soldier on guard inside the perimeter, his overcoat battered by, and glistening in, the downpour. He smoked a cheap sodden cigarette, in defiance of the elements if nothing else. Nearby, further from the wall, was a brace of Japanese soldiers keeping their distance, but reluctant all the same to let their German counterpart completely out of sight.

And dominating the landscape, the sprawling structure that they, both German and Japanese, guarded. An old jungle Castle, its fortifications jutting out with a look akin to so many stunted arms. Inside the Castle there ran long corridors devoid of light and intolerant of heat. And so empty of compassion.

In the jungle, rain dripped from the tips of leaves resembling a cascade of tears from a stricken inconsolable lover. But there was something else lurking underneath the jungle-wet gloss. The pinpoint pressure of the heat of a midday sun, unabated, crackling through. From the Castle, a scream escaped if only to expose the untrustworthy calm. A human scream deserving of pity but in receipt of none. In such a way the jungle and Castle made ill fitting but somehow appropriate bedfellows. In such a way Paradise was lost.

Nimble feet lighter than air ran through the jungle. Ankle bent and flat of foot arched to accommodate the vines and virgin rutted earth underfoot. Was he chasing someone, he thought to himself, or was someone chasing him? The chatter of the jungle lashed out intermittently like a short burst of machine gunfire. But, wait, wasn’t that actual machine gun fire he’d just heard? From somewhere in the distance?

On he ran. He thought of pirates with swastikas, and the thought made him shake with anger. The fire was in his belly. Jumping smartly he cleared a thicket avoiding angry indiscriminate thorns. A clearing opened before him. There, he stood motionless, listening. A stagnant pool was at his feet. There was another burst. His shoulders rolled and head moved towards the sound. He began to run again. His shimmering reflection, caught in the stagnant pool, seemed to remain in the water an instant longer before catching up with its host. Gone in a flash. A flash of purple hue.

A man called Smith woke with a start from a fitful dream. A scream had come from another cell, which had caused his heart to jolt and his oh so heavy eyelids to flicker open however reluctantly. There was a pain across his chest where chains held him fast to a bolted iron chair. The interior of his cell was cramped. There was no natural light, only a naked bulb swinging from the ceiling flickering in time with his eyelids.

For a few elongated unnatural seconds the bulb would periodically give up the ghost, only to stutter back to life. Without the meager light of the bulb it was deathly dark. Intermittent shadows closed in like so many indiscriminate angry fists.

Smith began to panic. The question of whether he’d ever see the outside again was never far from his mind. Quickly, greedily, he took gulps of breath, even though nothing seemed to reach his torched lungs. Where was he? Who was he? So many questions tugged at his mind vying for attention like the outstretched hands of hungry children. The moment was long, as was its passing. ‘Know who you are. Know who you are,’ he told himself, repeating on and on. Through this, a form of calm was reestablished. For a moment he even considered the prospect that Smith was probably not his real name.

The cell metal door opened noisily straining treacherously on unforgiving hinges. The screech of metal became ever more pronounced as Smith considered how little the cell consisted of, just him, the chair, and the darting shadows. And the cold. It was so very cold, no hint of the jungle heat outside. A man named Muller entered the cell. His Nazi uniform was as black as undisturbed night, ranking him as lieutenant. His top two buttons were undone.

Contemplating his prisoner a moment longer, Muller’s gloved hand subconsciously touched the side of his face. Was there something in his hand, Smith was thinking, or was it merely a darting shadow playing tricks in the unreliable light?

Muller exuded a rare intensity as he knelt down by the chair. “1945 my friend,” he said, “and there is a war on.”

There was barely time for Smith to register that the sleeve on his left arm was rolled up—and had been from a time before regaining consciousness. Muller had a syringe in his hand. The liquid inside it was a shade darker than any shadow. Darker even than night.

“Something to loosen the tongue,” Muller said. With clinical formality he tapped a vein on the prisoner’s arm, before sticking the needle in.

“Nothing lasts forever,” Muller said, “not even you.”

There was black on green on black. The image started blurred, but grew stronger, running as it was through the overhanging foliage. He could hear more staccato, a crackling through the jungle, machine gun fire for sure this time. He sprinted into another clearing and was caught by a mountain gorilla. The gorilla grabbed him close, its hot spittle lashing his face, and then threw him up ten feet in the air. He landed with a thud on his back, but felt no pain. Beside him, on the ground, he saw a treasure chest, which had his mark on it. A pack of wild dogs rounded on him. A series of increasingly frantic slaps fended them back. He was up in a crouch, his hand positioned at the small of his back for added support. The earth to the touch was loose and thick. Quicksand pulled him in; the world had lost its axis. As he cried out, a rope was wrapped around his torso dragging him to safety. Winded, lying on his side, he looked up and across and saw a man carrying a harpoon. The man threw back his head roaring a guttural curse from a dead language.

Something was wrong. So many memories jumbled up, disorientated and unreliable. He needed to clear his head. His life would depend.

A bucket of water brought Smith rudely back to consciousness. Everything was double vision. A white discharge trickled from his eyes. The drug clung onto his system, loosening his inhibitions. His mind reached out to a flicker of light at the end of a long narrow tunnel.

“What is your name?” Mullet screamed in his face. “What is your purpose?”

Despite everything Smith wanted to laugh himself senseless. But the feeling soon passed, leaving a strange sense of clarity in its wake.

Smith stared at his interrogator, shoulders as broad as his restraints allowed, his face flushed with defiance.

“I am the Phantom,” he said. “That is my purpose.”

Muller stood straight, tensed, a figure of silence. He rolled back slightly on his heels. “The ‘Ghost Who Walks’,” Muller muttered. He slapped the prisoner soundly on the face. “I will be the judge of that,” he said.

Again, reflexively, Lieutenant Muller touched his face. His fingers traced around the indentation of a mark there. “This mark is like a memory,” he said, “indelible, never to fade.”

Smith glanced at the mark, which seemed to glow back at him. Another trick of the frugal light, or the effects of the drug, surely? Muller stooped once more to whisper in Smith’s ear. “I have heard that whoever shall see the Phantom’s unmasked face will suffer an excruciating death.”

Muller straightened. “And here I am alive and well.” He walked stridently to the door meaning never to return. For this was the Castle, where the prisoner would be paid one further visit, this time by his executioner.

“Pirates with swastikas—” Smith said. But Muller did not falter from his course.

“Gorilla—” Smith said, hurriedly, “a chest the weight of a man. A treasure chest that carries the same mark as the one on the side of your face—”

Muller hesitated at the door cocking his head back towards the prisoner. “You are mistaken,” he said, “I am neither pirate nor guerilla.” He stared long and hard at Smith trying to properly remember the shape of a costumed man from another place and another time. A man so quick on his heels, and so difficult to pin down, even as a snapshot of the mind.

‘Can he possibly speak of events of two years ago?’ Muller thought to himself. The interrogator chose to go against his better instincts. He clenched his fists forcing himself to listen on, to see the moment through.

“Five of you in a jungle clearing—” Smith said. “Four carrying a chest brimming with stolen Bangalla treasure. A chest that had been in my safe-keeping for decades—”

The fifth German soldier was the one with the machine gun firing in starts at the breeze—at any movement in the leaves. As he rushed to the scene this told the Phantom everything he needed to know The gunfire betrayed a level of nervousness from these men, who had earlier entered a nearby village butchering anyone in their way. But here away from the senseless killing they were clearly less at ease. The orchestration of the jungle, its languid soft whisperings, was a different proposition entirely.

The source of his quest was now only a short sprint away. The Phantom was aware that the burst of machine gun fire came at regular intervals, around two minutes apart. It had become a mantra, a means of reassurance, of establishing their brutish superiority over the green expanse that surrounded them. The Phantom now knelt at the opening of the clearing biding the seconds that made up the time before the next burst. Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta . . . There it was. The signal to get him on the move.

The Phantom, piston arms, sinews stretched, leapt out of the clearing heading towards the noise. He was in about them. The soldier raised the machine gun. A volley of blows rendered the soldier’s wrists and shoulders useless. First the gun dropped to the floor, closely followed by the soldier himself The other four instinctively dropped the treasure chest, which clattered angrily on the ground. Still the chest was in one piece—once this was over would the same be said of the Phantom? The four were shouting over each other, all at the same time. The front two reached for their holsters. The Phantom’s weapon of choice was already on show. He advanced, hammering the closest with a fist to the gut. The soldier bent over in pain getting a knee in the face for good measure. A chop to the windpipe, brutal and uncompromising, took the next soldier out of commission. The Phantom spun towards the two at the rear. One was already lunging at him. He was at the Phantom, fingers clawing at his masked face. The Phantom grabbed the soldier’s arm bending it into an unnatural position. The sound of bone grating then splintering preceded a blood-curdling scream. A blow to the head silenced it. Now there was only one.

The last soldier aimed his Luger, with the Phantom full square in his sights. The soldier quickly glanced at the chest confirming in his mind that it and his target were connected.

The Phantom, his body arched, considered his options. This final adversary stood only a few feet away. The Phantom was quick, but nothing to match the hairline press of a trigger. He moderated his breathing. Time around him seemed to slow.

Muller’s cloaking breath fanned Smith’s face. Only now was Smith aware just how close Muller was to him. Smith flexed ineffectually at his bonds, which held him securely to his chair. The metal of the chains, unsettled, clinked noisily. He knew his limitations, there was no way he could break out of his restraints, not with brute strength alone.

Muller’s face contorted. His gloved hands pressed tightly together. “Five men, five soldiers, but still the Phantom took from them their hard-earned bounty. You think it so easy to be in the jungle with its insects, sickness, and sweat? It was to be a gift to the Führer himself. Still the Phantom swatted the unit away like flies. The sheer audacity of it all.”

Smith adjusted his head to look Muller straight in the eyes. “I am your nemesis,” he said, “the sworn enemy of pirates. The Nazis are the greatest pirates of them all!”

Such was his close proximity to Muller, Smith was only too aware of the imprint on Muller’s cheek. It burned with life, its skeletal form dancing in what flickering light there was. Once branded never to be forgotten. Muller carried upon his face the mark of the Phantom.

“If that’s what you’re after, you can forget it,” Smith said. “The chest and all its Bangalla treasure is safe,” he said, “away from prying hands. I will never reveal its present position. Go ahead, be my guest and kill me first.”

A slap of perspiration and leather came hard across Smith’s cheek. Smith’s head jerked with the blow like a puppet on a string, the back of his head bumping hard against the chair. He tasted hot brown spittle as blood leaked into his mouth.

“You think this is my concern?” Muller said. “That this is what I want?” Muller was up, yelling and stamping his feet. “My disgrace is a permanent one. There is no way back! The baubles and beads, the treasure of primitive savages, have no relevance not here and now.” Muller chuckled soullessly. “Not within these four walls!”

Muller pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth willing himself calm. “Put simply, I am here to validate, or otherwise, your claim that you are the Phantom. You claimed such a thing on your capture. And now you claim it again in this cell.

“I am the Phantom expert of this place—” Muller allowed himself a wry smile. “By default, you could say.”

Smith again tested his bonds. It had become a matter of routine. He would very much have liked to be alone with this man in this cell, unchained, with nothing for added company but his fists. “I have beaten you once,” Smith said, teeth grinding, “buddy, I’ll do it again.”

A brief, rueful smile. “I remain a beaten man no matter,” Muller said. “I was not demoted. I still retain the rank of lieutenant. Rather I was sent into exile to this god-forsaken place, where the corridor stone walls are as cold as it is hot outside. We have fallen off the edge of the world. We are the forgotten ones, prisoners and guards alike, left to whither and rot.”

Muller was staring past Smith’s shoulder. He had grown distant, detached—too detached for Smith’s liking. Smith almost found himself hoping for the screaming malcontent of before to make his return.

“What I want . . .” Muller said, trailing off. Only for his voice to return. Never more sure of himself. “I want to know my enemy, and I want him to know me.”

In the flash of an eye Muller revealed another syringe of dark liquid. He injected Smith a second time.

Smith’s eyes darted to and fro. He could feel his skull expand ever outward. His head could crack open at any time and all the love, frustration, triumph, and disaster categorizing each and every life would come pouring out.

Time had slowed. With a twitch of his Luger hand, the fifth soldier, a lieutenant not averse to getting his hands dirty, ushered the Phantom closer. His arm reached for the Phantom’s eye mask. It was wholly appropriate that he should look upon the face of the man he was about to execute. Perhaps he stretched a little too far, and was a little off balanced. Some moaning from one of his downed men provided a momentary but crucial distraction. The Phantom grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist snapping it back. The sound of the Luger, firing, cracked open the air. The Phantom had already adjusted, moving his head to the side. The bullet whizzed past him, the width of a gnat to spare.

The Phantom sent a right hook smashing into his opponent’s cheek. There was another crack in the air, this time of bone. The lieutenant was already down and out for the count. The skull from the ring of the Phantom’s punching hand, such was the force employed, had burned into the skin, forging its mark. The lieutenant’s failure was written on his face.

Indelible.

“You’re a big man, I’ll give you that,” so a voice went in excellent English, though English was not its mother tongue. The words took on a different resonance. Bouncing around Smith’s swollen distended head, giving birth to a sluggish echo. In and out, then stifled.

But after this—there was only noise. The swirling ocean, the roar of a conch shell held firmly to the ear. Some radio interference, the barest impression of Morse code, forcing its way through. He was falling and then there was no ground. Two .45 pistols bolstered either side, always tantalizingly close, but just out of reach. A weight pressed hard against his chest, threatening any second to crack him open like an eggshell. He was lost, and still he was falling. The gray black walls that formed his prison covered him like a sheet to steal away his oxygen, his identity, his life—

His mind descended into—

Black, putrid decay.

Muller watched on in fitful silence. Smith was stronger than most. Even so, the prisoner’s face was lopsided, contorted, and his tongue bloated. There were many side effects to be had from exposure to the truth drug, both physical and traumatic. It stripped away the layers of subconscious until only the naked truth remained. And how strange, and how comforting, Muller thought, to watch this one suffer in particular. Is this truly the ‘Ghost Who Walks’ bound in chains in front of him? The man who secured his exile, and had now somehow fallen back into his jurisdiction? Caught by the secret police in a nearby town and transported to the Castle where no one has ever escaped. But could he really be sure that this man was who he claimed to be? In truth Muller’s indecision was the thing keeping Smith alive. Muller listening intently, followed the ragged rhythm of Smith’s labored breathing. By rights the prisoner should not be breathing at all.

Everything Smith said pointed Muller in the one direction—that this was the Phantom—but nothing had ever been that easy for Muller in the past. He thought of his father and mother and was immediately reacquainted with their keen disappointment. Nothing he could do to turn their view of him around. He needed to know, to dispel all doubts. No one had ever survived a third, but perhaps through necessity, he would give Smith another injection.

The cell door was kicked open with force. A soldier named Roth shouted in German, “The Japs have heard a rumor. Their cities engulfed in the fire of a giant mushroom cloud. Isn’t that ridiculous? But they’ve gone berserk. We’ve been ordered to regroup at Compound D. If those yellow devils want a fight then we’re the ones to give it to them!”

Muller was unmoved. A glance at his prisoner confirmed that he was slack mouthed, still very much in the grip of a drug-addled stupor. His thoughts settled on the situation he and his comrades had found themselves in, this bringing together of Germans and Japanese. It should never have been allowed. It was an experiment without foundation, a gesture of meaningless monstrous stupidity. They may be the forgotten ones out here, he thought, but to have ever been ordered to live and go about their business in such close proximity to the other . . . The distaste threatened to overwhelm him. He was glad and relieved that the day appeared finally at hand, where the natural order of things was returned.

“Time to put the situation right,” Muller said.

Mirroring Muller’s sentiments, a frenzied murderous expression took hold of Roth’s face. “Lieutenant, these are your orders,” Roth said. “Finish the interrogation and go to Compound D! Your safety cannot be guaranteed otherwise.”

Roth turned. Heavy purposeful footsteps on cold uncompromising stone confirmed his departure.

“What we have become,” Muller said, methodically walking to the door. “A castle compound dictated not by orders, but by rumor and hearsay. An asylum, which has always been run by the lunatics, for there has never been anyone else. We have two camps, on the face of it allies, but who in truth could never co-exist.”

From Muller there was another hollow chuckle. A barely audible moan was all Smith could offer in return.

Muller searched his breast pocket and took out the key to the cell door. He studied it. Such a small insignificant thing, but the key always seemed heavier in his hand than he first expected. Not that he often used it. He could hardly see the point. He closed his eyes, in deep concentration, determined only to say and hear from himself the correct words.

“This is not a place designed to hold people,” he said. “You are sent here, but not to last. This is an elephant’s graveyard, where we ensure that no one forgets. That you will tell us everything, and do so very quickly, then . . .” Muller made the gesture with hand and mouth of a puff of smoke. “. . . You are gone. Fallen off the edge of the world.”

Muller grabbed the jamb of the cell door. It felt cold like everything else inside untouched by the jungle heat. “By ‘concluding the interrogation’ he means that I should kill you,” he said.

“This is what I must do.” Muller pushed the door shut, locking it, remaining very much on the inside.

There was a wall, which he scaled in one vault. Instantly the interloper was sure footed on the ground. His body was tensed and poised and ready for the advent of hostile action. He surveyed the area around him. There was hostile action all right, but none aimed specifically at him. Two opposing forces, one Asian, the other European, were, literally at the others throats. They had guns, but such was the depth of enmity between both sides, exposed like a weeping sore, it compelled them to engage in arm-to-arm combat. They wanted to chop off the others hands, smash in their heads, gouge out their eyeballs. Perhaps it was the heat, the maddening isolation of the jungle? No matter.

From this starting point the interloper ran. He was headed towards the great gray stone structure, standing dominant and immutable as far as the eye could see. Like an imperious eruption, it was the old jungle Castle.

“It was my arrogance that was my undoing. My arrogance, my shame,” Muller said. “You remember don’t you? The four comprising my unit were out for the count. Even so, the chest, the spoils of war, was still close at hand. I had my Luger trained on you. You were as close to me then as you are now.” Muller stood perfectly still but for another absent-minded scratch of the face. “I wanted you close enough to unmask you. I wanted to look upon your face, and for you to gaze upon the man about to shoot your brains out.” Muller’s eyes glazed over momentarily.

“Of course you were fast,” Muller said. “Much quicker than I could ever have anticipated. In a flash, just as I was sure I had pulled the trigger and condemned you to whatever afterlife would have you, you had grabbed and dislocated my wrist. My hand was useless, like a rag doll. The Luger fell, and before it even hit the ground, you had given me this.”

Slowly, deliberately, Muller pointed at the mark on his cheek. The brand of the Phantom could be seen clearly even in the faltering light. It burned red at the indignation from the memory of their last encounter.

Muller continued. “My shame was to be exiled here in this forsaken place where prisoners come to be interrogated and broken. One session is all it takes. No prisoner will gaze upon the following morning. This is your charnel house. This is your grave!”

Muller grabbed Smith by the hair forcing his head towards him. “Of course,” Muller said, “this is also the interrogator’s prison. My loss of the treasure chest at the Phantom’s hands sealed my doom. I was tortured on my return. By the time my torturers were convinced I was not in cahoots with this Phantom I was already half dead. They patched me up; they banished me to the Castle. Such is the fate of every soldier, from whichever side, to be sent here as punishment. This is our grave.”

To Smith, Muller was a blur, a series of outlines, his voice a guttural snarl. Smith tried to find a way back to himself, but was unsure of the route. There was a taste of vomit and tin in his mouth. Who was he? Who was he really? What did he really have to say?

A fire blazed in Muller’s eyes. “Are you the Phantom? I was assigned to you because of my ‘experience’ of you.” His voice grew tight. “A ‘Phantom expert’ by default.” He repeated the words of before, but their power had fallen by the wayside. As too had all sense . . .

“Up until now,” he said, “I thought there was a reason I was keeping you alive. It was because I was not totally convinced you were the person you claimed you were. Now . . .”

There was ringing in Muller’s ears. The walls around him were alive with sweat and condensation. The Castle had a pulse and heart.

“Now I realize,” Muller said, “I do not care who you are. I want you to suffer for what has been done to me.

“You won’t see the morning, that is clear,” he said, evangelically placing his hand on Smith’s forehead. “It’s just that I don’t want the day to end.”

The intruder faced two soldiers from opposing camps. They were frozen in a standoff, bayonets at the end of rifles poised over the others gut. It wasn’t enough to simply impale the other, there had to be clear and unremitting fear in the enemy’s eyes before the thrust and twist of slender unrepentant steel could be initiated. Such were the terms of victory. Such was the hate descended into madness one had for the other. The intruder, who had only minutes earlier entered the grounds, was of no interest to them. They were no longer guards of anything, but rather the bearers of souls, the angels of vengeance. The interloper ran past, overhearing the merest of sighs as he did so. The phony war behind him was finally at an end as the bayonets slid in.

Smith struggled on. Couldn’t put two coherent thoughts together. But his mind would not snap. Another voice inside his head, rising to the level of constant chatter, commented on how ridiculous the situation was. A ghost. An exorcism. Everything he thought he believed in . . . was leaking out. Two .45 pistols bolstered either side, always tantalizingly close, but just out of reach. The Ghost . . .

The Ghost Who Walks.

He came to. Like the raising of a veil Smith’s expression changed to one of steely composure. He looked up at his interrogator and coolly reflected on what he saw. There were specks of saliva dotted around Muller’s mouth. His interrogator’s eyes were wide, raw, and inflamed.

“I have been telling . . .” Smith paused and swallowed hard. He swore to himself that he would not falter again. “. . . Anyone prepared to listen,” he said. “But you have not been listening. You’ve been hidden away here, isolated, for so long. Your mind closed.”

Muller blinked.

“But now I think you will listen,” Smith said. “The war is over for you, Lieutenant, and has been for some months. On May 8th the war in Europe came to an end with Germany’s surrender.”

“You lie.”

“You think so? Then have a look outside,” Smith said. “Word of Japan’s defeat has spread like wildfire. Lightning has struck taking hold of the camp and will not let go.

“Then there are the whispers,” he said, “you’ll have heard surrounding your own homeland.”

“Liar!”

“The truth is that, even with the war, this establishment—this Castle—was redundant, an anachronism. Without it . . .”

Muller was stunned, like a fox stuck fast in a searchlight. His fingers began to twitch.

Smith’s mouth twisted into a ragged smile. “May I remind you, Lieutenant, I am the one who has taken the truth drug.”

A German soldier, dagger in hand jumped out at the intruder. The same split second, the intruder was down on his back using the advancing soldier’s momentum to his advantage. He rolled the soldier over him, who landed heavily on the ground.

Instantly the interloper was back on his feet and turning towards his attacker. The soldier sat up, groggily, before the realization that his knife, knocked out of his grasp, had landed only a couple of feet away . . . just . . . within . . . reach. Only for the intruder to already have the knife in his grasp. A second blink of an eye, and the knife was gone, tossed to the wind.

The soldier flashed fearful recognition The interloper took hold of the soldier’s torn lapels demanding his complete attention. “You know who I am,” the intruder said, “which means you know which prisoner I’m looking for.”

The soldier spat out a broken tooth. The interloper flicked it away with the back of his hand. The soldier darted his eyes towards the second of four compounds on the Castle grounds. Releasing the soldier, this was everything the intruder needed to know. The soldier sank slumped, shivering even in the extreme heat, wrapping his arms around himself as protection from the madness of the world.

“The war is over for you,” the intruder said. “When you go home I’m certain you’ll be offered the opportunity to help rebuild your country into something new and better. Take it.”

With this the interloper was gone.

“Such impudence,” Muller said after what seemed an eternity of silence. Effortlessly he slipped his hand across Smith’s throat. “You think you can defeat me? Humiliate me again? Ever the while strapped to that chair?

“I could inject you again! I could inject you again!” Muller was shouting, his voice fighting to be heard in a vortex of his own making. A wind of terrible fury. Smith could feel it, too. It was the same sensation, the turbulence of two human beings teetering on the edge of reason.

“If you are legend . . . ? If you are truly the ‘Ghost Who Walks’, never to be brought to task? Then tell me this?” Muller squeezed around Smith’s windpipe exerting ever-greater pressure. “What am I?” Muller screamed, his voice unbearably high.

Smith could not speak. There was only red agony where breathing once was. He pictured the drug still in his system emerging like a bud. His mind desperate for any distraction willed it open. He wanted so much to return to the disembodied disorientation of its embrace. Instead, all he was conscious of was his throat and chest erupting into a kaleidoscope of pain.

There was a pounding, incessant. The jungle outside was agitated and alive. The sound of banging drums reverberated in Muller’s ears. A spray of cool sweat pinched at his eyes. The cold cell was as far removed from the jungle as one could imagine, and yet . . .

Muller knew it, that he could never escape it, that this was his prison. He was trapped in here as much as any prisoner, even more so. Still, the pounding went on, it would not stop. Muller recoiled in terror and denial. He whipped his hand away from Smith’s throat.

Smith, breathing for air desperately, tried to ignore the searing pain in his chest. It felt like his chains were cutting his body in half.

The pounding continued. Muller needed it to come to a halt. He felt giddy and sick, and frightened to death. He grappled with the key in his top pocket, which seemed alive in his slick fingers. At last under a torrent of swearwords at the expense of his father and mother, the key did his bidding. Finally he turned the lock on the cell door. And the pounding stopped.

Muller considered the intruder, now at the other side of the door, who was four inches taller than him, and deathly familiar.

“You!” Muller yelled.

A punch crashed into Muller’s face with the ferocity of a train wreck. So familiar the swing, the mark from the interloper’s ring made the perfect imprint over the skull already branded there. Muller fell, making no attempt to break his fall. His head cracked against the cold unfeeling surface. A trickle of blood emerged from around his ear. He muttered a little as he escaped into what world would have him, then lay silent.

Smith, exhausted, fought the nausea, the need to empty his stomach. Where there was previously adrenaline and pain, now there was only the latter. Nor could he bring himself to believe that the pain would soon be over. Even now he found himself wishing for the release of death. Even so, he forced himself to remain conscious, to look at the man standing over him.

“I thought I was you,” he said.

The Phantom crouched, searched Muller for a second key that would unlock Smith’s chains. “Mission accomplished,” he told Smith.

The Phantom picked up the prisoner and carried him in his arms.

Smith’s body was limp and his breathing weak, but regular. He flitted in and out of consciousness, now, in time with the flickering of the bulb in his cell. The sound of the first shots of gunfire from outside carried through the corridors. It signaled the end of hostilities rather than the start.

The Phantom contemplated the open door of the cell with a feeling of satisfaction. “You are free,” he said.

Through a combination of suggestion and hypnotherapy Smith was given some of the Phantom’s memories. The ones he considered most strategic to the location and mission at hand. In this regard the memory associated with a Lieutenant Muller from two years ago proved particularly valuable. Smith’s mission was to spread the truth that was VE and VJ day. To prove that an idea can bring down the Castle, and its surrounding strongholds, as effectively as any army. If captured, Smith was to be the Phantom. While his captors pursued this line of inquiry, it was this ‘fact’ that would keep him alive until the arrival of the cavalry. And who would have expected the Phantom, once alerted, to come to the rescue when they believed they already held him captive . . .

Smith was of a similar build, and an accomplished spy of great mental fortitude. It was the perfect cover story should he be caught. So was hatched the perfect plan, to strike a blow against the tyranny of the Castle. And yet . . .

And yet, as he carried this man out onto the grounds and surveyed his surroundings . . . There were the crumpled corpses, the deserted fortifications, reminders of the sporadic bloody violence now for the most part abated. The Phantom considered Smith and his recent experiences. Debriefing for him would not simply be a clicking of the fingers and a case of carry on as you were. The scars that run deepest are not always the ones that are visible.

It is said that an amputee victim continues to feel phantom pain around limbs that were no longer there. Smith would have his own particular brand of phantom pain, of a far subtler kind, to contend with for some time to come. There, the Phantom decided that the experiment would not be repeated.

There are phantoms associated with every cause and effect. The sweat from a brow, the stillness of the jungle, the end of the rainy season, the knowledge of Paradise lost. Some men may walk through their lives unaware of the fact, while others stand ready to embrace it with their every living breath. But ultimately if one wishes to be true to oneself, one must walk alone.

There were two Phantoms who left the Castle that night. One was the true son and one was not. One walked and one was carried.

The End

JIM ALEXANDER hails originally from the town of Ardrossan, Ayrshire, Scotland. Having worked extensively in the field of comics his credits include Birds of Prey, Batman 80 Page Giant (both DC), Marvel Milestones, Star Trek Manga (Tokyopop) and Ridley Scott-fave Metal Hurlant among many others. His pride and joy is his six-year-old son David, who is looking forward to the new series of Dr. Who.

Stranger from Walker’s Table

By Will Murray

A wolf set up a howling in the pre-dawn hours before the stranger rode into the West Texas town of Whip. No one connected the wolf with the stranger until the sun had gone down and the stranger had accomplished what he had come to town to do. More significantly, no one connected him with Walker’s Table far to the south.

The stranger rode up from the desolate mesas of southwest Texas, a sheepskin-lined winter coat enwrapping his big muscular body. Seeing the manner in which he sat bolt upright in the saddle of his white stallion, some townsfolk took him for a Texas Ranger. He had that kind of a face—strong and impassive.

But he was no Ranger. He was something more fearsome than a Ranger. But no one in Whip as yet knew that.

When the stranger drifted onto the main drag, folks noticed that he wore smoked glasses over unfathomable eyes.

“Are you blind?” a curious boy asked.

The stranger shook his head in silence. He rode directly to the Wagonwheel House, the only hotel in Whip. Dismounting, he stalked toward the entrance on tall black boots that made folks think of a U. S. Cavalry officer. But he was not Army, either.

Once inside, the stranger kept his dusty hat on. The sheepskin coat peeled away, disclosing twin Colts strapped to each lean hip. The holsters were tied down with rawhide thongs. Gray flannel shirt and dungarees completed his outfit.

The desk clerk asked, “Room and grub, stranger?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He was soft-spoken, his accent unknown to Texas.

“From the east, are you?”

“Far east.”

“Sign this ledger.”

The man look up the pen. His name seemed to flow out in one effortless sweep.

The clerk spun the ledger around and said, “That’ll be six bits, Mr. . . . Walker?”

“Exactly.”

“First name?’

“Not neccessary. I won’t be in town long.”

“Those are right fancy guns you’re totin’. Never seen the like of ’em.”

“Walker Colts. Brand new.”

The clerk whistled in admiration. “Hear tell they fire six shots instead of five. I thought only Texas Rangers had them. Are you a Ranger by chance?”

“No.”

A brass key landed on the desk. “Eats to your left. Staircase to your right. Second floor. Room 4.”

The stranger touched the brim of his white stetson and turned left.

A scruffy-looking lounger walked up to the clerk. “Did you see his eyes?”

“No,” the desk clerk admitted.

“Me, neither. Kinda gives one the jim-jams, don’t it?”

“Better get the sheriff,” the clerk whispered. “This stranger’s either an undercover Ranger, or a gunfighter here to do some mean business.”

“Either way you fix it, Sheriff Morgan ain’t gonna like it much.”

Sheriff Red Morgan liked it not at all. He came out of his office chair at first word of the stranger from Walker’s Table.

“A Ranger, you say?”

“No, Sheriff. I said either that or a gunhawk. But he don’t talk like neither. Sounded too educated. But he’s packin’ a brace of Whitneyville Walkers like he was born with ’em on. Tied-down holsters, too.”

“Anything else about him that stands out?”

“Yeah. You can see the top of his longjohns at his shirt collar.”

“So?”

“They’re not regulation red.”

“No? What color are they then?”

“I’m embarassed to say, but they’re kinda purple-like.”

Red Morgan cocked a bushy black eyebrow. He was not called Red because of the color of his hair, but due to his beet-red complexion.

“Well, maybe that’s what they wear back east,” he growled, belting on his own Paterson revolver. “Let me have a talk with this rider.”

The stranger was methodically eating a medium-rare steak with shoestring potatoes when Sheriff Morgan strode in the Wagonwheel House dining room.

He didn’t seem to notice the cowhand who was trying to pick his pocket. The stranger’s winter coat hung on a coat tree in plain sight. The cowhand was on his hands and knees trying to sneak up on a side pocket.

Sheriff Morgan hung back, interested to size up the developing situation.

As Morgan watched, the stranger’s attention seemed entirely on his meal. If he was aware of the skulking cowhand, nothing in his manner betrayed it.

The cowhand crept to within a foot of the dangling pocket. Outside, the stranger’s white stallion, visible through the window, snorted briefly. That was all.

The stranger came out of his seat like lightning unchained. He spoke not a word. In three sudden strides, he was on the thief, seizing him by the flannel collar. The cowhand came off his hands and knees, and not by choice, either.

Standing the cowhand up on his spur-rowels, the stranger uncorked a roundhouse right to his pointed, unshaven jaw.

The cowhand slammed into a corner and made a tangle of flannel and denim. He did not rise—not even when a pitcher of cold well water was poured on his head.

Sheriff Morgan stepped in, thumbs hooked into his gunbelt to shorten the distance his right hand would need to travel if a shooting bee commenced.

“We take our hats off indoors ip Texas,” he announced loudly.

The stranger resumed his chair. He said nothing.

“This star on my chest says I’m the sheriff of Whip. A star commands respect. Stand up, stranger.”

The stranger remained seated. Methodically, he worked his steak.

“I said stand up. Unless you got a badge I need to see.”

At that, the stranger stood up.

He towered over Sheriff Morgan. Morgan noticed the triangle of bright cloth at the stranger’s shirt collar. It was a kind of royal purple. But it lacked the coarse weave of homespun winter longjohns. It looked almost like . . . silk.

Quietly, the stranger intoned, “This is my badge.”

A finger pointed to the center of his broad gunbelt. Instead of a buckle, set there in silver, gleamed an ominous skull. Its empty sockets seemed to regard Red Morgan like dread, unholy eyes.

“What in blazes kind of a badge is that?” Morgan barked.

“One to be respected,” said the stranger evenly.

“Got any papers?”

“No.”

“They said you go by the name of Walker. But you won’t give a proper first name.”

“That’s right. No law against that, is there?”

“Maybe not,” Morgan allowed. “People often blow into Texas to escape the law. And a man carrying Walker Colts callin’ himself Mr. Walker, well, that sounds like gunslinger talk, if want my opinion. So I’ll ask you straight out: Are you a gunhawk?”

“No.”

“Two guns on your hips says you might be lyin’.”

“Might be, but I’m not.”

“State your business then, Walker.”

“Pirates.”

“Pirates?” Morgan exploded. “We’re hundreds of miles from any ocean!”

“A new kind of pirate,” the stranger said evenly. “Land pirates. They attack trains, not ships. Then loot, steal, kill—just like pirates of old. No difference.”

Sheriff Red Morgan said nothing for a long time. The red of his throat seemed to mount up into his beefy face.

“News travels far,” he murmured, as if to himself.

Mr. Walker added, “The Brazos to Colorado Railroad runs through just south of here. The rail pirates operate from a place unknown.”

Red Morgan reared up on the toes of his boots, glowering. “Meanin’ Whip, I take it?”

“I understand it used to be known as Whipscorpion,” said the stranger, steadily regarding the sheriff with glinting eyes that could not been seen behind the smoked lenses.

“That was before I tamed this town—me and my deputies.”

Three men stood up from other tables. They laid hard hands on the butts of their holstered pistols.

“It’s a right respectable cowtown now,” Morgan said. “And we don’t cotton to trouble-starting strangers here.”

“Am I under arrest?” asked the stranger without visible concern.

“Not yet. But you are under my jurisdiction. And I aim tell you plain: if there are any pirates in Whip, I’ll see to them. Savvy?”

A hand heavy with a silver ring went to the brim of the white Stetson. “Savvy.”

“Let there be no trouble around you while you’re in my town, Walker.”

“Understood.”

“That’s better. Where did you say you hail from?”

“I rode up from Walker’s Table.”

“You pullin’ my leg? Walker’s Table ain’t nothin’ but a deserted mesa. Hell, even the Comanches shy away from it like poison.”

A cool ghost of a smile touched Mr. Walker’s confident lips. “It’s where I stay when I’m in Texas. Family tradition.”

Somewhere a wolf howled.

“You hear that, Sheriff?” a deputy asked nervously. “Sounds mighty close.”

“Yeah. Too close,” another muttered. “It’s broad daylight.”

“You see any sign of a wolf as you were ridin’ in, stranger?” Morgan demanded.

Mr. Walker nodded, “he followed me up. Seemed tame enough.”

A deputy burst out laughing “Hah! A tame wolf, he says. As if there’s any such thing!”

Another added, “Mister, you don’t seem to know beans about Texas ways.”

The stranger tossed a gold coin on the table. “I hope to learn,” he said, striding out.

After Mr. Walker departed to stable his horse, the three deputies gathered around Sheriff Morgan.

“Mr. Walker from Walker’s Table,” one muttered. “If that don’t beat all.”

“What’re you gonna do with ’im, Sheriff?”

“Not with. To. I don’t like his cocksure manner of palaverin’. Sticks in my craw like a chickenbone.”

An excited voice called from a corner. “Hey! Look at this.”

The desk clerk was tending to the fallen cowhand.

“What is it?” Morgan asked, stepping over to look.

“Stranger hit him square on the jaw,” the clerk breathed. “That big ring of his must have left this mark.”

“So?”

“Look at the mark.”

Sheriff Morgan knelt down. A red mark was fading on the cowhand’s jaw, but an etched outline remained. Morgan looked at it, then jumped straight back. The mark had looked back.

“Hell and damnation!” he snarled. “Looks just like that spooky skull on Walker’s gunbelt.”

Morgan knelt to rub it with a thumb. No matter how hard he rubbed the mocking death’s head, it refused to come out.

No one said a word. A chill ran around the room. The chill had nothing to do with a frigid wind outside . . .

Noon came and went. The distant sun began falling off its midday zenith when Mr. Walker from Walker’s Table was next seen in Whip.

He walked the length of the main street, looking slowly around. His unseen eyes seemed to take in everything, but gave back nothing—not curiosity and certainly not fear. His very gaze made men shiver. He wore his sheepskin coat open, where his muscular hands could swiftly find his Colts if necessary.

When he entered the Long Chance Saloon, idle cowhands and other loafers began filtering out.

“Friendly town,” Mr. Walker said to the barkeep after they were alone.

“You make folks nervous. Whiskey?”

“Sasparilla.”

The bartender looked pained. “Clean out of sasparilla. Birch beer too. Not much call for it. This is a man’s town.”

If Mr. Walker took note of the thinly-veiled insult, he offered no sign. Instead, he asked, “How long has Red Morgan run this town?”

“Long enough to place his stamp on it. What business is it of yours?”

“Curiosity, not business. A man tried to pick my pocket earlier. I didn’t notice him in the town jail just now.”

The barkeep laughed coarsely. “Heck, if Red Morgan arrested every trail tramp and saddlebum who infracted the law, half of Whip would be packed inside his hoosegow like sardines in a tin.”

“You as well?”

The man went quiet. Presently, he muttered, “If you’re not drinking, the door’s right behind you, stranger.”

Without another word, Mr. Walker took his leave.

Word reached Sheriff Morgan within five minutes of the conversation.

“He was askin’ how long you’ve been sheriff,” the bartender reported.

“He has, has he?”

“And castin’ aspirations on your particular brand of sheriffin’.”

“Aspersions,” corrected Morgan. “And what kind?”

“Complained to me that you didn’t lock up my brother, Sam.”

Red Morgan worried his blocky jaw. “Maybe the railroad barons sent him. That’s it! He’s a railroad agent, come to bust up my gang.”

“What’re you gonna do, Sheriff?”

“Gotta gig him into a gunfight somehow. Where is he?”

“Last I noticed, he struck up a conversation with the widow Greene. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

“The widow Greene! Why she still hangs around Whip, I’ll never know.”

“Hell, Sheriff, everyone knows that. She’s just waitin’ to see you gunned down. On account of you blowin’ down her husband, and takin’ his job.”

Red Morgan’s hand went to the star pinned to his chest. “If she wasn’t a female, I’d take care of her the same way I did her meddling law-abiding husband.”

Morgan stalked out, his flushed face the same hue as his long underwear.

Outside the General Store, the widow Greene was saying, “Everyone knows that Red Morgan is no more than a common outlaw. He murdered my husband in cold blood and runs this town like a little tin general.” She was young once, but beautiful still. The sunshine color was still in her windblown hair. Blue sparks snapped in her eyes.

“How many men comprise his gang?” asked Mr. Walker.

“His three deputies,” she said slowly. “A few layabouts. Most of the men hereabouts are his spies. They’re probably telling him right now that we’re having this conversation.”

A confident smile touched Walker’s chiseled lips. “I’ll count on it.”

The widow Greene measured the tall stranger with a practical eye. “You sound like a man spoiling for a fight.”

Mr. Walker rubbed his considerable jaw thoughtfully. “One of my ancestors tangled with a man named Morgan down Jamaica way. He called himself the King of Pirates. I wonder if your sheriff is related to a man named Edward Morgan . . .”

“Did you come here to die, Mr. Walker?” asked the widow Greene.

“No.”

“To kill then? It would have to be one or the other.”

“Not necessarily, Ma’am.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What then?”

“What did Hannibal do? Or Alexander?”

The widow Greene’s blue eyes drew narrow. “To conquer,” she whispered. “My dear Lord. You are the answer to my prayers.”

A loud, threatening voice interrupted: “Were I you, widow Greene, I’d offer up to the Almighty a powerful prayer for your misguided friend, here.”

Sheriff Morgan stormed up to Mr. Walker, saying, “I hear you’re tellin’ tales and asking rude questions about me! Well, here I am. What do you have to say to my face?”

Mr. Walker turned to meet the sheriff’s hot gaze. Behind smoked lenses, unfathomable eyes seemed to bore straight into Red Morgan’s very soul like a challenge.

“When the Denver direct passes by this afternoon, I will be protecting it,” he intoned.

Red Morgan turned even redder than before. He looked as if steam were about to explode from each ear. Abruptly, he laughed. It was a loud boisterous laugh.

“You and what purple-silk cavalry?” he guffawed.

“I ride alone.”

“Were you as smart as your tall talk, you’d leave that way. Pronto.”

“Not finished in Whip. Not yet. But soon.”

And tipping his hat to the widow Greene, Mr. Walker started off on his way.

Morgan warned, “You remember what I told you. Let no trouble gather around you in Whip.”

“I smell your finish, Red Morgan,” spat the widow Greene as she flounced away.

Morgan called after her, “Better take to your fainting couch, widow. I fear there may be shooting before too long.”

“I’ll go see if the undertaker has a casket your size in stock,” she flung back.

Sheriff Morgan’s face and fists were like hard bricks when he burst into his office. “After this is all over,” he growled savagely, “we’re running the widow Greene out of town on a rail. And not gentle-like, neither!”

Morgan’s three deputies looked uncomfortable.

The sheriff paced as he continued, “That Walker had the nerve to tell me he’s going to protect that train coming through. That as much as proves he’s a dang railroad agent. Now that we know his game, we’re gonna beat him at that very game.”

“How, Sheriff?”

“No need to bait him into a showdown. He’s declared his aims. We’ll meet him in the wide open spaces where there will be no witnesses. Four against one. Fair odds. He might even wing one of us before we ventilate him, if he’s any kind of sure shot.”

“What about Comanche Joe?” asked a deputy.

“If he ever shows up,” Morgan grunted, “he’s welcome to participate. And to his share of the swag. Meanwhile, you three start slipping out of town. One at a time. We’ll meet up at Bushwhack Pass, like always.”

Two deputies slipped away, unnoticed. The third was preparing to depart when a lone rider drifted down from the north. Laconically, he tied his cowpony to the hitching rail outside.

At the window, Deputy Tinney announced, “It’s Comanche Joe.”

Comanche Joe might have been all Comanche. He could have partaken of Mexican ancestry too. He had a mixed look about him. He spoke little English, but his Spanish was excellent.

“Que pasa?” he asked in a lazy voice as he sidled in, shaking trail dust off his colorful poncho.

Switching to Spanish, Red Morgan filled him in on the stranger in town.

“From Walker’s Table, he claims,” Morgan finished.

Comanche Joe licked uneasy lips. “He wear a mask, Señor Sheriff?”

“No. Smoked glasses. Why?”

“Mesa de Walker said to be haunted by a masked ghost.”

“Is that so?” Morgan growled. “Been at the firewater, have you?”

“Speak the truth,” insisted Comanche Joe. “Comanche braves call him El Fantasma que Camina—the Ghost Who Walks.”

“Pah! Ghosts don’t wear masks.”

“This one, he does. All in purple. Rides ghost-white stallion—”

Red Morgan seemed to lift right out of his boots. “Did you say purple?”

“Si. Purpura.”

“I don’t cotton to ghosts,” Morgan ground out, “but maybe Señor Walker wasn’t spoofing when he talked about riding up from Walker’s Table. Come on.”

“Where we go?” asked Comanche Joe.

“Let’s go see if this purple spook is bulletproof.”

They went to the Wagonwheel House first, faces set grimly, impending violence in their eyes. They knocked at the door to Room 4 and, receiving no reply, drew their sidearms and forced it in.

The room was utterly empty. No sign of Mr. Walker’s personal things were in evidence, either.

“Vanished!” Comanche Joe muttered, crossing himself.

“Vamoosed is more like it!” Morgan spat.

Bristling with cocked pistols, they pounded down to the front desk.

“Where is he?” demanded Morgan.

“Checked out, I reckon,” reported the desk clerk.

“You reckon, or you know?” Morgan pressed.

“Ain’t seen him in an hour. His room’s empty. Paid for too. Look at these. Left on the desk in plain sight.”

Red Morgan examined three gold coins. “This ain’t United States money.” he barked.

“Reminds me of old pirate dubloons,” agreed the clerk. “But look at the teeth marks they took. That’s genuine gold!’

Exasperated, Morgan looked next in the town stable.

The stablemaster said, “Ain’t seen him, but his horse is still here.”

But when they looked inside, the proud white stallion was gone, too.

“I’ll be swiggered!” the stablemaster exclaimed. “How’d he do that? I was keepin’ watch all the time, Sheriff. It’s like the hayburner up and vanished!”

“Don’t be talking like that!” snarled Morgan. “You just got careless, is all.”

But a thorough search of Whip uncovered neither trace nor sign of Mr. Walker from Walker’s Table. Nor of his mount.

Red Morgan assembled the remnants of his tiny band. “All right, then,” he directed. “He’s gone on ahead of us. We’ll just ride out and track him down. Just so there’s no trouble about it, I’m declaring him an outlaw, and you two are my deputized posse.”

Minutes later, Sheriff Red Morgan thundered out of Whip with Deputy Tinney and Comanche Joe, in hot pursuit of the mysterious Mr. Walker from Walker’s Table.

Bushwack Pass lay southeast of Whip some dozen miles. It was desolate country, as forbidding in the blistering heat of summer as it was now in the dead of winter. The wind had died down some. The still air remained bitter.

They rode single-file, Red Morgan in the lead. Sunlight made his badge flash. It made him an excellent target too.

He took out a turnip-shaped pocketwatch and opened it. “Three O’clock,” he growled. “That train to Denver won’t be long in coming through.”

They found Deputy Dent hanging from a tamarack tree, his limp body twisting in the eerily-still air.

“Madre!” exploded Comanche Joe. “Lynched!”

“Cut him down!” thundered Red Morgan. “He ain’t dead, I don’t reckon.”

Comanche Joe and Deputy Tinney urged their mounts to either side of the grisly spectacle. Deputy Tinney held Dent by his trussed feet while the Indian cut him down.

They laid him out on the ground. He was not dead. He had been hanging by a rope lashed under his armpits, not around his neck. He was still breathing.

Red Morgan slapped him awake.

“What in tarnation befell you?” he demanded.

“Masked man Bushwhacked . . . me.” He could hardly get the words out.

“What masked man?”

“Walker . . . wearing a mask.”

“Walker,” muttered Comanche Joe, crossing himself. “El Fantasma que Camina—he is truly the Ghost who Walks.”

“Stow that kinda talk, Joe. Where’s Norfolk?”

“Dunno. Never laid eyes on him. But Walker told me to my face if I ever wanted to see my old age, I’d turn away from my pirate ways. What in thunder was he talkin’ about? I’m a highwayman, same as my daddy and his daddy before him. It runs in my blood.”

“Never mind his highfalutin’ talk,” Red Morgan said. “All right, men. Walker threw down the gauntlet. It’s shoot on sight now. No one trees one of my deputies and gets way with it! Savvy?”

Everyone savvyed. They looked nervous, too.

The quartet rode on, eyes searching the sandstone bluffs and boulders of the trail ahead. They were approaching Bushwhack Pass.

“El Fantsama possess a rifle?” wondered Comanche Joe.

“None in a saddle sheath that I ever saw,” Tinney said.

“But he’s got a pair of them newfangled Walker six-shooters,” Morgan supplied. “As good as an old Mississippi rifle from a fair distance. So keep your eyes peeled and your ears sharp.”

Worried gazes began scanning the high ground, touched by the chilly winter sun.

“He could pot us any time he felt like it, if he’s up there,” said Deputy Dent.

“He’s up there,” muttered Red Morgan. “I can feel him.”

“Yeah,” Tinney added. “Me, too. It’s like the hairs at the back of my neck want to stand up and run away from me that grew ’em.”

Red Morgan raised his voice grimly. “Men, time to show folks our true colors.”

Off came their stars. Bandana handkerchiefs were pulled from various pockets. They tied them over the lower portions of their frightened faces.

“We’re owlhoots now,” announced Red Morgan. “Don’t forget to act like it.”

They rode on, cautious and ever-watchful.

Comanche Joe looked most nervous of all. “Comanche brave say El Fantasma que Camina cannot die,” he muttered darkly.

“They say that, huh?” Tinney breathed.

“Si. Medicine men say El Fantasma en Purpura has haunted Mesa de Walker since long before the time of my great, great grandfather. Every one of their grandfathers who had been born and gone on to the Great Spirit also knew of him. Yet the Ghost Who Walks still . . . walks.”

“The hombre I met was just a man,” growled Red Morgan. “Once I meet up with him again, I’ll perforate him smartly just to prove it to you.”

The frozen ground gave no clue, not a solitary track. They rode deeper into the badlands around Bushwhack Pass, having no inkling of what awaited them around any turn or twist of the trail. The cold of day seemed to clamp down on their spirits. Their frosty breath streamed out of their mouths like escaping specters.

A jackrabbit leaped out of its hole and Red Morgan’s Paterson Colt flashed out of its holster with uncanny speed. The pistol cracked once. The rabbit gave a backflip at the top of its leap and its head jumped one way while its body fell down.

Deputy Dent laughed. “Slick shootin’, Sher—I mean, boss.”

Red Morgan kept his smoking Colt firmly in hand.

“I’m feeling we’re gettin’ close,” he undertoned.

It was quiet for a long time. A wind sprang up, and commenced to howling. It made the skin grow cool to hear it. It was a lonesome, forlorn sound amid the sandstone crags of Bushwhack Pass.

Suddenly, a blood-freezing commotion sprang up. It was a godawful conglomeration of snapping, snarling, barking fury. Mixed in with it were the frenzied cries of a man in trouble.

“That sounds like Norfolk!” Deputy Dent cried.

“Wolf’s got him!” Morgan snapped.

Spurring their mounts, they rode hard toward the noisy ruction.

Following the sound, the posse came to a cul-de-sac of a box canyon that had no name.

And there was Cal Norfolk, flat on the ground fighting off a full-grown wolf.

“Get it off me! Get it off me!” he begged.

Desperately, they fired into the air. Several shots. Pause. Then they emptied their cylinders.

The ruction did the trick.

The wolf looked up and around to regard them with feral eyes that were utterly without fear. Strangely, there was no blood on its muzzle.

There came a piercing whistle, and the wolf pulled back and leapt into sheltering boulders.

They started reloading and trying to track him with their eyes at the same time.

“Where’d he go?” demanded Comanche Joe.

“Up here!” a strong voice called down. It echoed strangely—hollow yet somehow strong.

“Who said that?” Morgan asked, angrily looking around.

They looked every which way. Then they saw him.

The tall figure was impossible to miss.

He stood atop a bluff, black-booted legs braced apart, his muscular form encased in close-fitting purple, like some latter-day Robin Hood. A wide black belt supported twin holsters. In the center of it gleamed a silver skull . . .

But that was not what held their stupified gazes.

The man atop the bluff wore a purple skullcap remindful of a medieval executioner’s hood. A black domino mask made his eyes unreadable. The combination brought to mind a grisly death’s head that had put on healthy flesh. The sculpted face wore a confident, almost devil-may-care smile.

“That’s him!” Morgan roared. “Walker!”

“Ghost Who Walks!” moaned Comanche Joe.

“Keep loading, boys. We got him now!”

But it proved to be the other way around. The Walker Colts in the stranger’s hands leapt into view. Blued barrels aimed downward. Then, white-finished cylinders revolving like well-oiled machinery, they began cutting loose.

Bullets struck sparks off heavy rocks. The purple phantom alternated fire. First one Colt, then the other. The alternate fire was cool and deliberate. A cloud of gunsmoke arose to obscure him in the fashion of a trail specter of long ago.

No bullet drilled a man, but the spooked horses began rearing and jumping around as if stung.

“Settle down, durn you!” Red Morgan howled. “Settle down so I can finish reloading!”

He never finished.

A slug creased the back of his hand, and his Colt fell from unnerved fingers. He glowered at the burning red welt that had scored the black-haired flesh as if not completely comprehending such inhuman marksmanship.

“I’m hit!” he complained.

The others began yelping as well. Pistols were snatched from fingers, or broke apart in their owner’s astonished clutches. The cylinder was shot clean out of Comanche Joe’s old Navy Colt, scattering unfired shells.

When the shooting finally died down, every weapon lay on the ground, and every man sat in his saddle, looking stunned and stung. Deputy Norfolk was hunkered down behind a rock.

They gazed up at their nemesis in purple, and to a man their jaws fell agape.

For through a clearing haze of gunsmoke, they spied the wild wolf that had harried Norfolk. He had taken up a position next to the purple apparition, and now sat beside him like a dog, its raw red tongue lolling out.

One Walker Colt snapped back into its holster. Casually, a hand reached down to give the wolf a reassuring pat on the head. By all rights, the wolf should have taken the man’s hand off. Instead, he seemed to enjoy it.

“What manner of hombre is that?” gulped Deputy Norfolk.

“Sure as shootin’, he ain’t no railroad agent,” moaned Deputy Dent.

“El Fantasma que Camina . . .” muttered Comanche Joe, crossing himself. “None other.”

The commanding voice thundered down again.

“Dismount and start walking.”

“Walking where?” demanded Red Morgan, the train pirate.

“Back to Whip.”

Morgan lowered his head. “Okay,” he bit out. “Do like he says. I think I can turn the tables on this Eastern upstart.”

They dismounted.

Red Morgan had a long rifle in a saddle boot. Pretending to get the reins of his mount, he moved his good hand toward it.

“Scatter!” he cried, cocking the hammer and dropping to the cold hard earth.

It was a mad move. It put Morgan the pirate at a disadvantage. He needed to get behind a rock. He thought he could squeeze off a telling shot and make it to shelter at the same time.

Instead, his first shot whined futilely off into space. His second never left the rifle barrel. Morgan was trying to insert a fresh bullet into his breacher-loader on the run.

A single well-aimed shot busted in the breach, snapping the rifle right out of Morgan’s pain-shocked hands.

By luck or mischance or design, the rifle butt reared up and caught him on the underside of his unshaven jaw. His head rocked back violently.

Red Morgan was out cold before he knew it. He lay on the ground, cold breath clouds coming from his open mouth in steady streams.

That took the last of the fight out of the deputies. They threw their shivering hands up in the air and kept them there while their conqueror in purple picked his way down to lower ground astride a strutting Arabian stallion, triumphant as Alexander the Great, invincible as legend.

It was a long walk back to Whip. The sound of the Denver train blasting through a few miles south brought a smile to the grim lips of Mr. Walker. It brought scowls to the faces of his bedraggled prisoners.

All except Red Morgan. He was tied across his saddle like a side of beef, still out cold. He seemed to be in need of a dentist.

No one spoke until Deputy Dent, noticing the wolf tripping along beside the stranger’s white stallion, wondered, “Is that critter a dog or a wolf?”

“Wolf.”

“Thought so.”

“His name is Diablo,” Mr. Walker added.

“Aiie!” Comanche Joe exclaimed. “This wild wolf have a name?”

“He followed me up from Walker’s Table. I befriended him.”

“How fitting,” grumbled Joe, “that a ghost should possess a lobo named after the Devil.”

And the sixteenth Phantom laughed. The sheriff’s star he had pinned to his purple chest caught the afternoon light, dancing merrily too. He looked forward to the welcome of the people of the town of Whip, never again to be known as Whipscorpion.

The End

WILL MURRAY is the author of over 50 novels, including several posthumous Doc Savage collaborations with Lester Dent under the name Kenneth Robeson, and many in the long-running Destroyer series. His 2000 book, Nick Fury Agent of SHIELD: Empyre, reads like a blueprint for the 9/11 terrorist attacks. A contributor to many anthologies, Murray has written stories about such classic characters as Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man, Ant-Man, The Hulk, The Spider, and now Lee Falk’s immortal Ghost Who Walks, The Phantom. With Steve Ditko, he co-created Squirrel Girl, the most powerful character in the Marvel Universe.

The Servants of Set

By Michael Oliveri

The Phantom crept along the edge of the roof, where the wall would better support his weight and the thin metal surface would not flex and creak. The young Singh pirate stood on the deck below and covered the corner with a sawed-off shotgun. The sweat on his upper lip gleamed in the firelight, and the skull-shaped imprint from a previous encounter marred the right side of his jaw.

The Phantom made a mental note to keep a closer eye on the Jungle Patrol’s jails as he jumped over the pirate. He landed on the balls of his feet and flexed his knees to absorb the impact and duck below the pirate’s firing arc, then shoved the shotgun muzzle upward as the pirate pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash warmed his face but the buckshot soared high over the deck and out to sea. The Phantom followed up with a solid punch to the opposite side of the pirate’s jaw, leaving a matching imprint the pirate would see when he came to in a Jungle Patrol cell in the morning.

Flames raged across the open deck behind him, creeping across the wood flooring and consuming tables and chairs. The volleyball net strung across the pool became a curtain of flame, with one end dropping into the water as he watched. A scream broke out on the other side, cut off abruptly by a guttural curse.

The Phantom ran to the port side and leaped onto the top of the handrail. He held out his arms for a second to catch his balance, then walked it like a gymnast through the smoke to the other side of the pool. He drew his pistols as he jumped back down to the deck. A pirate stood no more than fifteen feet away and held a middle-aged woman by the hair. She screamed again, and the pirate pressed his revolver to the top of her head.

The Phantom took aim before the pirate could draw breath to shout. He was probably going to say the usual, something along the line of “back off or I’ll kill her” or “one more step and she’s dead.” The Phantom had heard it all before. He squeezed off a shot, rolled, and rose to his feet. The pirate stared at his now-empty hand and the woman pulled herself loose and ran for the railing. The revolver made a noisy plunk in the ocean waves forty feet below them.

Sirens sounded in the distance, followed quickly by a pair of boat motors running at top speed. The Jungle Patrol, right on schedule.

“You’ve got two options,” the Phantom said. “You can jump overboard, or I can throw you.”

“You can try to throw me, purple man . . .” The pirate drew a Khyber knife from the small of his back. “. . . But I’d rather find out if ghosts can bleed!”

The Phantom drew the .45 from his left hip and fired. The knife blade snapped off near the hilt with a noisy spang! and the Phantom pointed his pistols at the pirate’s forehead and chest. He wouldn’t pull the trigger, but it had the desired effect: the pirate climbed the railing and did a swan dive.

“I’ll give him a 7.0.” The Phantom holstered his pistols. The pirate would swim for shore, but at this distance the Jungle Patrol would arrive and hook him before he’d make it even halfway. And with the pirates’ skiffs disabled and the rest of them out of commission, the Phantom was just about finished here.

The middle-aged woman stood at the railing and screamed toward the shore.

“It’s okay, ma’am.” The Phantom took her by the shoulders. “It’s safe now.”

“He took them!” the woman screamed.

“Who?”

“The cruise director!” she wailed. “He loaded my daughters into a lifeboat with some of the others. They went ashore, and I heard shots, and I don’t know what’s going on! You have to help them!”

“How long ago?”

“I—I don’t know! Ten minutes? I lost all track of time . . . it was before the fire, I think. Or before it got real big.”

“It’s alright, I’ll find them. For now let’s get you to safety.”

“Yeah, I . . .” She stopped when she got a good look at him. “Are you one of the acrobats or something?”

The Phantom chuckled as he led her away from the railing. “I’ll go with ‘or something.’ We should be able to get through the fire on this side, but hold your breath as we pass through the smoke, okay?”

The woman gathered her evening dress around herself and covered her mouth as he led her around the flames to the relative safety of the aft section. He instructed her to stay put and wait for the Jungle Patrol, whose sirens were very near now, and he assured her he would find her daughters and return them safely. She thanked him as he climbed over the railing.

The pirates had chosen well, the Phantom thought as he rappelled down the side of the ship. The woman’s dress looked fit for an actress at the Oscars, and there was lobster and beluga caviar spilled all over the deck. The few other passengers he saw looked similarly swank, yet he saw no sign of armed guards or crewmen. They may as well have painted a big red bulls-eye on the side of the ship. If the Phantom hadn’t caught one of the fences waiting for the goods at the docks, the damage may have been far worse.

The Phantom jumped into the motorboat, the fence had been so kind to lend him, and fired up the engine. Rigged for stealth, it purred like a kitten as it raced through the waves. The Jungle Patrol’s spotlights lit up the cruise ship behind him, but they showed no sign of spotting him. Up ahead, the lifeboat was a dark smudge on the pale beach. He guided the motorboat alongside it and went ashore.

The four bodies lay not far from the boat. They each wore expensive tuxes, and one man’s diamond cufflink twinkled in the firelight. Three of the men lay in a loose group, each shot in the head or chest. The fourth man lay face down atop an oar he appeared to have been brandishing as a weapon. Footprints led from the boat into the jungle.

The Phantom frowned as he checked the men for signs of life. If pirates had followed them, where was their boat? Could they have made off with hostages already, maybe seeing an opportunity for ransom? But the men had not been robbed, and there were no footprints other than those going into the jungle. Could the pirates have already been aboard the lifeboat? If so, why come ashore when all their victims are safely contained on the ship? He glanced at the diamond cufflink, then realized they were all still wearing expensive rings or watches. It didn’t make sense that the pirates would leave valuables behind.

Whatever the motive, two daughters—and as many as ten other people judging by the footprints—had been taken into the jungle night, a dangerous enough place without armed pirates around. The Phantom drew his pistols and crept through the underbrush. Foliage choked off the light, but even a blindfolded amateur could have followed the trail of footprints and broken twigs and branches.

He discovered the next body fifty yards in.

The hefty woman lay sprawled out beside a tree with her right leg bent at an awkward angle beneath her. She had stepped in a hole beneath a tree root, got stuck, and someone shot her rather than stop to help her out. And just as the men on the beach had not been robbed, she still wore real pearls on her ears, neck and wrists.

The Phantom ran through the jungle, praying this wasn’t the beginning of a long trail of bodies. Though the pirates had committed several murders in their time, they were thieves, not vicious assassins. Either they changed their M.O. or he was dealing with something else, and given the Singh Brotherhood has been at it for nearly five hundred years, he didn’t expect they’d change their ways overnight.

The foliage broke onto a narrow jungle trail. The Phantom crouched down to examine the tracks in the ground. There were four deep depressions from the wheels of a large Jeep or a truck, with shallow ruts leading from them and headed up the trail. The vehicle must have sank in the mud from the last rain, but that meant it had been here at least three days before. What else had these killers planned for?

Hero was no more than a half mile away, but the killers had a vehicle and an unknown lead and he dared not waste any time. He sprinted along their tracks, hoping the mud and the narrow trail slowed them down some.

He settled into a marathon runner’s pace after the first kilometer, fast enough to suit his urgency but not so fast that he wore himself out or would stumble headlong into trouble. Clouds obscured the moon, forcing him to slow periodically to make sure he was still on their trail.

The jungle fell silent around him, leaving only the soft splats of his footfalls to accompany him. It was as if its inhabitants sensed the intensity of purpose of the men crossing their land this night and cleared a path, but whether it was to ensure speedy passage for himself or in fear of those whom he pursued, even the Phantom could not be sure.

The Phantom shook off the dread. All men feared the unknown, and in the end his enemies were just men. He was the Phantom.

The Ghost Who Walks.

And the jungle belonged to him.

After a time the Phantom feared the kidnappers may have taken their captives deeper into the jungle than he first thought. There were rumors of slave traders operating in the area, and he saw no reason the Singh Brotherhood wouldn’t do business with them. Or perhaps warlords from a neighboring country sought ransoms to fund their revolutions. Either way, it was entirely possible the truck was lost to him, and he’d have to tell Diana about it so her friends at the UN could pick up its tracks.

The trail branched off in a Y ahead. He slowed down to catch his breath, then crouched to examine both trails. The rocky inland ground and deep darkness conspired against him, making it more difficult to tell which direction they had gone. At least, he could not tell with any certainty. He took it as a sign to break off the chase. It was a painful decision, but perhaps the best chance the captives had for survival.

A scream pierced the eerie silence. The Phantom listened as the fading echoes receded away from him. There was a ravine not far from here, and he sprinted down the trail to the right. He willed her to scream again, to make any sound, anything to get a fix on her, but there was only silence.

A fallen branch snagged the leg of his suit about half a kilometer from the intersection. It had broken off from the trees overhead, and in his haste he might otherwise have missed the gap in the brush beside the trail. The grass and smaller trees had been crushed flat and twin ruts snaked down the slope and away from the trail, as if a truck had recently pushed its way through.

Bingo! The Phantom drew his pistols and crept down the hill.

He found the truck first, an older half-ton with new all-terrain tires and a wooden bed flanked by crude benches. The driver’s side mirror was missing and the window was rolled down, so he crept along that side first. He popped up and aimed his pistols into the cab.

Nobody. The GPS receiver on the dash explained how the captors had found their way here in the darkness. Its display cast a soft glow across an old book lying on the bench seat, its ragged pages stuffed with maps and parchment paper. The gold inlay on the cover was chipped and flaked, but he could make out the vague outline of a serpent logo on the cover.

The Phantom moved around the front of the truck and made sure the passenger side was clear, then checked the ground around the truck. The grass and underbrush had been trampled not far from the right headlight, and the trail led deeper into the jungle between a pair of large trees. The terrain beyond them was more uneven, with small rock formations jutting out from the slopes. The kidnappers must have herded their captives on foot, but why leave behind their maps and the GPS unit?

He heard a faint sound ahead, like a man talking. Another woman screamed, and a second male voice cut it off with a shout. The Phantom hurried down the path. It appeared the kidnappers didn’t remove the GPS unit because they didn’t need it anymore; they had arrived.

Now to find out what they were doing here.

The whimpers and sobs of several women sounded ahead of him.

“I said be quiet!” A wet smack followed, and the voices stopped. It was the same second voice he had heard earlier.

“You can’t do this!” a woman pleaded.

“She’s next.”

That sounded like the man’s voice he heard earlier. The Phantom crept over a large boulder and settled in behind a fallen tree trunk. The ground dipped down sharply to his right, then dropped off into the ravine. In front of him, a gentle slope rolled up to a narrow ledge along the side of a steep hillside. A rock shelf jutted out over the ravine near the top, creating a small shelter he had seen many times in his youth. Narrow columns of rock connected the corners of the overhang to the corresponding lip of the ledge.

A swath of pale moonlight lit up the scene for him. He glanced skyward and saw the face of the moon peeking through a long cleft in the clouds. It split the sky vertically from his perspective, the moon centered in the widest point.

The women knelt in the brush ahead and to his left, no more than thirty feet from him. Their tears shone in the moonlight, and their lips quivered. They all wore dresses and gowns in various states of repair, and their arms and faces were filthy. A short, swarthy man stood guard on the near side of them, his back to the Phantom. He held a stubby submachine gun and kept it pointed at the women, but he was looking toward the ravine.

The swarthy man’s partner stepped onto the ledge. He was tall and lean, with long black hair tied into a ponytail. He was shirtless, though whatever he had smeared on his chest and face glistened in the moonlight. He carried a machete slick with the same substance, and he dragged a woman by the hair. She wore a short gold dress with spaghetti straps, one of them broken, and her hands were tied behind her back. When she tried to protest he gave her hair a sharp tug. She shrieked and stumbled along behind him, and he saw now her bare feet left smears of blood on the stone.

It’s all blood, he realized. The smears on the man’s chest, the spray on his face, the fresh stain on his machete . . .

All blood.

The Phantom clambered over the log and slid through the brush, headed straight for the swarthy kidnapper. The women sobbed louder, and he hoped the sound covered his approach as he slid through the brush.

The dark-haired cultist reached the top of the ledge, just beneath the overhang. He forced the woman to her knees in front of him, facing out toward the ravine, and held the machete near the side of her neck.

“Please!” she sobbed. “Don’t do this!”

The Phantom moved to his left and approached the swarthy man straight on from behind. Two of the women gasped at his approach, but the swarthy man did not turn around. His eyes were locked on the spectacle atop the ledge.

“My lord Set!” The cultist held the machete high. “Hear our pleas this Serpent’s Night! Grant us our wish as we pledge this sacrifice to thee!”

The Phantom holstered his left pistol, then grabbed the swarthy man’s submachine gun strap and pulled him back off his feet. The gun slapped the man’s chest and he instinctively grabbed it with both hands, leaving his face unguarded as the Phantom slammed the butt of his pistol into the man’s forehead. The man’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head and he sprawled limp across the ground.

“Why can’t you people ever sacrifice your own blood?” The Phantom pointed his pistol at the man on the top of the ledge.

“The Ghost!” the cultist proclaimed.

“In the flesh. Let the girl go.”

“So the legends are true.” The cultist pulled the woman to her feet, then held her close and put the blade of the machete across her collarbone. “They say you’re twelve feet tall and spit fire. Huh. You don’t look so scary to me.”

“They say the moonlight takes off twenty pounds. Why don’t you come on down here so I can show you my more flattering side?”

“You can’t stop the ritual! If the sacrifices are incomplete, Set will be offended!”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The cultist moved the blade closer to her throat.

“You cut her and I’ll shoot you where you stand,” the Phantom bluffed.

The cultist froze. He took a step back into the shadows and dragged the woman with him.

The Phantom checked and rechecked his aim. He didn’t have a clear shot at the machete without risking a ricochet harming the woman. He couldn’t shoot the cultist’s arm without the bullet going through and into the woman. And even if he wanted to put one into the cultist’s head, he kept so close to the woman the bullet could graze her skull or, if either of them breathed too deeply at the wrong moment, kill her instead.

“Set’s sacrifices will not be denied!” The cultist slipped the machete down beside the woman’s right leg. “You can try to run, Phantom, but I’ll catch you!”

“No!” the Phantom shouted.

The cultist slid the machete across the back of the woman’s leg. She crumpled to the ground, screaming. The cultist reached behind his back and drew a pistol as the Phantom was focused on the woman. The four shots startled the Phantom, and he threw himself flat. The bullets whined over his head. The muzzle flashes left bright spots on his retinas. The women scattered and shrieked behind him. The Phantom aimed back up at the overhang but the cultist jumped down the other side.

“Stay here,” the Phantom told the other women. He drew his second pistol again and ran up to the overhang. The woman rolled around on the ground, holding her leg high. Blood dripped from the back of her knee and spattered on the ground. There was no sign of the cultist.

“My leg!” the woman cried. “He cut my leg!”

The Phantom holstered his pistols and examined the wound. “He hamstrung you. Let me see your wrists.”

The woman sniffled and winced as she rolled onto her stomach and raised her wrists. The Phantom untied the rope that bound them, then re-tied it near the bottom of her thigh. The crude tourniquet would keep her from bleeding to death any time soon, but there was no way she would be walking out of here without help.

“Thank you for saving us,” the woman said.

“What’s your name?”

“Gina.”

“Are there any more of you, Gina?”

“Just the two women he . . .” She looked over the edge of the cliff. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “He threw their bodies down there. He’s a madman!”

“Put your arm across my neck.” She did and he helped her to her feet. “I need you to try to walk.”

She hissed with each step. She tried to keep her leg elevated but wasn’t having much luck. He held her hand and felt the mud all over it.

“What was he doing with you?”

“He made us clear off those rocks,” she said. “He told us we had to clear the serpent’s head. We didn’t have any tools . . . He would beat us when we didn’t move fast enough.”

The Phantom looked over his shoulder. Of course! The outcropping is the Serpent’s Head! There was a crude drawing of it in the second Phantom’s journals, on the same pages in which he spoke of a serpent cult who sacrificed women to an ancient god by beheading them and casting them into the ravine. Villages once volunteered women in exchange for power in times of war, but when the second Phantom fought the cultists they had far more selfish goals in mind.

The Phantom once tried to find the Head in his youth, but the jungle had long since claimed it as its own. Now, with the vegetation cleared, he could see the eroded pits that were once eyes and nostrils, and how the detail had been sheared from the two columns that were once upper and lower fangs meeting in the center.

“He was the cruise director,” Gina said. “He seemed like such a nice man, with his dance lessons and shuffleboard schedules. I can’t believe he could do this to us!”

“You’re okay now,” the Phantom assured her. “I’m going to get you all to safety.”

“Yaaaaaaa!!”

The cultist ran out of the brush into the midst of the other women. He swung the machete in a wide arc and chopped one woman on the side of her neck. The others scattered, screaming as their wounded companion went down. The cultist ripped the machete free and raised it for the next strike.

The Phantom drew his pistol and tried to stop the next blow, but Gina panicked and clung to his side. She spoiled his aim and the bullet went wide. The cultist took his second swing, then dove to the ground beside the other unconscious man. He came up with the submachine gun and fired. The Phantom ducked just in time, and the woman howled in pain. The bullets sprayed them with rock chips from the cliff face.

The Phantom couldn’t see the other women so he aimed high and fired three shots over the cultist’s head. The cultist dragged his partner across the ground a few feet until the gun strap came loose, and then he turned and ran into the jungle.

“Stay here,” he told Gina as he walked into the clearing. He trained both pistols on the spot where the cultist disappeared, then scanned the perimeter. “Get behind me, ladies! Get away from the trees!”

They all came running. He counted them quickly: eight including Gina. The cultist’s latest victim lay in the brush, her head beside her left elbow. He took several steps away from her, then waved for the women to follow him in a wide arc around the body.

The rapid hammering of machine gun fire ripped the air. The women screamed again and dropped to the ground, but the cultist wasn’t shooting at them. A high-pitched hiss replaced the gunfire.

“What’s that sound?”

“The radiator,” the Phantom replied. “He just killed the truck.”

He spent the next few minutes untying all of the women. He used three of the ropes to bind the unconscious man’s wrists and ankles, then lashed them together behind his back. The man had two spare submachine gun clips, and the Phantom took those and tucked them into his belt at the small of his back.

The moonlight turned a deep, baleful yellow, casting a sickly glow across the ladies’ faces. They all rubbed their wrists and held one another in consolation, and their eyes were all upon him for direction. He looked up at the moon as it transitioned to bilious green. It still hovered within that oblong slash like an angry eye.

“Did you see the ship? Is everyone okay?” All the women took up the questions and he held out his hands to quiet them.

“Ladies, please. The ship is okay. The pirates were stopped and the Jungle Patrol rescued the passengers. I also spoke with the mother of two of you.”

“Mom’s alright?” a young woman cried. She turned and hugged another girl. They had the same small nose and striking jawline.

“Oh thank God!” her sister said.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the Phantom said, “but we best get moving.”

He led the women back through the brush to the truck. He had hoped he could salvage it somehow, or at least get it to drive long enough to get them a safe distance from the cultist, but there were several holes in the grill and windshield and both front tires were flat. Fluids gushed all over the jungle floor and the rush of steam from the radiator faded to a slow gurgle. He checked the cab and saw the GPS unit and the book were both gone.

Leaves rustled behind them.

“Down!” the Phantom shouted. He crouched and whirled, pistols raised.

Muzzle flashes lit up the trees. Bullets smacked into the wooden bed. The Phantom returned fire and the shooting stopped. The slide of his right-hand pistol locked back on an empty magazine. The still air reeked with the sharp tang of gunsmoke. As the echo of the gunfire faded in his ears, he could hear the sound of someone running through the brush in the distance.

The Phantom swapped out the empty magazine for a fresh one. He turned to the women.

“I know this will be difficult, but I need you to move as fast as you can.”

They all nodded or murmured agreement. Two of them took Gina by the arms and helped her walk. It was slow going, but they made it to the main trail with minimal fuss. He checked the path in both directions, then stepped out into the open first. When no shots or shouting came, he held a finger to his lips and motioned for them to follow him. The last thing he wanted to do was to follow the trail, but the women were in no condition to traverse the dense jungle, even if they weren’t already exhausted and wounded. Most of them had lost their shoes while traipsing through the brush and their feet had been slashed and poked by brambles and sharp rocks.

It was several minutes before the Phantom spotted the Y intersection ahead. He stopped frequently to scan the jungle and allow the women to catch up. Their best chance was if the Jungle Patrol was looking for them as well. If the woman on the ship told them about her daughters, they should have discovered the bodies on the beach and followed the trails themselves.

BRAAAAPP!

The rapid gunfire sounded behind them. The women screamed and the Phantom jumped to a tree for cover. The automatic fire died abruptly, then was replaced with three rapid shots from a semiautomatic pistol.

The cultist must have run out of ammo for the machine gun, but that was little comfort to the Phantom. It was an MP5 chambered for 9mm, and judging by the sound of the cultist’s pistol, it could be 9mm as well. If the cultist knew his firearms—and the Phantom could only assume he did—he could fade back into the jungle and load all of his pistol ammunition into his single MP5 magazine and be right back on automatic fire.

One of the women let out another cry of pain. The Phantom waited thirty seconds after the last gunshot, then went over to the woman and crouched at her side. It was one of the two daughters, and her sister pressed a hand over a bullet wound high on the back of her thigh.

“Please! Help my sister!”

“We need cloth,” the Phantom said. “Tear strips off the hems of your skirts, or tear off your sleeves. Anything! We need to cover this and stop the bleeding.”

A red hue fell over everything. The Phantom looked up at the moon and saw the same angry red hanging across its face like a veil.

“Look to the moon, Phantom!” The cultist’s voice echoed through the valley and down the ravine, obscuring his position. “Set is angry! He will have his sacrifice!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” the Phantom muttered.

The ladies handed strips of cloth to him. He wrapped two pieces into a tight pad and pressed it to the young woman’s thigh, then instructed her sister to hold it in place. He used two more strips to lash it to the wound. Like Gina, she needed help getting to her feet and moving.

It took several minutes more to actually reach the Y intersection. The cultist intended to slow them down and it was working. First he slashed Gina’s leg, then he fired on the back of the pack and wounded another.

If he hoped the Phantom would leave the women behind, though, he was sorely mistaken.

“I want you to go that way,” the Phantom said, pointing up the other spoke of the Y.

“But the beach is the other way, isn’t it?” Gina asked.

“Yes, it is. But it’s a long way, and the cultist will set another trap. There’s a village a few kilometers down the trail and there’s a much better chance the Jungle Patrol will find you. I’ll wait here until he doubles back to find us.”

“You’re going to need a decoy.”

“No! Out of the question.”

Gina let go of the two women that had been helping her. They had trouble supporting the extra weight and eased her to the ground. They tried to get her up but she resisted.

“The decision’s been made! I’m too weak to keep going. The rest of you get out of sight and I’ll start screaming.”

The Phantom frowned as he considered his options. The others all looked at him for a decision. He didn’t like the idea of using Gina—or anyone, for that matter—as bait, but if she was correct and the cultist expected it, the Phantom could use that to his advantage. And if he didn’t catch the cultist, the villain might slip past the Jungle Patrol and be free to try this again.

“Very well,” the Phantom said. “Let’s get a little farther up the trail so it doesn’t look so obvious.”

Gina certainly had a set of lungs on her. She waited thirty seconds between cries, leaving time for the echoes to fade and for the Phantom to hear any signs of the cultist approaching. He left her one of his .45s, which she tucked beneath her hip as she laid across the path.

The Phantom perched in a tree above her, concealed by the jungle canopy. Twice she shifted and grunted, but he resisted the temptation to come down and help her and blow the trap. The other women had continued up the path, and by now he hoped they would be well out of reach of the cultist. He still worried about Gina’s wound. He needed to get her to a hospital soon, or she’d risk losing her leg to an infection. If the cultist didn’t show in the next few minutes, he’d cut his losses and carry her up the trail.

“Well hello there.”

The Phantom tensed. Gina’s head snapped up and she looked down the trail.

“Stay away from me!” She sounded convincing, and the Phantom had to wonder if it was part of the act or if she realized what a bad idea this was.

“Where’s your ghost friend?” the cultist asked, much closer now.

“I said stay away!”

“They went that way, is that it? That’s okay. They can’t have gotten far. You and me have some unfinished business, and then I’ll . . .”

Gina leaned over and snatched up the pistol, then started shooting. Breathing heavily, she kept on squeezing the trigger after the last bullet was gone.

The Phantom bit his lip and waited. This could have gone wrong in a lot of ways, including the cultist riddling her with bullets. But there was no return fire, and Gina slowly lowered the pistol. Maybe she lucked out.

“You need to work on your aim,” the cultist said. The Phantom listened as footfalls approached from up the path. The cultist appeared below and held up the machete. The pistol was tucked into the holster at the small of his back, and the submachine gun dangled between his shoulders. “Fortunately for you, I don’t.”

The Phantom jumped down from the tree. He caught the cultist around the neck and pulled him into a throw as he landed, sending the man flying across the path and into a tree. He dropped the machete with the impact, but immediately reached for one of the guns at his back. The Phantom denied him the opportunity with a sharp kick to his kidney.

The cultist rolled away from him but the Phantom closed up fast and delivered two quick body blows. The man pulled his pistol and the Phantom grabbed the barrel and wrenched it back and out of his hand. The cultist kneed him in the groin and he doubled over, then grunted as the man’s elbows came down in the center of his back. The Phantom dropped the pistol and pistoned his legs, driving himself forward into the man’s stomach. He lifted him off the ground and slammed him into a tree, then followed through with a quick punch to the solar plexus and another across the jaw.

The cultist dropped to his knees, then collapsed in a huff. He didn’t resist as the Phantom unclipped the belt from the submachine gun. The Phantom tossed the gun out of reach, then used the belt to tie the cultist’s wrists behind his back.

“Thank God that’s over,” Gina said.

Something hissed in the bushes. Another hiss sounded off to the right, then another behind them.

“What is that?” Gina asked.

The Phantom stepped away from the brush and stood beside Gina. A small black head poked out of the brush and a little red tongue tasted the air. More hissing started around them, and in moments the sound was almost deafening.

“Asps,” the Phantom said. Three sets of beady black eyes stared at him, and he took a few steps backward. Gina gasped and he dragged her with him.

The cultist laughed and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “I told you Set would not be denied! He will have blood!”

The Phantom helped Gina to her feet and she stepped behind him. More asps slithered out of the bush and he saw a pair of cobras among them.

But they weren’t interested in him—their heads turned toward the cultist.

“Somehow I think you’re right,” the Phantom said.

The cultist paled as the realization set in. “No! I served you well, my lord! Please, don’t take me!”

His pleas fell on deaf ears. He screamed as the first asp struck, and the others followed in rapid succession. Gina buried her face between the Phantom’s shoulders as the snakes bit the man on the chest, arms and legs. One of the cobras struck his cheek and he tumbled over, rolling and kicking as the snakes continued to bite and strike. His screams were choked off by his swelling throat, and still they bit him, until at last he fell still.

The Phantom led Gina several steps farther from the snakes, fearing they would turn on him next. Instead they seemed satisfied, and they turned and slithered back into the jungle. In just a moment they were all gone, and the hissing died away shortly after that.

The Phantom looked up at the moon. The last wisps of red disintegrated, and the cleft in the clouds stitched itself up from either end. When at last it closed over the moon, they were left in darkness.

“Are you alright?” the Phantom asked.

“I think so. I’m feeling weak.”

Faint sirens approached from the distance.

“That’s the Jungle Patrol. You’re safe now, and they’ll get you to a hospital.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“That’s right. I have a few other things to take care of.”

“Who should I tell them saved us?”

“Don’t worry,” he said as he faded into the darkness. “They’ll know.”

The End

MIKE OLIVERI has written several short stories and novellas, and his novel Deadliest of the Species won a Bram Stoker Award in 2001. Last year marked his comics writing debut with Werewolves: Call of the Wild from Moonstone Books. Mike is one of three contributors to Muy Mal (www.muymal.com). a site offering free, serialized fiction set in a shared universe. You can learn more about Mike and his work at www.mikeoliveri.com.

Here, There, Everwhere

By Nancy Kilpatrick

September 8, 1888 - BUTCHER CARVES ANOTHER!

Julie picked up The Star from the tea table. She’d read all about the the first killing on August 31, just after her arrival, and now the fiend had struck again!

“Forty-seven year old Annie Chapman’s mutilated body lay exposed in the dank morning air. Shortly before 6 a.m. ‘Dark Annie’, as those living in Whitechapel knew her, was found. One witness, Mr. Albert Cadoche, who lives at number 29 Hanbury Street, admitted to constables that he overheard muffled sounds of assault in the backyard but went on to justify his inaction: ‘ ’Appens all the time ’ere. Best to mind yer business.’ Two unidentified friends of the murdered prostitute claim she told them of seeing a ‘tall foreign stranger’ in the morning mist of Londontown. Police were overheard to beg the question: could this be the same man who butchered Mary Ann Nichols, also known as Polly, but nine days ago?”

The report on the crime was accompanied by a biography that painted a far more human portrait of Annie Chapman. The widow had wandered to the streets of the East End penniless upon the death of her husband two years ago, only to die on a foggy night, alone. Her life had been tragic. One of her two daughters died six years ago, and her only son was a cripple. Annie became street hardened out of necessity. The reporter went on to state that the coroner described her as suffering from brain and lung disease and declared her life would have ended soon “Had not the knife of a killer claimed her first.”

The profile ended with a call to clean up the streets of the “worst section of London, reeking of crime, disease and madness. We must help the unfortunates, who cannot, it seems, help themselves.”

The article was accompanied by an artist’s sketch of “Dark Annie”, and Julie was startled by how much she resembled her own mother, but it convinced her that “Dark Annie” and “Polly” had both been someone’s mother, another’s wife, sister, daughter. As upset as she’d been by the first murder, now Julie felt even more disturbed. Anyone with a partial brain could see a pattern developing. She shivered at the idea. A deranged man on the loose. He had killed twice and, she knew, he would murder again. Those poor women!

“Good heavens, what are you doing?” Laura said as she breezed into the atrium, her voice laced with consternation. “You’re reading a newspaper?”

Julie glanced up at her friend. “When did you become so conservative?”

“Since I became Lady Richards,” she said with a brief curtsy and a haughty look that dissolved into laugher, which Julie joined in on.

Laura said, “If Stew’s Gran saw you reading that, her corset stays would pop!”

“I’ve no intention of popping my stays,” came a stiff, humorless reply from the doorway which caused both women to spin around, “and I’ll thank you to refrain from mentioning unmentionables either publicly or privately, particularly mine! Now, what, exactly, would cause me to lose my underthings?”

Before Laura could say a word, Grandmother Richards zeroed in on Julie, saying, “I see!”

And before Julie could react, the old lady had stormed across the room and snatched the newspaper from her hands. “Young lady,” she chided, although both Julie and Laura were over thirty-five now, “I am unfamiliar with decorum in America, but here, in my grandson’s house, in London, in all of the British Empire for that matter as well as the civilized world, well bred women do not read smut!”

She turned on her hobnails and stormed out carrying the offending paper by her fingertips as if it might infect her, muttering that she would “Have a word with Stewart. He should know better than to leave salacious material lying about for all and sundry to view!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Laura whispered.

Julie waved away her concern. She could not take offense. Mrs. Richards was eighty-five years old, amazingly still a human steam engine, and the product of another age. Laura, though, was a different matter, and Julie said to her, “An elderly woman I understand. You, I do not. Are you telling me that even though it’s 1888, you still will not read a newspaper?”

Laura took a seat on the Ottoman before Julie’s armchair. She leaned in, a devilish look on her face. “To tell you the truth, Stew leaves them lying around—I suspect he wants me to read the papers. It’s almost a form of . . . of titilation!” More giggling, accompanied by blushing. “I’ve married such an enlightened creature. But Gran Richards,” she lowered her voice and glanced at the doorway to make certain the old lady was out of earshot, “well, I don’t like upsetting her. She’s dear to Stew, and hasn’t long for this world.”

Julie patted her friend’s hand. “Yes. We must protect those who need protection. Both my brother Kip and I grew up with that value and it has served us well.”

Laura looked at her with a smile on her face. “Oh, Julie, I’m so glad you could visit. I’ve missed you utterly! These last two weeks have been divine, having you here. I hope you’re not pining too much for your husband and those darling little girls.”

In fact, Julie did miss them. Bradley, dear man that he was, had been so gracious in allowing Julie to travel across the ocean alone. He really was far ahead of his time in attitude towards women, but then they had an unusual history. She thought about her girls endless times throughout the day. With her parents gone, Julie had only her husband and twin daughters, and her brother Kip, the person she was closest to in the entire world. Being twins themselves, their bond could not easily be described to anyone else. But they shared more, because Kip had inherited the title of The Phantom. Both of them had been raised in their early years by the Toganda tribe in the Bangalla jungle. It was a childhood no one but the two of them could understand. Laura was not family, but a friend who had always felt like family to Julie. She had to come to London to assure herself that her spiritual sister’s choice of a spouse was sound, bringing her happiness.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” she reassured Laura. “Fine but for the grisly goings-on here. Have you been reading about the two murders?”

Laura’s face became a mask of mixed emotions. “What kind of a man would do such a thing?”

“He’s not a man,” Stewart declared, entering the atrium with movements that conveyed a sense of ownership for all he surveyed. “He’s a regular Jekyll/Hyde. And The Butcher’s the talk of the town. Perhaps the world.”

Both women looked up as he’d entered, and Laura’s face brightened considerably, which Julie could not fail to notice. He stepped to his wife and kissed the top of her head in what struck Julie as a rather paternal show of affection, then took the loveseat by the window, lifting the tail of his greatcoat as he sat with extremely erect posture as only the upper classes exhibited. Julie and Kip had not been raised to be so straight-laced.

Laura said to Stew, “I’m afraid Gran has it in for you. She found today’s Star sitting on the tabletop and, horror of horrors, Julie was reading it!”

Stew raised one eyebrow impishly at Julie.

Julie ignored that, but she did want to get back to the murders. “What are they saying? Around town?” she asked him. “About this . . . human demon?”

“They’re saying Jack’s killing prostitutes, and who cares about street tarts.”

“How insensitive!” Julie said.

“Jack? They’ve given him a name!” Laura clapped her hands together like a child, which made Stew grin.

“Indeed.” And to Julie he said, “There are very few liberal voices at the Surgeon’s Club. But of course my peers have a point. These are not refined women as are the two of you. They live in a violent world, selling their bodies to any and all with the coins to spend, and will cheat you as soon as glance in your direction. Not to mention diseases they carry and spread with glee, it seems.”

“That’s a rather cold assessment,” Julie countered. “I’d guess most of these ladies of the night are poor, with no one to provide for them and their children, forced to work the dangerous areas which low-life men of all classes frequent looking for entertainment at the expense of a less fortunate. If they didn’t do this work, or work in a match factory for pennies a day, they and their families would starve.”

Stewart gave her a peculiar look. “One would think you’ve studied them close up.”

“Oh Stew!” Laura shouted. Then to Julie, “He’s teasing you, of course.”

Julie ignored her. “I have studied humanity close up, especially the down and out. It is my mission in life, as it is Kip’s, to help those who through no fault of their own were born into less fortuitous circumstances than we were.”

“Very noble of you,” Stew said, and Julie detected a hint of a sneer on his lips.

Laura smoothed her husband’s hair and likely his ego as well. She smiled at him and asked about his night at the hospital and if the surgeries exhausted him, assuring him that he really did too much for his patients staying up all night and what good would he be if he did not take care of himself? Julie watched them: tall, attractive, dark-haired, well-heeled aristocrats. She struggled to find relief in Laura’s year-old marriage. They seemed suited to one another in some ways, and Julie wanted nothing more than to see her friend happy, although Stewart was not a man she would have chosen for Laura. But then, as they say, love is blind. And Laura had always been intent on marrying up.

“The odd thing is,” Stewart went on, obviously eager to get back to the subject at hand, “the police have no clues. Absolutely none. It appears that first girl . . . oh, I’ve forgotten the name—”

“Mary Anne Nichols,” Julie supplied.

“My, you are up on the news. Yes, her. Polly, I think they called her. It seems—”

“It’s half seven. I’ll see what’s keeping breakfast,” Laura said brightly, making another attempt to change the topic.

“Yes, do that,” Stew replied distractedly.

Laura immediately jumped to her feet. “We should install a bell here,” she said, leaving the atrium to find the serving maid.

“. . . it seems this Polly was also in her forties, although why any man would choose an old pigeon when a young sparrow would be as readily available baffles me. In any event it seems Polly was not the first victim.”

Julie ignored his inflammatory comments. “How do you know that? It’s not in the newspapers.”

“Not every bit of relevant fact finds its way to the press,” he said, a bit condescendingly. “As it happens, I have had occasion to speak with Inspector Abberline, who is investigating these and the other cases.”

“What other cases?”

“My, but you are inquisitive! Does your husband allow your interest in such macabre subject matter? This is highly unusual for a woman and—”

“My husband knows all there is to know about me and in fact he ‘allows’ me to be myself.”

“How very suffragette of you both. I’m glad my Laura is not so independent. I can’t begin to calculate the harm it would do to our relationship.”

Julie would not reveal much of herself to Stewart who, more and more, she was viewing as a cretin. She had met Bradley because, acting as The Phantom when Kip had been injured, she saved his life and subsequently they had fallen deeply in love and married. Bradley joined the ministry, and Julie, a pastor’s wife, with two young children, had had many of her dreams fulfilled. They shared a passion for identifying injustices and righting them, in which cause Bradley was more than her equal. She had no intention of debating women’s rights with Stewart who, open-minded though Laura proclaimed him to be, drew narrow lines when it suited him.

“Tell me about these other cases,” she said, modifying her voice so as not to antagonize him further. After all, she wanted the information.

Stew leaned back and crossed his legs. “As you wish. But I shan’t be responsible should you collapse in a faint!”

Julie offered him a small smile.

“According to the Inspector, there are possibly four other victims.”

“Oh Lord, no!” Julie said.

“If the subject matter disturbs you so much, perhaps I should not go on—”

“I’d think it would disturb any reasonable person. Please continue.”

“A woman named Annie Millwood was attacked February 25th of this year. She survived but died seemingly of natural causes on March 31. Ada Wilson was stabbed March 28th and survived. Emma Smith was, it’s thought, The Butcher’s victim April 3rd. She fell into a coma and died on the 5th of April. And lastly Martha Tabram was murdered August 7.”

“This very month? Why was it not reported by the press?”

“I presume because no one but Inspector Abberline has made the connection.”

“And the modus operandi was identical?”

“If by that you refer to the means of death, yes, close enough. For example, Tabram was stabbed thirty-nine times and died of her wounds.”

Julie said nothing. Her mind raced. If The Butcher committed all of these crimes, he must have been active for close to a year. A disturbing thought suddenly crossed her mind: Stew’s memory for names and dates was remarkable. So much so that she was astonished that he had forgotten Polly’s name.

“This Ada Wilson,” she said. “You say she survived the attack?”

“As grim fate would have it.”

“Grim? I’d assume she would think it divine intervention.”

“Medically speaking, her aeorta was nicked and several major nerves in her throat severed. Quite likely she will never again have full use of her left arm.”

“Breakfast is served!” Laura announced, and they followed her to the dining room, the sideboards laden with sausages, eggs, toast wedges and kippers.

At any other time Julie would have appreciated the presentation. Today she had no appetite. Not when so many women were being murdered!

Julie sent a telegram to Kip, who was in North Africa. She knew he had gone there four months ago because of some deep unrest that had been resulting in torched mosques and vicious murders, and she hoped that by now he had righted things. They were twins and tended to stay in touch not so much out of necessity but because of the urgency of the special bond that linked them. Kip was always needed somewhere on the planet, but right now he was needed here. This epidemic would continue. More women would die. He had to come to London!

Julie hired a hansom to take her to the Metropolitan Police Service Criminal Investigation Department. There, she asked to speak with Inspector Frederick Abberline. The inspector was out, “No doubt havin’ an eel pie,” the man at the high desk informed her, and asked if she might wait and she took a seat on the wooden bench across from him.

During the thirty minutes Julie sat there, she witnessed all manner of individuals being brought into the police station to be charged with an array of crimes. Many were not above addressing Julie, presumably viewing her as a witness to the ‘travesty of justice’ they deemed their lot. The constable holding one unruly drunken sot by the arm soundly cuffed him on the ear but not before the reeking man had managed to break free and exhale stale ale-breath into Julie’s face, “ ’ow’s ’bout a dance, loverly?” Despite the situation, his cockney accent made her smile.

“Mrs. Henderson?”

She turned to find a thin, rumpled-looking man with long dark graying hair and sharp, keen eyes that seemed to notice and assess everything quietly staring at her.

“Inspector Abberline?”

“One and the same,” he said. “I understand you’ve been waiting to speak with me.”

“Yes. About these murders by the man deemed The Butcher.”

Abberline took her elbow and moved her down the hallway to where they could speak in private. He was a tall man, towering over her as did Stew and Laura, and even Bradley and Kip, but instantly she liked him, and felt him trustworthy.

Once they were seated on another bench out of the fray, he said, “Do you have knowledge of these crimes?”

Instantly she felt guilty for taking up his time and when she admitted she had no direct knowledge, he looked disappointed. “I’m not here out of curiosity,” she said. “I’ve trained in the workings of criminal minds,” and she held up a hand, “which I understand,” she quickly added “is considered by many an unbecoming occupation for a lady.”

He smiled at that. “I’m not one to dismiss either the insight nor the intelligence of women.” Then, “You’re not given to psychic phenomena, are you?” a worried look on his face as if he might have misjudged her.

“Oh no!” she assured him. “My methods are intuitive but highly practical.”

He looked relieved.

“Inspector, I’d like to help in the investigation. I know it’s highly unusual. I’m from America, here as a guest, visiting my friend Lady Stewart Richards. I believe you know her husband.”

“Yes, of course. The surgeon.”

“In any event, I’ve had some dealings with the police in America and have managed to be instrumental on at least one case, helping to rescue the victim.” As an afterthought she said, “Have you heard of The Phantom in this country?”

Inspector Abberline’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed. One of the greatest crime fighters in the known world. If only he were here to help us.”

Julie hesitated. She was bound by oath to protect Kip’s identity. Cautiously she said, “Would it surprise you to know that I have had contact with The Phantom, and have helped him on several of his ‘cases’.”

Inspector Abberline studied her face for a moment, assessing her, and she had the distinct feeling that he could see into her brain, and hoped that was not the case.

“I can, if you like, provide references,” she offered.

“Unfortunately we’ve no leads in the cases and frankly, ma’am, there’s little incentive in the department to pursue these crimes.”

She knew he was confiding in her, and felt grateful for that. “Because these are loose women?” she asked.

“I fear so.”

“But you are not of the same mind.”

“For me, murder is most horrid, regardless of the victim. I will do all in my power to find the man or men responsible for this violence. God willing, I will succeed.”

It was more than rhetoric issuing from his lips. Julie knew she was right about this unimposing man. He was honorable and that made him strong in her eyes. “Then, Inspector, let us begin. Provide me with what information you possess and perhaps I might aid you in some small way in tracking the killer!”

Abberline suggested they retire to a nearby tea room, which she realized would provide some discretion. After all, he was about to share confidential information with her, a virtual stranger, and she knew this was contrary to the police department’s policies. He was taking a risk. Once Kip arrived, the more the suspects were narrowed down, the better for him to bring the killer to justice. Kip, she felt certain, would also like Frederick Abberline.

“Inspector,” Julie said, as she set her China cup painted with blue flowers onto its matching saucer, “I understand there have been other murders prior to the two mentioned in the newspapers.”

“Yes. There have been five, beginning December of last year, although I give credence to four as possibly being the work of The Butcher, which is, of course, the presses determination of his occupation. Butcher or doctor or shoemaker. Take your pick.”

“Ah,” she said, “I did not know that.”

“Frankly speaking, and I hope I do not offend you, the streets in Whitechapel run red with the blood of women brutalized and murdered on a regular basis. So much so that it’s taken the department by surprise that the papers are so adamantly and aggressively pursuing these.”

“I’d guess they are seeking the sensational headline in an otherwise arid period of violent news.”

“An astute observation.”

“What information can you give me?” she asked.

“The first thing I can tell you is that these heinous acts were committed under cloak of darkness, close to a weekend. The dates fall at the end of the month, or a week or so afterwards.”

“Curious. One can imagine the murderer busy at other times.”

“My thinking precisely. Another aspect is that the crimes are committed after midnight, in a secluded spot to which access by the general public is available, although Mary Ann Nichols was found on an open street, albeit one particularly dark and deserted.”

“Can you describe their wounds?”

Inspector Abberline looked at her again, presumably searching for a manner to convey the grisly details without being offensive. Julie saw this in his eyes and tried to reassure him. “Inspector, I’ve heard the worst. What you tell me may shock, as it would any decent human being, but I want this monster stopped!”

“You are an amazing woman,” he said.

She smiled. “I come from a long lineage of amazing women and men. We believe in nothing more than righting the wrongs of the world, if we possibly can.”

“Most of the victims suffered knife wounds to the face, throat, chest and genitals,” he said. “Also, their abdomens were cut open, and . . . how shall I put it . . . body parts removed.”

“I take it you refer to female body parts?”

“Yes, but other internal organs as well. It varies with each victim. I would say that overall facial mutilation is the one determining factor in these cases. And that, unfortunately, is all we know.”

“I believe that Lord Richards mentioned one woman has survived.”

“Ada Wilson.”

“I’d like to speak with her.” She paused. “I know this request is highly unusual, but Inspector, as I’m sure you’re well aware, first-hand information is the most reliable.”

They arranged to meet the following Tuesday, then parted.

On her ride home, Julie thought about the murderer’s possible occupation. One seemed to stick in her mind: surgeon.

Tuesday in the late morning, Inspector Abberline pulled up at the door of Lord and Lady Richards’ mansion in a rented cab. The maid, taken aback to find the card of a London constable on her tray, was flustered as she presented the card to Julie. Fortunately Laura was out on a church visit to a sick neighbor, and Julie could escape undetected, although of course the maid would gossip to the staff and someone would eventually tell Laura that her friend from America had driven off with a policeman and that said man had the nerve to appear at the front door and not at the tradesmen’s entrance! Julie had a smile at the thought.

The hansom driver complained loudly about Whitechapel and the filth, and indeed as the streets narrowed so that the cab could barely pass, the stench grew stronger. Julie, not normally bothered by intense odors, succumbed to the urge and placed a handkerchief to her nose.

It had rained and the cobblestones were wet, making the poor horse slip. The driver cracked his whip to hurry the poor beast until finally Julie could stand it no longer and called out to him, “If you wish to be paid you will cease tormenting that animal!”

The driver turned to scowl at her and it must have been the ferocious gleam in her eye that caused him to grumble but lay the whip aside.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Inspector Abberline grinning.

Finally they pulled up outside a non-descript three story in a row of non-descript houses, the bricks out front charred as if there had been a fire at one point on this block. It was half noon and the road teamed with vendors. Urchins racing and screaming spotted the cab and descended, offering to sell matches or shoe laces or to “Get the misses a drink o’ som’in.” Some just put out their hands, beggars at the age of five and six. Julie’s heart broke seeing them. She and Kip had discussed it many times: there seemed no reason for such poverty in industrialized nations.

Inspector Abberline shooed them away, but not before slipping a half farthing to several. She saw a boy of twelve bite the coin with his back teeth then announce, “It’s real!”

“You’ll wait here for us,” Abberline instructed the surly driver, who did not look pleased, but on the other hand had no interest in rubbing a policeman the wrong way.

Abberline pounded on the door for a good three minutes before it was answered. A groggy tall man wearing a soiled sweatshirt and baggy trousers belted tight against his skinny frame answered, squinting into the sunlight, snarling, “Keep it in yer trousers! We ain’t open yet!”

“I’m not here to sample the wares,” Abberline said. “I’m Inspector Abberline of the police, and I want to see Ada Wilson.”

The man scratched his arm and stared first at Abberline, eyes growing wider as they landed on Julie. Finally he shrugged and turned, as if that were an invitation to follow him, which they did.

“Ada!” he yelled. Then louder, “ADA! Get your lazy ass outta that bed. Yer got company.”

Finally he pushed open a door and a smell wafted out from it that assaulted Julie. It was sex and cheap alcohol and tobacco and stale food, all rolled into one noxious odor.

The man kicked the leg of the bed and yelled, “Get up, you lazy cow! Cops is here.”

“Uh?” the woman lying in a tangle of sheets said, her eyelids slitted.

They stood at the door’s entrance waiting as she got out of the bed. She was stark naked beneath the sheets. When he saw that, Abberline took Julie’s arm and turned her back towards what he must know was the parlor, calling out to Ada, “Meet us at the front. And don’t try to sneak out the back or you’ll be hauled off to the poor house!” This elicited another grunt from the slowly-waking Ada.

The room, full of shabby but plush chairs and couches and drapes with tassels retained the same smell but not as strong. Finally Ada joined them, wrapped in the sheet, perching suspiciously on a chair as far from the two of them as she could get and still remain in the same room.

The man who woke her blocked the doorway, arms folded across his chest. “What’s all this ’ere about then?”

“Tell us about when you were attacked,” Abberline said to Ada.

“Which time?”

“Last March.”

“Oh, The Butcher.” She pulled aside her long, stringy hair to reveal angry-looking slash marks at her throat. She tilted her head back and turned it so they could get a proper look.

Finally, Julie said, “Miss Wilson, we would appreciate it if you would be good enough to tell us exactly what happened.”

Ada dropped her hair and turned her head back to stare at them. The woman was old before her time, her face hard and wrinkled, the remnants of a split lip and fading bruises around the eyes from a more recent violent encounter painted on her face. “Already told ’im.” She nodded at Inspector Abberline.

“Please, tell me.”

Ada stared at Julie for a moment, then said, “Sure. If’n a lady like you wants to hear about it, though I don’t know why that should be.

“Were walkin’ in the back lane. Musta been near morning. Me feet hurt. Been standin’ the night, ’cept when I weren’t. Lady like you wouldn’t know ’bout that, though.”

“Please go on,” Julie encouraged.

“Well, I just left me friend, Gizelle they call her ’cause she’s from France an’ all, but she told me once she were from Edinburgh, if yer can believe that! I tell you, these blokes ’round here are some of the dumbest—”

“Were you on your way home?” Julie asked.

“Yeah. Maybe three blocks from ’ere. Tired. Not payin’ much attention. Seen this ’er fella comin’ towards me, dressed all fancy and that, but we get our betters comin’ down ’ere regular fer some fun, so’s I don’t think nothin’ of it, if yer know what I mean. Anyways, he were a tall one, and skinny, dressed like money, and I figured what’s one more, then I can make enough to keep ’im happy,” she nodded at the man in the doorway, “and get the holes in me boots fixed, so I says, ‘Nice evenin’, friendly like.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothin’. Moved like to pass me. Next thing I knows I’m caught from behind an’ afore I can do anything ’bout it he’s cut me throat.”

Clearly the experience had left this normally rough and tumble woman vulnerable. Her eyes are wild and her hand went instinctively to her neck.

“Then what happened,” Julie asked gently.

“Then I were bleedin’, trying to scream fer help, and I hear voices comin’ an’ I kicks over a bucket to make a racket and they found me.”

“What happened to the man?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. He were gone, like some spirit or somethin’. Me friends got me to the charity ’ospital but they couldn’t do much but put plasters on me neck, then I come home and lay in me bed fer a couple days ’till this one makes me get up and out. Can’t feel me arm since,” and she holds it out like a child.

Julie glanced at the man in the doorway. She did not want to think too much about their relationship but knew it was of the worst nature.

“Tell me,” she asked, “do you recall anything specific about this man who attacked you? Anything that might help us find him?”

“What, so he don’t go hurtin’ other girls?”

“Yes. And so we can bring him to justice for what he did to you.”

This caused Ada to laugh so hard her eyes teared up. Julie had no idea what was funny until Ada finally controlled herself enough to say, “Ain’t gonna be no justice fer the likes o’ me. Inspector here’ll tell ya that.”

Julie looked at Abberline, who looked down at his hands. Ada was right. The law did not care about these women and what happened to them. But she did.

“I promise you, Ada, that if we can find this fiend, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he pays for what he did to you.”

Ada was about to offer a cynical comeback, but something in Julie’s eyes stopped her cold. Instead she said, “Weren’t nothin’ ’bout him but that he were tall and thin. And what he said when he were cuttin’ me.”

“Which was?”

“You ruined me life!”

Julie spent the next two weeks visiting the library to read, under the austere gaze of the librarian, all of the London newspapers that had been carrying stories of the murders, even the one dating back to December 26th, 1887 when ‘Fairy Fay’, an obvious nickname, met her grim fate. This was the case Abberline told her was nothing more than a fabrication by the press. Still, she read the details, as much as were fit for print.

During this time she waited pensively for a telegram, a letter, or better still, for Kip to show up at the door. But no word arrived, and an ominous feeling possessed her.

Despite her grim mood, Julie tried to be a good guest. She accompanied Laura shopping, on charity visits, to church, and to social calls on neighbors and ladies in her circle where they drank afternoon tea and ate scones and frittered away their time gossiping. It was not a lifestyle that Julie enjoyed, nor one that formerly Laura had espoused. Still, she felt compelled to spend this time with her friend. Her stay in England would end November 11th, when she would set sail for home.

Home! The very word filled her with warmth. How she missed her husband and girls! Visiting England was an arduous adventure and all in all she would be away for close to four months, it ship travel time were counted. Her girls would have grown. Bradley, from his letters, eagerly awaited her arrival. She must make every moment in England count in order to justify to herself time away from her family.

But while her thoughts were with them, and her time spent with Laura, Julie could not forget the murders. She knew in her heart that the madman who had perpetrated them would strike again. Kip could stop him. If only Kip were here!

She did not meet again with Inspector Abberline until Saturday, September 29th at the same tea shop. He asked her there to inform her of what he called the ‘Dear Boss’ letter. “It was postmarked and received September 25th by the Central News Agency. Scotland Yard only received it today. The penman promises to ‘clip the ladys ears off’. My superiors think it a hoax.”

“And you?”

“I fear the worst.”

The worst happened early the next morning.

Julie read the headline: LEATHER APRON MURDERS TWO!

“At 1:00 a.m. in Duffield’s Yard, Berner Street, the body of Elizabeth Stride was discovered, cut from ear to ear. ‘Long Liz’, nicknamed because of her height, had been a forty-five year old prostitute . . . Had Jack been disturbed? . . . almost caught blood-red handed? . . . again evaded capture, shrinking back into the shadows cast by the gas lamps under the icy glow of the deathly full moon . . .”

The paper then described the second victim, one Catherine Eddowes, a forty-six year old prostitute, found on foot ten minutes from Berner Street, through the alleyways of Goodmans Fields “an area Jack knows well, where, with murderous intent, he has struck again!”

The two crimes were nearly identical, and appeared to have occurred close together in time. The wounds mimicked those of the previous murders with one blatant exception: one ear of Eddowes was partially cut off, and “body parts were removed.”

The police combed the area. About 3 a.m. a Constable Alfred Long found a bloodstained scrap of leather near a tenement on Goulston Street, which was identified as having been torn from the apron Eddowes wore.

Another bit of information had to do with graffiti in white chalk, scrawled on the wall above where the apron was found. The papers did not relay the message.

“It’s a bit of a mystery,” Stew said as he walked in to breakfast from another night at the hospital. “They say the scrawl had something to do with the Jews, so perhaps the murderer is a Jew.”

“How ghastly,” Laura said, spreading marmalade on a toast point.

“More likely,” Julie said, “the murderer is trying to throw the police off his trail. If he were Jewish, and given the nature of the persecution suffered by the Jews, why would he alert the police to that fact?”

“Perhaps because the murderer is insane,” Stew said, pushing his untouched plate from him angrily. He tossed his napkin onto it and stood. “I’ve surgery again tonight.” He kissed the top of his wife’s head. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’ll get some rest. I shan’t be home for supper. Don’t wait up, my dear,” and he strode from the room.

Laura tried to put on a brave face. “He’s so very busy at the hospital,” she said.

Julie had heard the carriage draw up at dawn and peered out the window in time to see Stew emerge. She knew there were problems in this marriage and had been trying to draw out her friend for many weeks now.

“They need him, I suppose, day and night, and he likes to relax at his club,” Laura added.

“You need him as well,” Julie said.

Laura looked about to cry. Suddenly she stood. “Let’s walk in Hyde Park today, shall we? I’ve a new parasol I’d like to show off!”

Julie’s next meeting with Inspector Abberline came towards the end of October. She still had not heard from Kip. And the murderer, recently dubbed Leather Apron, now called Jack the Ripper, still had not been caught.

“I’ve read about the ‘Saucy Jack’ postcard,” Julie said. “Is there more you can tell me?” While she had yet to be useful to the Inspector, Julie had the sense that he relied on her as a non-judgmental sounding board for his thoughts. She pitied him, and wished that Kip were here. He would deal with Jack the Ripper!

“I can only tell you this: the card was dated October 1. And, like the letter, handwritten. The same handwriting.”

“The papers said it mentioned both Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes.”

“Indeed, he named both. ‘Double event this time’. Truly diabolical, he is. I’m dubious, though, about authenticity. Both this postcard, and the letter before it were dated after the murders.”

“How horrible, if someone faked them! As if the events themselves are not sufficiently horrifying! There’s more than enough confusion on the go.”

She could see the relief in Abbeline’s eyes. His superiors, concerned as always with politics, could not appreciate him. “There is one other piece of information which has not as yet been made public.”

Julie waited while Abberline collected himself. Apparently what he was about to tell her would not be easy to convey.

“A fellow named George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee received a letter postmarked October 15th. Along with the letter was a small box. When he opened it he discovered half a human kidney, preserved in ‘spirits of wine’ or ethyl alcohol. We called in several specialists, including Lord Richards, and the consensus was that this piece of organ possibly belonged to Catherine Eddowes—hers had been cut out.” He paused and she sensed hesitation.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The writer claims to have fried and eaten the missing kidney half.”

Julie felt shocked to the bone. Whether or not the letter was legitimate, the reality was that Eddowes and Stride and the women before them had been slashed and stabbed and in many cases parts of their bodies stolen. The feral creature on the loose in London would not stop until someone stopped him. Kip, she thought, where are you?

“Surely,” Julie said once she’d recovered her voice, “you have suspects.”

“Many,” he said. “The Queen herself is pressuring us, and no one is above suspicion. We’ve had our collective eye on Francis Thompson, a poet who has sunk to vagrancy through the use of drugs which apparently began after he failed medical school. He had a secret affair with a prostitute and has been known to be violent. But at the moment he’s in Bedlam.”

“Oh dear! Who else?”

“John Pizer has been accused, mainly because he’s a Jew, and a shoemaker, both of which the public believes make him a candidate. I myself do not see him as the Ripper, although he does have multiple stabbing convictions against him and is not quiet about his hatred of prostitutes. Still he has a solid alibi for two of the murders.”

“Are there more?”

“Thomas Neil Cream. An American, and a doctor. He’s been arrested for poisoning prostitutes, and for falsifying information to the police about any number of crimes. We’ve had reports in Whitechapel of an American on the streets, looking for women, and that could be Cream, although he was incarcerated at the time of the most recent murders.

“We’ve also got another Doctor on our list, a Russian, Alexander Pedachenko. He has a number of aliases and the department considers him a lunatic with criminal tendencies. He trained as both a barber and a surgeon.”

“He sounds like a good possibility.”

“As good as any other, but we’ve no evidence against him. And there’s Prince Eddie—”

“Not the Queen’s godson!”

“The very one. Also, Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence. He’s been known to make nightly trips to the East End to indulge in a variety of . . . of . . . unusual erotic acts.”

Abberline actually blushed, which made Julie smile.

“As well, Sir William Gull has been discussed, the Royal Physician. Even one of our own, Sir Charles Warren.”

“Isn’t he the Metropolitan Police Commissioner?”

“Indeed.”

“But why him?”

“He directed that the graffiti be removed from the wall. Apparently he feared rousing anti-Semitic emotions in the public. For his discretion he has been named as a suspect.”

Julie sat back and looked at the Inspector. “In other words, you have suspects that for the most part make no sense.”

“Which means we have no real suspects.”

On the morning of Friday, November 9th, after she had breakfasted with Laura, Julie began packing. Her ship would sail on the 11th. She had not heard from Kip. She had not discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper. Jack had been quiet since September 30th, but she knew he would kill again.

A part of her feared the worst, that Stew was Jack. He fit the profile utterly. He had been out every evening a murder transpired. Instead of being at the hospital, or his club, he could easily have been in Whitechapel. Then, at dawn, return to his bed and his lovely if naïve wife. Was she foolish to entertain these thoughts? Could it simply be that she disliked Stew and therefore saw him as capable of murder? Should she tell Inspector Abberline what she suspected?

Her mind was a maze, and she could find no exit. And then the doorbell rang; she was not surprised when a maid knocked on her door to hand her a telegram.

UNABLE TO COME LONDON. STOP. URGENTLY NEEDED HERE. STOP. REGRETS. STOP. LOVE TO ALL. STOP. KIP.

Julie folded the yellow paper and placed it in her steamer trunk. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, and sighed heavily. It had taken nine weeks for Kip’s response to arrive, and in that time at least two more women had died. The Devil himself, it seemed, stalked the streets of Whitechapel, and no one, including The Phantom, could do anything about it.

She had no idea what her twin brother was doing, but she knew in her heart that, as always, it was for the good of mankind. Still, a gloom settled over her, one that she knew would not lift easily. Something had to be done!

“There you are!” Laura exclaimed, entering the bedroom. “Isn’t it a lovely day? Perhaps we should walk while we still have sunshine. London is so depressing in winter and I dread the onset of it. And I already miss you horribly! Must you go?”

She sat on the bed next to Julie and took her hands. Julie said, “I’ll miss you as well, Laura. My time here seems so short.” But in fact Julie had been feeling just the opposite. She did not know if it was the grim reality of the murders, or the fact that Laura had changed so much. She had always been cheerful. Now that cheerfulness appeared shallow and feigned. And Julie could not get her to open her heart.

“You’ve not said anything of children,” she began, only to feel Laura’s hands pull away.

“Oh, we’ll see what the future brings.” Brave words belied the tone.

“Do you want boys and girls?”

Suddenly Laura looked at her, eyes brimming with tears. “Why are you tormenting me? Throwing your loving husband and two little ones in my face! What have I done to you that you would hate me so!”

She tried to escape but Julie jumped to her feet and caught her arm.

“Let me go!” Laura cried, breaking away, screaming, “It’s too late. Everything is ruined!”

The day unfolded with Laura taking to her bed and Julie determining how she would proceed. As always, she carried a spare Phantom costume in her trunk, in the event Kip needed it. But she had worn it herself on occasion, and tonight would be one of them. As a woman, she could not hope to walk the streets of London alone at night. The tight-fitting Phantom suit had been designed to provide the wearer with a certain level of camouflage and she hoped to blend in with the environment as much as possible. That, combined with her slender build would, from afar, conceal her gender. At least she hoped so.

Midnight found her dressed as The Phantom, plus wearing a large hat to shadow the face mask, and an oversized cape to complete the disguise within a disguise. She climbed out a window just as Stew left in his carriage. She was lucky to hail a hansom.

Stew, she sensed, was not headed to the hospital at Kings Cross and she was correct; the carriage crossed the bridge, heading for Whitechapel.

When he departed his carriage, she left hers, and as it pulled away she clung to the shadows. He entered a boisterous pub and she waited in the biting autumn chill for hours until he emerged, a woman hooked on each arm. Within blocks one woman left and he maneuvered the other, younger more attractive one into an alleyway from which emanated laughter and the sounds of passion. The woman soon left the narrow laneway counting coins. Stew emerged, his face sinister in the gas light. He righted his clothing and walked in the opposite direction where he hailed a hansom and told the driver, “Apply the whip, man. It’s a short ride and I’ve an engagement to keep.”

Stew was a loathsome creature, having his way with prostitutes—a terrible thing for a marriage to endure, but unfortunately not that extraordinary. From her studies, it seemed the well-to-do men kept prostitution alive, and their wives looked the other way. Laura tried to do so, but obviously could not.

Instead of Stew, on instinct Julie followed the young woman. She wanted to see first hand the life she lived nightly. And in the back of her mind, she was hoping she would run across Jack the Ripper, although this woman was half the age of the Ripper’s victims.

The girl who could be no more than twenty-five was popular and within one hour had found a dozen men. Julie heard her talking with another woman of the street, her accent Irish. “Sure and I’m ’eaded ’ome afor the Ripper gets me.”

“Yew ain’t old ’nough! Him as likes his ’ores worn ta bits.”

The women laughed and the one that Stew had taken headed off alone, turning onto Dorset Street towards what was known as the ‘Wicked Quarter Mile’, then down a small, dark alleyway, her heels clacking on the stones.

Suddenly Julie sensed another presence. She paused, keeping her breathing quiet as possible. And then she saw him. Tall, lean, cloaked and wearing a large hat. He stalked the girl, swinging from shadow to shadow, increasing pace until he was almost upon her as she unwittingly moved towards him. Could this be Stew?

When the girl finally saw him she said, “Is that you, then? Come back for more, ’ave you? I’ve a mind to charge you double.”

Too late, Julie saw moonlight glinting off the knife. The girl had just begun a scream that stopped as her life was cut short.

Julie raced into the open, flinging the hat aside, moving at a pace that was almost flying. She stopped briefly at the girl, who was already dead, her throat slit, her chest torn open about heart level. And then she took off after the killer.

Up and down streets they ran, Julie gaining, then the Ripper turned another corner and Julie faced a short alleyway with deep dark crevices in the buildings along both sides, the dead end stopping at the docks. The Ripper could be waiting anywhere along here.

Julie took a chance and ran down the middle of the narrow alley. A board swung out at her legs and Julie tumbled forward, rolling over her head in a summersault. The Ripper fled to the docks.

By the time the female Phantom got to her feet and reached the end of the laneway, the Ripper was nowhere in sight. Then she saw him, like a rat fleeing along the dock. Julie took off like a bullet. She had a knife of her own and a rope, and pulled the latter from her belt. Using a mimicry skill she had learned from Kip in their youth, she pursed her lips, forcing a high sound from the back of her throat that drew wharf rodents from their hiding places. They flooded the dock, forcing the Ripper to slow. Julie flung the looped rope high and hard. It caught the head of the Ripper, knocking off his hat, pulling back his head, choking him. When she drew close enough Julie took the knife from its sheath and yelled “Drop your scalpel, murderer!”

The Ripper spun around. Long dark hair cascaded to shoulders. Julie stood gape-jawed. “Laura?”

“I should have known you were The Phantom,” Laura said. “You used to tell his stories all the time. And you’ve always stood for right and what’s just. Which is why I know you’ll be on my side and let me go.”

“I don’t understand,” Julie said. “Why? . . . How? . . .”

“You’ve met Stew. He’s a giant of a man. With large needs.”

“If you’re speaking of the prostitute, that is not a reason to murder.”

“Oh, but don’t you see, it is! Look what they did to us. They’ve ruined our lives.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Stew must have them. He’s told me as much. I cannot meet his needs. No one woman is enough for him. But it’s the other that has destroyed us.”

“What ‘other’?”

“The disease. The one he got from, from those strumpets! They’ve poisoned him and through him me, and now I shall never bear children!” Her voice became high with the hysteria of madness.

It all became clear to Julie. “You blame them, but you should blame him.”

“He’s not responsible. I can’t blame him for his needs—”

“Come, Laura. I’m taking you to Inspector Abberline before you kill another.”

“You’ll take me nowhere!” Laura snapped. “I’ve a duty to rid the world of these disgusting creatures.”

“And I’ve a duty to rid London of you.”

Suddenly, Laura lunged. She tackled Julie, knocking her back against a bollard. The women fought, Julie with the force of right and goodness on her side, employing the skills at which she had become adept, Laura fueled by insanity.

In an instant too quick to recount, Julie shoved Laura hard, and her friend teetered backwards for a moment at the wharf’s edge. Before Julie could reach her. Laura fell towards the black water, the sickening sound of a thud as her head hit the side of a pier. The bollard snagged the loose rope end and Laura’s neck snapped before she splashed into the water.

“Laura. Laura!” Julie screamed. She would jump in to save her but could not see a thing in the murky depths. Even the rope was gone.

“Perhaps it’s better this way.” Inpector Abberline stood by her side, panting as if he’d run the length of the dock to reach them.

They stood watching until the sun rose, with no sign of Lady Laura Richard’s body.

A year later Kip visited Julie and Bradley and his nieces in Michigan. As brother and sister sat together by the fireplace in her comfortable living room, she recounted the adventures of the female Phantom.

“And Jack the Ripper has not been heard from again,” Julie said.

“Amazing! Should I need a replacement, I shall count on you,” Kip promised.

“Now that you’ve a son, I might retire,” Julie laughed. “But then, we never know when the Phantom will be needed, and apparently he cannot be in two places at the same time.”

The End

NANCY KILPATRICK is an award winning author and editor who has published 17 novels, about 200 short stories, 5 collections, and has edited 8 anthologies. Her most recent books include the horror anthology Outsiders: An Anthology of Misfits (co-edited with Nancy Holder, Roc/NAL); the novels Jason X: To the Third Power and Jason X: Planet of the Beast (Black Flame Publishing/ New Line Cinema); the non-fiction opus The goth Bible: A Compendium for the Darkly Inclined (St. Martin’s Press). Look for these recent or upcoming short stories: “Going Down” in Mondo Zombie (edited by John Mason Skipp, Cemetery Dance Books); “Heart of Stone” in Monster Noir (edited by Steve Savile); “The Age of Sorrow” in PostScripts (edited by Peter Crowther, PS Publishing); and the novel Hunted (Orion Publishing/Neon imprint). Nancy is a Guest of Honor at the 2007 World HorrorConvention. Check out her website: www.nancykilpatrick.com

Bad Medicine

By Ed Rhodes &
Mike Bullock

The specter of death awaits the unwary who would travel lightly through Africa’s deepest jungles. Lush greenery may seem to be nothing more than a collection of exotica, rare plants, ancient trees and enigmatic animals. However, those who have traveled the Deep Woods are forever changed by the perils that await them.

In uncharted regions, curiosities abound, from emerald serpents unlike anything in a civilized zoo, to fruits and flowering vegetation never before seen by outsiders. Upon first inspection, the untrained eye would have no idea that venoms, nectars and saps can produce both miraculous medicines and deadly poisons. The buds of a flower that can cure disease blossom near a fruit that brings about deadly paralysis to those who would taste of it. Only a handful of men who brave the jungle know the difference between that which brings life or death.

The Phantom’s best friend, Guran, leader of the Bandar, the deadly poison pygmy tribe, is among the most learned of experts in jungle medicine. While ignorant outsiders would label him a medicine man or witch doctor, intelligent observers would recognize a skill set that far surpasses some of the world’s leading pharmaceutical experts. His knowledge is born of wisdom passed down by his father, based on centuries of trial and error, coupled with ultra modern scientific theories.

While the average “civilized” person would never suspect the secrets held by the deepest jungles, those who realize the truth, fear or covet such power. Guran inherited this sacred knowledge from his father, but not before swearing an oath to keep this education sacrosanct upon penalty of death. He would only pass this learning to his own son, and only then upon his deathbed.

With this wisdom came an understanding: there was credence to the fear of outsiders learning about the power and value the resources that the jungle plants could offer. In addition, the danger that corrupt souls would seek them and exploit them, could spell the end for the way of life the jungle tribes found necessary to survive.

In some ways, Guran’s power is even greater than the Phantom’s. His knowledge contains the ability to bring life or death, to hurt or heal. This power brings reverence from members of his tribe and throughout the jungle.

Centuries before Columbus’ time, the Bandar were already renowned for their ability to heal the sick and control pain, but Guran was the first to augment this ancient knowledge with the advances of modern science. There were times of need where he might have provided Dr. Axel (the jungle’s only MD) with concoctions whose medicinal properties were unknown to outsiders, but would have proven invaluable for a hospital that served jungle tribes. Unfortunately, doing so would violate laws that were old in this jungle before Guran ever drew his first breath. Conversely, modern medical guidelines expressly forbid the Doctor from using such “home remedies”.

Thus, the secrets of the Deep Woods were kept away from the civilized world; however, there have been others with parallel knowledge of what power the jungle holds.

Chief Brangu was a proud father, a pride he kept to himself when discussions of his son, Remu, came up. The ways of the outsiders were still shunned by many in the tribe, but not Remu, a tall, slender lad with a far away look in his eye. No, the Chief’s son saw advantage, progress and a better way of life for his people in the achievements of the city folk. While he fully understood the perils and pitfalls inherent in their lifestyle, he sought to harvest the good for his tribe, without contaminating their way of life with the errors of civilized ways. Most who knew him, looked upon Remu with admiration, yet many in the tribe still harbored a deep-seeded fear of the city folk and that led to a distrust of Remu and his desire to embrace the alien culture.

One fateful day, a city man named Galtar came to the village, claiming he was tracing his ancestry. Galtar’s somewhat flabby physique instantly pegged him as an outsider. His muscle lacked the tone of those who wrung their existence from the jungle day after day. Despite Galtar’s physical appearance, which some assumed was a sign of decadence or worse, Remu’s desire to learn from civilized men drew him to the stranger instantly.

As the days passed, both he and Remu grew close, trading knowledge of their environments freely. Months later, Galtar suggested he take Remu back home with him and sponsor Remu at the University, where Remu could learn anything his heart desired in regard to their ways and achievements. All Galtar asked in return was for Remu to translate some ancient writings that dwelled jungle vegetation.

Once entered into University life, Remu was in awe of the scientific advancements modern civilization had achieved. Everyday, he strove to decide which contemporary conventions would bring progress to his people and which would corrupt their humble way of life.

While studying in the library late one evening, he descended into thoughtful introspection of this quandary. Remu soon realized the need to discuss such things with his father, knowing his wisdom would be necessary in making the correct choices.

The library was quite uncomfortable, as reed fans struggled unsuccessfully to push the stagnant night air around in the humid room. Remu needed to feel a breeze upon his face, so he decided to walk to the Dojo where he knew Galtar often trained.

Open windows, stained with years of dirt and stifling humidity, were the only source of cooling the Dojo possessed. Remu looked in through the filthy screen to see four men inside. One was Galtar who was training alongside a man he referred to as Karh.

Karh was quite possibly the most perfect physical specimen of masculinity Remu had ever seen. At just over two meters tall, the musculature of his frame exuded a power that most men envied. Not an ounce of fat disturbed his glistening physique. It was almost as if the gods themselves had sculpted his form.

Two of Karh’s attendants stood back, away from the men, so as not to interfere in their regimen. Neither the stifling heat, nor the unending sweat pouring from his flesh seemed to deter Karh from his aggressive training.

Within moments, a visitor was announced at the door. He was a great hulk of a man who came to challenge Karh personally.

“You will fight me now, braggart, and we will see who is the mightier!” bellowed the visitor through a square jaw that seemed as if it would be more at home on the face of a bulldozer. Rivers of sweat rolled down his muscle-bound form, as he shook a ham sized fist in Karh’s direction.

Both attendants stepped between the men, as one exclaimed, “You have not proven your worthiness to challenge Karh!”

“Should you defeat me in single combat, then you may once again v-voice your desire to enter combat with my master,” the other attendant’s voice cracked mid sentence, undermining the strength of his words.

“Hold kind sir, I am not properly warmed up,” Karh interjected coolly, the sharp look in his ice blue eyes was the only sign of aggression in his form. “Please indulge me by holding the heavy bag while I complete my work-out. Then, if you’re still of a mind to engage in combat, that’s what we will do.”

Remu wondered if this could be the same Karh who left his tribe after a scandal at the jungle Olympic competition. Remu was a young child when it happened, and thus had no solid recollection of the event, however, whether from the city or tribe, people gossiped and stories of Karh’s deception at the Jungle Olympics were now legendary.

Karh was a truly amazing specimen. Somehow, he was able to move his giant frame with a speed and grace normally found only in a man half his size. Remu watched, mesmerized, as Karh worked out on the canvas punching bag, hanging from the rough hewn timbers of the ceiling, while the visitor held the bag in place, or at least that was his intention.

“Tell me when you’re warm enough, Karh,” mouthed the giant. “In this heat, it shouldn’t take more than a minute.”

As if to accentuate the man’s comments, with one fluid move, Karh sent a roundhouse kick into the bag with such force the bag broke loose from the chain that suspended it. Just as the man’s momentum seemed like it would be broken by the wall, the man and bag went crashing through the beams with debris and blood splattering everywhere. The man collapsed on the floor in a pile of splintered wood, his limbs twitching uncontrollably.

Two attendants ran to his side to administer help.

“Careful, his shoulders appear to be broken!” stated the one attendant.

Covering his shivering form with a blanket, they hurried him out to pursue medical assistance as the unsympathetic laughter of Karh mocked their exit.

After the visitor had been taken out, Karh acted like nothing had happened. No mercy. Not even acknowledgement of the violent act that had transpired was evident in Karh’s demeanor, but there was a small glow in his face indicating that he enjoyed what had happened.

Galtar dabbed unsuccessfully at the never ending sweat on his brow with a towel that had absorbed all it could, as he walked over to Karh and congratulated him on his prowess. The men, thinking they were alone, began speaking in hushed tones.

Remu was just about to enter the Dojo, when something Galtar said gave him pause. Karh’s response mitigated his reluctance to walk in on the grim scene. As Remu continued to listen, his face went white in response to something the men said.

They were using him! His translations weren’t for educational purposes, but to allow these outsiders to create poisons from jungle plants. Poisons they would employ as weapons!

What he heard next sent icy fingers down his spine.

“And once The Phantom is dead, all the riches he stores in his cave shall be ours for the taking!”

Remu couldn’t believe his ears, this was madness! A wave of nausea overcame Remu and he hurried off, making sure he was unseen.

The next day, jungle drums foretold of Remu’s visit to the tribe. The urgency of the message set Brangu to pacing from anticipation. What was it his son found so important that he would leave the University? He’d dreamed of enrollment his entire life. It must be something monumental for him to just return home, neglecting his studies.

Nightfall came without Remu’s expected visit, alarming the Chief greatly. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Brangu heard the soft voicing of a bird and a tapping on the hut. He walked outside to see his son hiding in shadows. “Remu!” he called out excitedly, but his words were answered by a terrified “shhh.”

“No one must know I am here,” Remu whispered emerging from the shadows with his face hidden by a hooded cloak.

The chief and his son looked around to see if they were being watched and then quickly retreated into the large hut.

The inside of the structure was a strange mix of primitive, ancestral decorations and modern trappings. Bamboo furniture held artifacts while photographs of Remu adorned the walls. Candle-like torches lit up the room as Remu and the chief sat down at a table carved of ancient wood.

The chief spoke first. “Remu, what is happening?”

“It’s Karh,” Remu answered spitting out the words with distaste, “The stranger who visited us. He is here to kill the Phantom.”

“The Ghost Who Walks cannot die,” whispered the chief firmly.

“No, father, he is a man like you or I.”

“I know him and my grandfather’s grandfather knew him,” the chief argued, “He walks the earth like a man, but he is more.”

“Father, Karh is also more than an ordinary man.”

In the darkness of early morning, the Phantom held a frying pan over a fire heating it slowly. As he placed it on a flat rock nearby, he picked up a large egg. Tapping it gently at first, with careful motions, he cracked the egg, pouring its contents into the now sizzling pan.

Beside him, his large mountain wolf emitted a low growl and the Phantom reached into a cloth sack for a piece of dried meat. The animal nodded and quickly seized the treat, gulping it down and looking thankfully toward his master.

The Phantom smiled reaching for another bit of meat and remarked softly, “I know you enjoy hunting your own food, Devil, but it’s nice to share a moment of repast together before our morning run.”

Devil seemed to smile indicating that he understood every word his master spoke.

The warm colors of dawn painted a magnificent fresco across the morning sky, as the Phantom smothered the fire with dirt until the last red embers faded in the early morning light. Devil quickly ran just ahead of his master sensing the approach of a lone, black leopard. Except for an occasional snapping of a twig or crackling of a leaf, their rhythmic movements were almost silent.

From behind a wooded brush several hundred meters from the clearing, a tall figure watched the breakfast with small but powerful binoculars. His clothing was a khaki colored camouflage used by the military. The name “KARH” was scrawled on the backpack sitting beside him on the jungle floor. Exhaling silently, with patience and reserve, Karh continued his vigil, non-chalantly brushing an insect from the back of his hand. He lowered the binoculars, and removed a vial containing a greenish powder from his belt. Quickly, Karh opened the vial and sprinkled over the powder over his head. Moments later, The Phantom and Devil ran past him, as he ducked out of sight behind the brush, his face split with a sinister grin.

Although he eluded The Phantom, the jungle has a way of equalizing as evidenced by the black leopard that was stalking him, with hunger in its eyes. Karh turned and took another vial from his belt. Pulling the cork from the vial, he shook it, emitting a slight reddish dust in the direction of the leopard. As the animals nostrils flared, a low growl escaped its snarled lips before it scurried off, whimpering as if it had been grievously wounded.

Unaware of Karh’s presence, the Phantom and Devil quickly ran a few hundred yards to another clearing containing a small stable with a modest corral adjoining it. In the corral, a magnificent white horse grazed quietly.

Hero, a proud Arabian stallion, who stood with a pride born of centuries of fine breeding, was immediately aware of their presence and grew excited. The commotion drew Toma, Hero’s caregiver. The young man smiled and he and the Phantom shook hands.

“How are you old friend?” the Phantom asked.

“I am strong,” Toma replied. “And Hero is well.”

Karh, unable to keep up with the Phantom’s Olympian pace without revealing his position, still advanced furtively watching for the slightest trail to follow . . . a broken twig, a rustling branch. With great difficulty, he located the clearing just as the Phantom had leapt upon the now saddled Hero and rode off, bidding farewell to Toma.

For a brief instant, the Phantom paused and cast his gaze across the jungle, as if he sensed something was amiss. Although his jungle-trained hearing detected nothing as he scanned the forest for movement, experience told him the jungle held many unseen dangers. He turned back to the task at hand and galloped off into the jungle, with Devil already ahead staking out the path.

After their departure, Karh emerged from the jungle and approached the stable, easily vaulting over the fence and walking through the corral. Inside, Toma was sitting on his haunches, tending to a spare saddle. As Karh walked past the open door, he scattered a blue dust into the doorway. As the dust covered Toma’s figure, he slumped over and collapsed onto the earthen floor, with only his deep rhythmic breathing as evidence he was still among the living.

Sitting on a small wooden stool next to a stone table, Guran worked in the silence of an inner chamber of the Skull Cave. The medicine man’s adolescent son, Timo, watched his father in respectful silence. Carefully, Guran scraped a foamy substance from a large leaf and placed it into a small kiln fired bowl. Then he took a group of smaller dried leaves, crumbling then into a fine powder and placing them in another vessel that Timo handed him. His shadow, giving evidence to the true stature of Guran, stretched mightily across the clean stone cave wall moving slightly from the soft flickering of the torches.

Guran reached for an old book with a leather cover and hand-sewn bindings. For those who could read this ancient language, the book contained symbols and formulae that opened the doorway to ancient secrets of healing and death. Guran read a page aloud to Timo then closed his eyes and soundlessly mouthed the words, committing them to memory. He then put the book back in its place in an elaborate chest with ornate metal locks made of puzzle pieces an outsider’s mind would find fathomless. Any who dared open the chest without the proper combination would find infinitely sharp needles awaiting their grip. These needles were laced with a drug that would immediately render the transgressor unconscious and paralyzed.

When the Phantom returned to the stable, he was surprised to see that Toma was not there to greet him. Taking the saddle from his white stallion, he walked the horse around the corral while the animal cooled down.

They approached Hero’s stall, more intended as protection from jungle predators rather than containment for the horse. As they entered, Devil made a low growling sound to alert his master that something was wrong.

In the corner of the stall lay Toma, beaten and bloodied on the floor. Suddenly, the faint sound of a door closing was followed by footsteps, but the Phantom’s attention was on Toma.

Then the blur of a large man fleeing the stable caught the corner of the Phantom’s vision. Torn between caring for the fallen young man and pursuit of the intruder, the Phantom made a split-second decision to stay while Devil made a futile attempt to pursue the assailant.

Realizing Toma’s condition was serious, the Phantom rushed to a sheltered part of the corral where he uncovered a drum and pounded out a rhythmic message that immediately echoed across the jungle through a series of relays toward the Deep Woods. This primitive system of communication was remarkably efficient.

As the drums reached the Skull Cave, Guran quickly assessed the message and dispatched four young warriors, two armed with poison bows and arrows and two carrying a stretcher. In less than twenty minutes, they were at the stall gently lifting Toma and carrying him back to the Deep Woods across a hidden path and under a secret waterfall where Guran awaited with leather sacks of medicines.

After assuring himself that Toma was safely away, the Phantom and Devil attempted pursuit of the intruder. Devil circled the area several times, but was unable to detect any scent of the man who had surely been here minutes ago. The Phantom climbed into one of the mighty trees that ringed the stable ground and cast his gaze upon the jungle. Within seconds, he noted the unnatural movement of leaves several hundred yards away, evidence that someone was moving rapidly away from them. They took off in pursuit, but soon lost the trail. The jungle birds and some of the monkeys were becoming louder and agitated, but the direction the intruder took was unclear. It was as if they were tracking a ghost.

After nearly an hour of fruitless pursuit, The Phantom and Devil doubled back to the Skull Cave, exasperated that they had lost their prey.

Back inside the cave, Guran and his son, Timo, lifted Toma onto a rectangular slab carved of the smoothest stone. The torchlight inside the room illuminated an almost clinical cleanliness that belied the fact they were inside a cavern.

Guran knowingly examined the young man, opening his eye and seeing his dilated pupil, then muttering a Bandar curse under his breath. “Another hour and Toma would be dead,” he remarked to his son who held a leather pouch containing a mysterious jungle remedy.

“First something for pain,” Guran remarked, as he lifted a leather canteen to Toma’s lips. “Now, something to fight infection,” he continued, feeding Toma a pasty green substance as the boy drifted in and out of consciousness.

“Now something for the poison that I smelled when he was brought here,” he continued.

Timo, his head tilted slightly to the left, looked at his father quizzically, but said nothing. Although he was an alert, intelligent young man, he realized he had much to learn from his father.

In a jungle confrontation, the difference between victory and death can be measured in a fraction of a second. Being armed and prepared isn’t enough to ensure survival. From that moment when an adversary is in striking distance, it’s the realization and reaction to the danger that is of ultimate importance.

The Phantom, straining to hear the faintest sound, wandered into the clearing in front of the Skull Cave. The light of the day was fading and the jungle shadows would be quickly upon him. He could sense a change. His jungle-trained ears detected something was different, something was wrong. Devil ran forward with his nose to the ground as he investigated the nearest shrub, then without warning, the mountain wolf was gone.

The Phantom stood at the edge of the clearing and listened to the waterfall. There was a different sound, like someone throwing a pebble in the water accompanied by the rustle of Bandar sentries using occasional, faint, high-pitched jungle noises to communicate.

Something was afoot.

The noises denoted danger: the pygmy warriors were aware an intruder had compromised their border. This news was at once shocking and offensive. No one dared to trespass on Bandar land. Their skill was legendary, as was their zealous desire to protect their territory. One scratch from their poison arrows or spears meant instant death, and they were renowned for their skill as archers.

The Phantom’s instincts kicked in. With an effortless motion, he hoisted his body from the ground to a low but sturdy limb of a tall tree, jumping across to another tree, taking care not to awaken the large sleeping snake wrapped around the base of the branch. He pulled himself ever higher, scanning the area for the intruder as the last rays of sundown were fading away.

Once aloft, he saw Devil growling and sniffing a circle around some bushes. The mountain wolf’s hesitant, indecisive motions suggested confusion. Quickly, the animal doubled back and returned to the Skull Cave, while the Phantom watched from his treetop vantage point. In the distance, he saw the Bandar sentries searching the perimeter; their angry demeanor seemed absolutely ferocious.

Devil growled lowly as if to send a warning to the Phantom, he was in pursuit of something that was actually in the Skull Cave. The idea that someone or something could get into the cave undetected was enough to raise the hair on the back of the neck. What kind of uncanny forces were at work here? Was this truly something supernatural? Where were the Bandar sentries?

The Phantom dropped silently to the side of the cave, pressed himself against the wall and stealthily glanced inside. The long shadows of dusk blended discreetly with the darkness inside the cave, ensuring his eyes needed little adjustment to survey the torch lit room. The mixture of shadow and light gave the Skull Throne a powerful, yet mysterious presence. The two carved skulls on the high backed throne seemed to survey the chamber they inhabited. An elongated shadow from each skull burned an unforgettable image into the memory of any who witnessed it.

As the Phantom and Devil entered the mouth of the cave, they moved warily toward the main chamber until suddenly, Devil hesitated and went no further. The hackles on the back of the wolf’s mighty neck stood erect as he bared his teeth in a ferocious grimace. Trusting in the intuition of an animal who was more friend than pet, The Phantom became even more alert to the danger ahead. The fact that someone had managed to get past the Bandar sentries and enter the cave, coupled with Devil’s reaction, made the Phantom uneasy.

As they rounded the corner, a shocking sight awaited them . . . a large shadowy form of an intruder in a natural recess of the corridor. As the figure stepped out into the light, the stranger spoke.

“Finally, we meet, my friend. What a shame that meeting had to wait until moments before your death,” the stranger’s icy voice would have frozen the blood of any normal man.

However, he faced no ordinary man, but The Phantom, whose body was already relaxed in perfect balance, set to strike like the feared black-neck cobra, known from Egypt to northern South Africa for its lightning speed and deadly venom. The stranger held a vial in his hand, fingers tracing the seal with thoughtfulness. Inside the vial was a crimson powder, laced with the faintest hint of obsidian.

“How mighty is a man who can harness the power of the cobra, mixed with the nectar of the deadly Ricinus communis, Phantom?” his words seemed to be more a taunt than a true question. “More powerful than a man who cannot die? More powerful than a Ghost Who Walks?”

Eerie shadows danced across the walls, as the stranger stepped into the faint light. While he seemed familiar, The Phantom was unable to recall how he knew this man. The paramilitary clothing the intruder wore concealed handguns and something that seemed far more sinister. Around his waist, slung high and tight, was an ammunition belt containing vials filled with chemical mixtures.

“Sizing me up, are you, Phantom?” his cold voice carried a tone that was at once arrogant and angry. Strong fingers tapped across the stopper on one vial as he continued. “With the contents of this vial my scent will disappear from even the wolf’s nose.” He moved his finger to the right and tapped another vial, “And with this I can repel your wolf, no matter how intent he is on approaching me.”

The trespasser was in his thirties, scruffy beard, earrings, and a powerful frame wrapped in weathered skin. He carried himself with a powerful grace reminiscent of someone skilled in gymnastics or martial arts. The look in his eye cemented the appearance that this was a man who kept danger as his counsel. As the Phantom absorbed this visual evidence, he was unable to shake the familiar feeling this man gave him.

Suddenly it clicked and the Phantom’s expression changed from questioning to knowing. This man was none other than the infamous Karh, a contender for the Jungle Olympic Championship, who would have easily won, had he not been disqualified before the final fight more than a decade ago. Although the Phantom (in a long standing tradition) engages in a wrestling exhibition with the champion after the conclusion of the bouts, he is never a contestant. In this rare situation, the Phantom was requested to act as one of the judges due to the volatile nature of the participants.

The Phantom never liked judging contests, but the event had been around since the jungle had a savage law. Centuries ago, in the early days, the competitors fought to the death. Now, there are governing bodies, committees, judging, and pomp concerning bragging rights of the oldest sports venue of its kind. Moreover, winning in certain divisions meant an automatic berth to the International Olympic trials. (How fortunate are the world’s archers, who as a result of the Bandar’s unsociable nature, don’t have to face them in the world of International Olympic competition.)

The Phantom recalled Karh’s unorthodox sense of fairness, which diverged sharply from that of the judges in the violent jungle games. The deciding vote had fallen to the Phantom and he concurred with braver members on the panel that Karh had indeed broken rules that clearly called for disqualification.

The Phantom recalled the actual events, which drew fierce protests from the onlookers. In his initial bout, Karh had thrown dirt in the eyes of his opponent before inflicting serious injury with a kick that broke ribs. In his second bout, he struck his rival’s kneecap with enough force to partially dislocate it mere seconds before they were signaled to begin. Karh said he was just trying to get a quick start, but they hadn’t yet concluded the pre-match formalities. Some of the other judges had been fearful of retaliation from Karh for his disqualification and the vote might have favored Karh had not the Phantom and a small contingency of armed Bandar been in attendance. As Karh stepped from the arena, humiliated by the booing of the spectators, he swore he would get revenge.

Now this very same man stood in The Phantom’s home, glaring intently with defiance in his eyes, just as he had so many years ago.

The years did nothing to diminish Karh’s athletic ability. Instead, the weeks and months had refined his strength, until the day came when he felt ready to challenge the Phantom. Perhaps he thought there might be enough of the ‘old jungle’ left that his victory would bring him a following and all that came with such social stature. The old ways said, “You gain the power you defeat.” The idea of besting the Phantom, the ultimate opponent, would mean ultimate achievement in parts of the world where civilization and superstition travel hand in hand.

A chilling smile crossed Karh’s face while removing his vest, and from its pocket, he retrieved a small digital video recorder to document the confrontation. His arrogance was beginning to annoy the Phantom.

The Phantom stepped into striking distance, and blocked Karh’s powerful snap kick mindful and wary of Karh’s tricks. Although he carefully scrutinized Karh’s hands, he was not prepared for the small container concealed on Karh’s shin that broke from the kick causing the puff of jungle powder that hit his nostrils the instant Karh made contact. The Phantom felt the passages in his nose go numb, then a dizziness followed by a feeling that gravity was increasing exponentially. Each arm felt like a hundred pounds, and a feeling that he was fighting in quicksand nearly overwhelmed him. It took only an instant to realize that there was a poison in the air.

“It’s your fault this is happening,” Karh’s words struck at the Phantom with the same force as his blows. “It’s your fault I was thrown out of the games. It’s your fault my father died from the grief of my failure. But my grandfather, one of the old believers, he will honor me for conquering ‘The Ghost Who Walks.’ I will return to my village the hero I should have become after the games.”

Karh threw a leg sweep that made the Phantom lose his footing. The off balance feeling had gripped our hero from the moment he realized that someone had gotten past the Bandar warriors. Now he was at a disadvantage as his muscles tightened from the poison’s effect. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat. With Herculean effort, the Phantom rose back up to his full height.

Karh threw a short body shot that the Phantom shook off, however, Karh understood the meaning of pain and continued dishing it out as only an expert could. There are blows that hurt, there are those that cripple, and there are strikes that kill. In his present state, the Phantom knew Karh was playing with him.

The Phantom lunged clumsily hoping to get a punch in before the poisons prevented him from attacking altogether. Karh easily avoided him and struck again as The Phantom stumbled past, hitting the exposed ribs underneath the bicep, just to see the Phantom wince. The Phantom caught part of Karh’s wrist and tried to grab his body, but Karh used a forehead smash which ended up hitting the Phantom on the side of his skull . . . and left his ear ringing. Our hero soon found himself backpedaling and grabbing the Skull Throne for support.

Karh followed him quickly, knowing the Phantom would find him a worthy adversary under normal circumstances, but with the crippling powder slowly taking over, it would appear as if the Phantom simply had been unable to go the distance and lost.

Karh picked up a huge stone and prepared to crush the Phantom with it. Then suddenly, as if he were more ghost than man, Guran appeared from behind the Throne. “Karh,” he called contemptuously, “You are without honor.”

Karh spat on the ground at Guran’s feet, “There is nothing you can do. There are old ways that must be followed! Before The Phantom’s interference, there were no rules for combat and a fight was to the death. That was how it was, and how it shall be again!”

The Phantom, still groggy from the powder he’d inhaled, witnessed the conversation, but in his current state, the simple act of responding was impossible.

Guran folded his arms defiantly and said, “You cannot defeat The Ghost Who Walks.” With those words, Guran tossed an egg in front of the Phantom. It looked like an ordinary egg from a jungle bird, but when it cracked a purple dust rose up from it, as if lighter than air, and the Phantom breathed in a sharp pungent smell that quickly wiped the fog from his mind.

Two pigmy warriors appeared suddenly on either side of Karh, their poison tipped arrows aimed and ready. As Karh looked over at the warriors, Guran dropped another egg, and another cloud of dust rose. The Phantom relaxed, as his reflexes returned quickly allowing him to roll forward in a catlike motion. Karh tried to seize the moment by flinging the huge rock at the Phantom.

The Phantom easily dodged it and walked purposely toward Karh, who threw another punch that only glanced off the Phantom’s shoulder. Still there was pain. Karh was an accomplished martial artist, and pain was his specialty.

The pygmies watched carefully, but Guran waved them away. “The Ghost Who Walks will handle this one.”

Things quickly changed for Karh, who threw the hardest right hand back punch he had ever thrown in training, sporting or in combat. As the blow approached, the Phantom snapped a short right jab that jerked Karh’s head sharply backward, followed by a full forearm block with Karh’s arm smashing into the forearm of the Phantom. All the power thrown by Karh, colliding with the force of the Phantom’s block, ended in a sickening crunch as the bone in Karh’s arm shattered.

Karh, struggling to regain his composure, grabbed a ceremonial spear from the cave wall and quickly doused it with a reddish dust from one of his containers. His face wracked with pain, Karh thrust it at the Phantom. Devil’s bark pierced the air and the Phantom moved to the side catching the spear in mid-stab. Whatever Guran had done had been successful, The Phantom’s lightning fast reflexes had returned.

Karh’s shoulders slumped and the intensity of his glare dimmed. The chills he got as a child hearing stories about the Phantom’s fighting prowess were returning now. He had nothing left but to acknowledge defeat. Dropping his head, Karh submitted to the Bandar warriors who took him away.

The Phantom’s stance was completely balanced now, indicating his mental faculties were once again crystal clear. As he stood there, triumphant, but wounded, he cast an awe-inspiring shadow, even in the torch light of the cave.

As he regained his composure, curiosity took over, “How did you do that, Guran?”

Guran calmly stepped over to Karh’s recording device and picked it up as he responded, “When I entered the chamber where you fought, I sensed two distinct poisons, one smelling sweet and one possessed of a numbing effect. I know that flower and I tasted in the air just a hint of cobra poison. First, I had to give you a dose of the cobra anti-toxin, and then the second egg canceled the flower’s effects. My father was a friend of Karh’s Grandfather. They shared a desire for accomplishment, each adding to the other’s skill and knowledge in the area of jungle medicines. I thought the interest in such things was lost in his family, but I was mistaken.”

Guran looked at the digital recorder thinking how handy it would be as a teaching device for his son. He could make a record of where to find the rarest plants and show what they looked like. He could also document illnesses and problems.

As the Phantom was thanking Guran for his intervention, Karh, accompanied by two fierce pygmy warriors, grimaced in pain as he held his shattered arm tight to his body. The trip to the jungle hospital was arduous passage, taking shortcuts through dangerous regions of the jungle led by angry pygmies with arrows of death. Having been humiliated by allowing Karh access to the Skull Cave, the warriors were edgy. Their job was to make sure the prisoner was treated at the hospital, before incarcerating him until the tribunal council of Toma’s tribe would assign his fate. The only shred of mercy Karh could count on was that Toma had survived the mortal attack, thanks to The Phantom’s intercession.

Upon arrival at the hospital, Doctor Axel’s assistant placed Karh’s fractured arm in a sling. The fingers of Karh’s free hand probed the swollen flesh upon his chin that burned with an unquenchable fire. His fingers traced the brand, left upon him during the fight, a brand he had heard of many times, but never expected to wear. The skull mark was upon him, forever signifying his role as a criminal who had faced the Phantom and lost.

A bitter smile curled his lips as Karh muttered to himself, “This isn’t over . . .”

The End

ED RHOADES is something of a Phantom historian. As the editor and main writer for the fanzine, Friends of the Phantom, for a decade, in his extensive research, he has interviewed most of the people behind the scenes in the Phantom world including Lee Falk, Sy Barry, Billy Zane, Ulf Granberg, and Jim Shepherd as well as various other artists and writers. He also was a consultant and contributor for the A&E Phantom Biography and has written about the Ghost Who Walks’ for numerous publications. He has also been a consultant and resource for Moonstone Phantom publications and his Phantom art has been featured in Moonstone, Frew, A&E, HBO, Fantomet, and ThrillerUK. He writes the column “Behind The Mask” for Moonstone Phantom comics. He is also a public school art teacher and a musician. You can learn more about Ed and his work at www.edrhoades.com.

House of Ghosts

By David Bishop

Charley Vogel wasn’t afraid of anything—at least, that’s what she always told herself. She wasn’t afraid when her father died in a mining accident and the rest of the family had to move to the big city. You put on a brave face and the world will think you’re brave, that’s what her mother always said. But Charley sometimes got home early from school and caught her mother crying. You could only put on a brave face for so long.

Charley wasn’t afraid when she started at the new school and she didn’t know anyone. Some of the other pupils laughed at her for being different, while others teased her for coming from a small village in the jungle. But I am from a small village in the jungle, Charley thought, what’s wrong with that? Others laughed at her for being so tall at her age—she towered over her class, despite being only twelve. Mostly, Charley got teased because she didn’t come from a rich family. The other pupils all had scholarships or wealthy parents, they got a new uniform every year whether they needed one or not. Charley made do with a hand-me-down dress and tunic from the school’s lost and found cupboard. She was only admitted to the school because her mother was housekeeper to the headmaster. That was one of the reasons her mother had taken the job, so Charley could get a good education.

Charley wasn’t afraid of the other pupils, not even the class bully, Moses Mtume. He was a cruel boy who liked to make people cry, but Charley refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing tears on her face. She had cried for weeks after her father died, so she knew nothing Moses could say was worth crying over. When Charley announced her opinion of him in the playground, Moses was furious. His face turned a comical crimson, in stark contrast to his short, dark, curly hair. His hands kept clenching and unclenching, as if he was thinking about hitting her. Charley wasn’t afraid of fighting Moses. She was two inches taller than him and knew she could outrun him too. Besides, her father had always told her a bully was just a coward in disguise. Stand up to them and they disappear, like ghosts after sunrise.

But Moses didn’t try to fight her. “Think you’re so brave, don’t you?” he asked. “Think you’re so fearless that nothing can frighten you?”

Charley folded her arms and frowned at him. “Nothing you can do, no.”

By now the rest of the class was gathering around, eager to see what would happen. Most of the girls were standing behind Charley, hoping the new arrival would put Moses in his place. Most of the boys were standing behind Moses, hoping for a fight.

“If you’re so brave, you wouldn’t be afraid of spending a night in a haunted house, would you?” Moses asked, folding his arms too. “If you’re so brave, you wouldn’t be scared of a few ghosts and monsters, would you?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Charley said, determined to not back down. She hoped Moses couldn’t hear the tremor of fear in her voice. Charley knew she was lying, knew there were ghosts. Father had told her about them once, how one special ghost protected their village, and her father always told the truth.

“Then there’s nothing to be afraid of, is there?” Moses asked, a triumphant smile smeared across his face.

Charley bit her bottom lip, sensing she was talking herself into trouble. Before she could answer, a whisper ran through those gathered around them. “The headmaster’s coming!” The pupils quickly dispersed, leaving Charley and Moses to glare at each other.

“What’s going on here?” the headmaster demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” Moses replied, his expression as innocent as any angel.

The headmaster wasn’t convinced, he knew the Mtume boy of old. “Well, Charley? Is Moses telling me the truth?”

Charley nodded. “We were just talking, sir.”

The headmaster regarded her coolly but Charley did not waver beneath his stern gaze. “Very well. Break is almost over. You’d best get to your next class.”

“Yes, sir,” the pair replied in unison. They watched as the headmaster strode away, his attention soon taken by a scuffle nearby. Moses gave Charley a violent shove, pushing her to the ground. When she tried to get up, he pressed a knee on her chest, pinning Charley down.

“Tonight, the two of us are going to the old Fraser house. Nobody’s ever spent the night there and lived to tell the tale. Whoever stays longest is the bravest. Got that?”

Charley shoved Moses aside and scrambled to her feet. “I’m not afraid of some old house and I’m not afraid of you!” Charley knew her mother was busy that night, tending to a dinner party the headmaster was hosting. Sneaking out shouldn’t be too difficult, as long as she was back in bed before eleven. “What time?”

“Meet me outside the Fraser house at sunset,” Moses snarled. “Then we’ll see how brave you are.” He stalked away as the bell rang for class.

Charley wasn’t afraid until she saw the Fraser house. It had the look of an old beggar, ragged and desperate. Paint peeled from the walls in strips, while rotting shutters hung like dropping eyelids around broken windows. The Fraser family had lived here decades ago, but fled back to America after the eldest son killed himself on the top floor. Many others had tried occupying the grand house since that tragedy, but all soon left. If you believed what people said, the ghost of Simon Fraser still walked the house, searching hopelessly for his family, hoping they might return for him.

Charley clung to the wrought iron fence surrounding the property, flakes of black, metallic paint rubbing beneath her palms. The garden was totally overgrown, not far from becoming part of the jungle that backed on to the property. Charley thought the house looked sad and lonely and forbidding, its dark, empty windows staring back at her like the eye sockets of a dead animal’s skull. Nothing good could ever happen inside that house, she felt, and it was crazy to venture this close.

She turned to leave and found Moses smirking at her, a warm jacket wrapped around him. Charley hadn’t thought how cold it might get after dark and certainly hadn’t brought anything to keep herself warm. Now that Moses was here she’d have to stay. “What are you smiling at?”

“You, you’re shivering. Frightened already, and we haven’t gone inside the gate.”

“I’m cold, that’s all,” Charley snapped, glad of the excuse. She was afraid, but she didn’t want Moses to know that. “How do we get in?”

“I heard my brother talking once about a gap in the fence, round the back.” Moses marched away in the gathering gloom, Charley reluctantly following. Everybody in school knew Moses’ brother Joshua had died after getting caught up in something bad. The Mtume family never talked about the details, but the fact Joshua had known about this place—and had probably been inside—made the growling knot of fear in Charley’s stomach that much tighter. She hurried after Moses, not noticing the brooding face watching them intently from the shadows.

Moses pulled a torch from inside his jacket when they reached the gap in the fence. He shone the beam into the dark garden. “See any snakes?” Charley peered into the gloom but her eyes caught no sign of movement in the tall grass. Growing up in a village surrounded by the jungle had taught her mankind was the deadliest predator. Animals like snakes and scorpions only attacked as a last resort—leave them be and they did the same to you.

“I don’t see anything,” she volunteered.

“Good,” Moses said, “Then you can go first.”

Charley was going to protest but decided to let Moses have his way. The sooner they got this over with, the better. She squeezed between the iron railings and pulled herself through into the overgrown garden. A full moon was slowly rising in the sky, throwing pale, blue light on her surroundings. Tall weeds nodded in an evening breeze, the scent of honeysuckle and sandalwood cloying the air. Once inside the fence, Charley could see a path of beaten grass leading to the forbidding house. Others had been here recently, their clumsy feet leaving clear evidence of many journeys back and forth. Why? Who would come to such a place? It couldn’t all be children on a dare, trying to prove how fearless they were. It couldn’t be ghosts, they didn’t leave any sign of passing.

Moses tapped Charley on the shoulder, making her jump. She smacked his hand away angrily. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not? Did you think I was the ghost?” he asked, grinning at her surprise.

“Hardly,” Charley sneered. She marched along the pathway of crushed grass and weeds. Moses hurried to keep up, the light from his torch dancing across the overgrown garden. In less than a minute they reached the steps leading up to a porch surrounding three sides of the homestead. Moses’ torch beam lit upon a small cylinder lying on the rotting wooden beams. A small metal spike protruded from one end of the cylinder, glittering in the light.

“Is that . . . ?” Moses said, his voice trailing away.

“A needle,” Charley said, frowning. “The nurses who came to our village used them to give us medicine. But why would a nurse come here?” Moses reached out to the syringe but Charley tugged his hand away. “Don’t!” she hissed. “If that’s been used on a sick person, you might get their sickness by touching it.”

Moses poked his tongue out at her, before turning his attention to the house. Cool evening breezes were moving through the broken windows, making the listless shutters creak and groan. “They sound like my grandfather,” Moses whispered. “Before he died.”

“It’s just the wind,” Charley insisted, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Are we going inside or not? Or have you chickened out already?”

Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. “I’m not afraid of anything!”

The watcher in the shadows waited, studying the gap in the fence where the two children had gone inside. Soon the ghouls would come to this place, searching for their damnation. Tonight their hell would come to an end, one way or another. But the arrival of the children—that was unforeseen and dangerous. If they didn’t leave of their own volition, they would have to be driven out. But few ever stayed in the house for long. Too many ghosts haunted that place . . .

Charley was disappointed by what she and Moses found inside. If the house was haunted, the ghosts must be bored and messy. The floors were littered with empty bottles and broken glass, while vandals had scrawled messages on the walls and set fires on the rotting rugs and carpets. The only thing of any interest was a chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and even that was dusty and covered by cobwebs.

Inside, the house stank like the corpse of an elephant Charley once saw, left to rot by thieves that had stolen the poor creature’s tusks. Her father had taken her fishing and they had used a shortcut through an area normally avoided by the people of their village. Charley could still remember the tears on her father’s face as he looked at the noble beast, senselessly slaughtered by poachers. She helped him collect firewood and they built a funeral pyre around the elephant. As it burned her father told Charley about the ghost, a legendary wraith who had protected the jungle and all living within in for countless generations. The ghost would find whoever butchered the elephant and teach them the meaning of justice.

“I’m still cold,” Charley said, shivering at the memory. The ghost her father talked of sounded like a good spirit, but how could any such creature not be terrifying?

“We could make a fire,” Moses suggested, drawing a box of matches from inside his jacket. He looked around for something to burn, but previous visitors had torn the heart out of the old homestead, leaving little that would fuel a fire.

“How long do we have to stay?” Charley asked.

“Why? Getting scared yet?”

“No, but I’ll get in trouble if I’m here all night.”

Moses grinned. “Me too,” he admitted. “My parents go crazy if I’m outside after dark. Ever since Joshua, they—” Moses stopped, his face crumpling as he quickly looked away from Charley. She let him be, recognizing his grief—she’d seen that often enough with her mother, seen it in the mirror each morning when she got up and remembered her father was dead. After a while Moses wiped a hand across his face and glared at Charley. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

She shook her head.

“Thanks.” Moses took a last look round the inside of the haunted house. “There’s no ghosts in this place, nothing to see. Let’s get out of here.”

“Good idea,” Charley agreed, reaching over to switch off his torch. As she did, gruff voices drifted into the homestead from outside. Beams of light cut through the darkness, catching the edges of broken windows. “There’s someone’s coming!”

The watcher was emerging from the shadows when the ghouls arrived, not in ones and twos but half a dozen of them, murder in their eyes and blades in their hands. They surged past the watcher, pouring through the gap in the wrought iron fence. Taunts and anger snarled back and forth between them, mixed with talk of betrayal and revenge and death. There would be blood spilled before this night was out, the watcher was certain of that. These ghouls were not expected, not welcome in this haunted house on the edge of the jungle, but he recognised them. They were killers, outsiders, bringing a bitter stench of pain and misery with them. A trap was being set for those the watcher had expected, and now two children still inside were caught in the jaws of that trap.

Not if I can stop it, the watcher vowed silently, moving to the gap in the fence.

Then the other ghouls appeared around him, three of them, all clutching weapons.

The watcher grimaced, folding his arms across his chest. “I wouldn’t go into that house if I were you—the men who murdered the Mtume boy are waiting inside.”

The fighting was over in minutes, leaving a pile of broken and bruised bodies by the fence. The watcher vanished inside like a ghost, leaving no sign of his passing.

Charley dragged Moses into the shadows, hiding them both beneath the shattered remnants of a once grand wooden staircase. Moses’ hands were shaking so hard, the box of matches was rattling in his grasp. Charley pried his fingers open and removed the matches, putting them in her pocket. Silhouettes moved back and forth outside the broken windows, their guttural voices snapping and snarling at each other impatiently.

“Who are they?” Charley asked Moses. He shook his head, terror in his eyes. “But your brother used to come here, he must have known—”

“Joshua’s dead,” Moses whispered. “He died here. That’s why I had to come. I thought if this place was haunted . . .”

“You’d see his ghost here?” Moses nodded. Charley thought hard for a few moments, trying to put the pieces together in her head. “How did your brother die?”

“I don’t know, my parents won’t tell me. Joshua used to steal from us, taking things from the house to sell at the market.” Moses watched the figures lurking outside the house. “I followed him once, after he took my favorite toys. He brought the money he got for them here. I waited for hours but Joshua never came back out. The next day my parents said he was dead . . .”

Charley didn’t know what to make of Moses’ story. Growing up in a village, she knew everything about everybody in the village, but little about life beyond that small, tight-knit community. Coming to the city had been a shock. Her father’s death had made Charley grow up fast, but she was still only a twelve-year-old girl from the jungle.

She bit her fingernails, peering at Moses in the dark. “What do you think happened to him, to Joshua?”

The boy shrugged. “Those monsters outside—maybe they got him.”

Someone on the porch shouted a command and the front door burst inwards. Shadowy figures lurched into the abandoned house, moonlight glinting on the blades in their menacing fists. Charley pressed Moses further into their hiding place beneath the stairs. Maybe he was right, maybe these were monsters, not men. Whatever the truth, she didn’t want to be discovered by them. Charley groped around in the dark, searching for the torch Moses had brought. It was the closest thing they had to a weapon, but was nowhere to be found. She leaned closer to him and asked where it was.

Moses pointed a trembling hand towards the centre of the room. The torch was lying on its side, unnoticed by the intruders. Charley’s breath caught in her throat as figures moved around the room. It was a matter of time until one of them stumbled across it. No sooner had she thought that than somebody’s foot kicked the torch in the dark, sending it skittering across the floor. The others reacted sharply to the unexpected noise, cursing and blaspheming. One of them found the torch and picked it up. “Still warm,” he snarled. “Someone’s been here!”

A single figure stood in front of a broken window, the moonlight illuminating his cruel face. The skull was barren of hair, while his black eyes were sunk into their sockets. Scars criss-crossed his face like a rainstorm, and metal studs desecrated his features. When he spoke, his voice was like barbed wire being torn across a blackboard. “Maybe they’re still here,” he hissed, glaring at the others. “Find them! Tear this place apart!”

The rest of the intruders dispersed, breaking into groups before moving into other rooms, making no attempt to hide the noise of their hasty search. Charley wailed until the last of them had left the room before tugging on Moses’ arm.

“They’ve gone—this is our chance!”

The two children crawled out from beneath the staircase and scuttled across the floor, only getting to their feet as they reached the entrance. Moses bolted through the open door and down the steps into the overgrown garden, but Charley felt herself being lifted into the air, her legs running uselessly above the porch’s wooden beams. She twisted round to see who had caught her and gasped at the face full of metal and scars.

Charley wasn’t afraid of most things, but she couldn’t stop herself from screaming.

Moses ran straight into the watcher, the boy’s mouth forming words but no sound escaping from it. Crouching on one knee, the watcher grabbed the boy by the shoulders and held him still, waiting for the child’s fear to subside. As Moses’ breathing slowed, the watcher smiled at him. “You’re safe, they can’t hurt you now.”

“Who are you?” Moses gasped.

“A friend. What were you doing in there?”

“We wanted to see the ghost.”

“Indeed?” The watcher stroked his chin. “Two of you went inside. Tell me, what happened to the girl?”

“Charley? I . . .” Moses looked round, his confusion all too evident. “She was right behind me.”

The watcher’s face darkened. “No. She must still be inside, with those ghouls.” He stood up, cracking the knuckles of one fist inside his other hand. “What’s your name?”

“Moses,” the boy replied, between gasps for breath. “Moses Mtume.”

“I want you to run home, Moses—and don’t stop for anything. You’ll see three unconscious men outside the fence but ignore them—they can’t harm you now. When you get home, tell your parents everything that happened here and make them call the police. After that, you must promise me you’ll never come back to this place, Moses. Bad things happen here. Do you promise?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, go! And remember what I said.”

The menacing figure clutching Charley by the collar carried her back inside the abandoned house. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded, his rancid breath hot and foul in her face, forcing Charley to turn away. “Answer me!”

“My name is Charley Vogel. I was looking for the ghost.”

“Ghost?” Her captor’s vile face split into a smile, of sorts. “What ghost?”

“This house is supposed to be haunted. A young man died in here.”

The smile vanished in an instant. “How did you know about that?”

Charley frowned. “Everybody knows what happened here, how this house is haunted by the ghost of Simon Fraser.”

“Oh yeah—him.” By now the other intruders were returning from their search. “I found our guest. She came here looking for ghosts, thinks this place is haunted!”

“Perhaps it is,” another voice interjected.

“Who said that?” the leader of the intruders demanded. He and his men spun round, trying to see identity where the voice was coming from.

“I did,” was the reply.

“Who are you? Show yourself, coward!”

“Let the girl go, or it will be the worse for you.”

Charley watched her captor’s face twist into a scowl. “Nobody tells me what to do!” the leader bellowed. “Come out of the shadows and face us, coward!” When no reply came, the leader glanced round at his men, seeking their support. “Maybe our invisible friend is a ghost, trying to scare us!”

Realizing her captor was distracted, Charley kicked out both her feet. One heel smashed into his groin, earning a string of obscenities. Howling with rage, the leader threw Charley across the room. Her head smacked into a rotten, mold-ridden wall. White lights danced in front of her eyes for a few moments, before darkness took her.

When Charley opened her eyes again, what she saw didn’t make any sense. Above her was a cloudless sky, its blue brilliance visible in gaps between overhanging trees of the jungle canopy. A dragonfly hovered above her nose for a few moments, its wings a blur of movement and color, before dancing away on humid afternoon air. Nearby, the babble of a stream mingled with bird song and balmy breezes, shifting the jungle foliage.

“So, this is how you treat one of my stories, is it?”

Charley sat with a start, the sound of her father’s voice so familiar to her ears and yet so surprising. He was kneeling on a green sward, trying to untangle the knots in his fishing line. For a moment, Charley almost believed she had been dreaming the past few months—his death in the mine, moving to the city, her problems at the rich school, her encounter with the murderous men in the haunted house. Almost. But somehow, deep down, she knew that wasn’t the truth. This was a fantasy, a dream she was having. So be it, Charley decided. If this is the dream, never let me wake up.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling at her father, “I must have dozed off.”

He grinned as she joined him beside the stream. “Yes, that must have been it.”

Charley watched his large, friendly fingers fumbled with the knots in his line. Eventually she reached out a hand towards him. “Here, let me do that for you.”

“Thank you, Charley,” he said, letting her take charge of the fishing line. “I seem to be all thumbs since I started working down at that mine.”

She smiled. “You always say that.”

Her father shrugged. “It’s always true.”

Charley set to work untangling the line, her slender fingers nimbly undoing the knots. “What story were you telling me before I dozed off?”

“The one about the ghost of the jungle, of course.”

“Tell it to me again—please?”

“Only if you promise to stay awake this time.”

“I will,” Charley vowed.

So her father told her the tale one last time—how the ghost first appeared in the jungle hundreds of years ago and drove out the bad people, the thieves and murderers, the robbers and poachers. How the ghost had been their protector for generation after generation, always dressed in strange, otherworldly garb, with a black mask round his eyes to keep his appearance hidden. How the ghost was guardian not only of the villagers who lived in the jungle, but also of the animals and other wildlife, of the plants and rivers, of every living creature in its domain.

“No matter what happens to me or your mother, you know the ghost will always be there for you, don’t you Charley?”

“Yes, father.”

“No matter what danger may threaten you, the ghost will be your guardian angel. You never need to be afraid again.”

“I know.” She undid the final knot in the fishing line and handed it back to him. “There, now you can stay here as long as you want.”

Her father smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Thank you, Charley.”

She stood beside him, savouring the moment, not daring to look at her father. When she did, her father was gone, leaving no sign of his passing, the grass uncrushed where he had been sitting. But as Charley closed her eyes and willed herself to wake up from the dream, she hugged the memory of him in her heart.

Charley opened her eyes again and found herself back in the haunted house. For the moment, the intruders had forgotten her. They were too busy circling a lone figure standing in the center of the room. Knives twitched in their hands, ready to cut and stab and hurt, while hatred and fear filled their eyes. They were preparing to attack, but they were also afraid of the man in their midst. Charley wondered why, until she saw him for herself. No, it wasn’t a man in the center of the room, it was a ghost—her ghost, the guardian her father had talked about. The ghost from the jungle was here to save her!

She could see he had a pistol holstered on each hip, like the cowboys she once read about in an American book at school, but he did not draw his weapons. Instead he was staring at each of the murderous men in turn, fixing them with a steely gaze, imposing his authority upon them. The men looked cowed, beaten by his presence, except for one of them. Their leader, the man who’d caught Charley and thrown her against the wall, he refused to be intimidated. He stood with arms folded, glaring back at the ghost.

“You were a fool to come here alone, stranger. Six of us and only one of you—that’s not what I call a fair fight.”

“Since when did scum like you care about a fair fight?” the ghost replied.

“Maybe never, but all of us have been spoiling for a fight. Six against one, those odds aren’t very enticing.” The leader gestured to the smallest man among his thugs. “Finish him quickly. Our real targets will be here soon, I want us ready for them.”

The thug lunged at the ghost with a knife, the vicious blade slicing through the air. Charley gasped and shut her eyes, not wanting to see what happened next. She heard a dull thud, followed closely by the crackle of bones breaking and a pathetic sob of pain. Something clattered to the floor beside her, something heavy and metallic.

“Your real targets, as you described them, aren’t coming,” the ghost announced.

Charley opened her eyes to see the smallest thug curled in a ball on the floor, nursing a broken wrist. His knife had landed next to her on the floor. She quietly slid it behind her wrist, out of sight but still in her grasp. The ghost was still standing in the center of the room, but now only five intruders remained around him.

“What do you mean? Why aren’t they coming?” the leader demanded.

“I dealt with them outside,” the ghost replied, a wry smile playing about his lips. “You didn’t think you could start a gang war in my domain, did you? Bringing your poison here to steal away the lives of the innocent—I cannot allow that.”

“Who’s going to stop us?”

“I will.”

The scar-faced thug snorted derisively. “You and whose army?”

“I don’t need an army to rid this land of your kind. I’m sworn to fight injustice and tyranny wherever I find it.” The ghost pointed at the leader. “I find it in you.”

For a few moments nobody spoke, nobody moved. Charley watched, transfixed, while the ghost and the murderous gang’s leader stared at each other. The scar-faced thug blinked first, unable to hold his enemy’s gaze any longer. Instead he turned to his henchmen, urging them into action. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

Two of the thugs hurled themselves at the ghost from opposite sides of the room. He waited until the last possible moment before before leaping into the air and grabbing the dusty chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The two attackers collided head-first, the sound of their skulls smacking together like hollow coconuts cracking. The ghost landed nimbly on top of them, wiping his hands against each other. “Next?”

Two more thugs came at him, moving more warily than their predecessors, circling in ever closer. The ghost waited for the first one to take a swipe at him with their knife. He caught the wrist clutching the knife and held it up in the air, before kicking his attacker in the exposed ribs. Charley heard a popping sound and then another as the wraith repeated his response. But the other thug was preparing to attack, drawing back his knife to stab the ghost. “Look out! Behind you!” she called.

Still holding one attacker by the wrist, the avenging spirit looked over his shoulder at the other thug and smiled. Swinging a fist through the air in an arc, he smashed the knife away. The disarmed attacker had only a second to stare in disbelief before the same fist crumpled his nose like tissue paper. The thug went down sobbing, crimson gushing from his broken proboscis. That left only the ghost and the scar-faced man.

Charley felt herself being lifted up by the hair and something cold pressing into her neck. She peered sideways and realized the gang leader was holding a knife against her throat. The ghost saw her danger too, anger flashing across his face. “Hurt the girl and you’ll know pain for the rest of your life,” he snarled.

“Maybe, maybe not. I notice you’ve got two pistols but you haven’t used them on my men, even when it would have been easier, safer for you.”

“I didn’t need them to stop the likes of you,” the ghost retorted.

“True, but you obviously think you’re some kind of protector for this place. Would you kill me to save this girl?”

The ghost drew one of his pistols, aiming it at the thug’s head. “Harm her and you’ll soon find out.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Consider it a warning. Drop the knife. You’ve got three seconds—or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Three.”

The thug laughed. “You don’t scare me! If you were going to pull that trigger, you wouldn’t give me a chance to surrender!”

“Two.”

“Do your worst!”

The thug forced the knife further into the side of Charley’s neck. She felt its edge digging into her skin, but she wasn’t afraid. She remembered what her father had said: “No matter what danger may threaten you, the ghost will be your guardian angel.” And she also remembered the knife she had picked up from the floor, the knife that was still clutched in her left hand, hidden from her attacker’s gaze.

“One!”

Charley passed the knife from one hand to the other and stabbed it backwards, into the scar-faced man’s thigh. He cried out in pain, the surprise of her attack making him loosen his grip on her. Charley flung herself out of his grasp as the ghost fired. The bullet shot through the thug’s knife-hand, making him drop the blade. By the time he had slumped to the floor, nursing his wounds, the ghost had kicked the knife out of reach and was making sure Charley was unhurt.

“I knew you’d save me,” she said, hugging him gratefully.

“You saved yourself,” he replied. “You were very brave.”

Charley Vogel looked about herself, remembering how terrified she had been of entering the haunted house. Now Charley saw her surroundings for what they were, a tumbledown building where bad things had happened, nothing more and nothing less. She smiled at the ghost. “I knew I didn’t have to be afraid anymore.”

The End

DAVID BISHOP grew up reading the Phantom in New Zealand. Now living in Scotland, he’s written nearly thirty issues of the Phantom for Egmont, seen in four languages on two continents. Bishop has also had 18 novels published, a radio play broadcast by the BBC, and is completing a Masters in screen-writing. Visit his blog at www.viciousimagery.blogspot.com

The Promise

By Grant Suavé

The ship slowly cut through the calm waters, its hull riding deep and filled with a cargo of stolen souls. She was called ‘A Promessa’, and was a whaling ship once. The decks and sails were stained black from oil smoke, her hull still held a faint whisper of the stench of whale carcass. Most whalers were maintained daily over their long journeys, scrubbed top to bottom and back again, day in and day out. A Promessa was not one of those ships. She would bear the stains of those times until her floating days were done.

The Captain remembers the smell; he remembers the filth. He was first mate on A Promessa in those years that she trolled the arteries of the oceans that held the Blue and Right whales, and the mightiest of the behemoths, the Sperm whale.

They were long journeys, years without setting foot on solid earth. It drove some men mad. For whaling was a special brand of misery on the seas. The wait, the spot, the hunt, the kill, the cleaving of the skin and the production of the oil, and how its smoke and smell clung to your skin, and again, and repeated; this was the life of the whaler. And not every journey was fruitful, not every journey brought hope to the mate that he would be able to free himself from his debts. And there were always new ones. Days spent on shore were reserved for gambling, for drinking, for whoring, and any creative combination of the three.

Vincente De Melo had an enlightened taste for vice and a fallen Catholic’s haste to redress lost opportunities from his youth. Born good, raised bad, the oceans were responsible for the rest. It had not made him evil, just ruthlessly practical. And when the opportunity arose to take command of the ship from its previous captain, he took it. Even if it meant sinking the man and all those crew who chose to stand with him to the bottom of the ocean chained to Promessa’s try-works furnaces. When they burned, they consumed the flesh of whales and turned their blubber into the world’s most valuable liquid save water: the oil that kept lamps lit in every nation of the world.

No more. Not for Vincente. There were faster ways to make money than draining the oceans of their monsters. Vincente and the crew of A Promessa became dealers of the seemingly endless resource of human flesh. Tribal wars continued on both African coasts and the victors would often trade their prisoners as slaves. Some were prisoners of war, most were prisoners of greed. Vincente was only taking advantage of the situation as it had played out, or so he convinced himself. The British had outlawed the Atlantic slave trade in 1807, and had been pressuring his country to comply ever since. Word was that the government was beginning to accept compensatory payments to claw back and eliminate the trade altogether. Portugal was his home, his heart, his soul, but these and more could be discarded when a debtor needed payment or the dice begged for one last toss. Or Marietta begged for his attentions, and every glance cost a little more.

It was late but he couldn’t sleep. He stood on the quarterdeck and surveyed the calming waters and thought dark thoughts about the journey ahead; the journey and the fact that for the last 6 hours he’d been feeling with some certainty that something was watching them. The waters had been clear of any ships since they left the African coast but the wind had been avoiding Promessa’s sails with a worrisome regularity. If they slowed they could meet resistance. If that resistance was a British patrol ship the penalties would be swift and not in his favor.

But it wasn’t a British patrol that was hounding them. If it were they would have been overtaken by now. His eyes scanned the ebbing waves as they had a thousand times since their retreat from the coast had begun.

Nothing.

A grunt to his left; it is Felipe, Promessa’s new first mate after Vincente’s mutinous self promotion. Vincente lit the pipe he had hanging from his lips and followed Felipe’s gaze to the dying sails.

“Too early for the calms. But it feels like it, doesn’t it?” Felipe said.

“Doldrums hold to no schedule that I’ve been able to prove.” Replied the captain.

He moved forward and thought he caught sight of something through the haze of his pipe. A sail? Felipe noticed the captain’s intense stare and watched along with him.

“Something?”

Vincente kept his eyes on the horizon. Maybe? No. He shook his head. Felipe’s gaze shifted to see the last gasp of southerly wind die across Promessa’s sails. The only waves in the water now were Promessa’s wake. These grew smaller and smaller as the ship slowed. Soon its momentum was scarcely noticeable.

Vincente turned to Felipe, smoke bubbling out from between his lips as he smiled.

“Cheer up, Felipe. Your frown does nothing to improve our situation.”

“It’s mine and I’ll wear it if I choose to. Your orders, captain?”

“This could last hours, this could last days. We wait . . . for the wind to blow.” He blew a long plume of smoke and directed it towards his sails. Nothing came of it but a brief fogging of the air.

Felipe’s frown grew in proportion to his unease.

“If it’s days, our provisions won’t last.”

Vincente’s dark thoughts grew darker in proportion to how little had been going well. Their cook was a drunk and a fool who had failed to properly restock their provisions before entering this leg of their voyage.

“Maybe we should reconsider the feeding schedule?” He asked.

Vincente turned and looked at his first mate and noted how his constant, tired resignation was making his face droop. Vincente knew that his first mate had been troubled by Promessa’s new direction in business, but that he was too much a coward or too greedy to challenge his captain about it. His first mate’s conscience was bitten, and bit deeper each round trip to the Americas. Soon this would be a concern, but for now the worst Felipe gave him were droopy frowns and guilty riddles.

“What do you think we should do, Felipe?”

“We feed them. We cut them off now we could breed panic before this is out.”

“And infected wounds don’t impress at auction. I understand. Do it, then, and I’m going to be in my cabin imbibing great quantities of whatever our drunken cook has left in the stores. Join me when you’re done and we’ll toast to our somewhat typical fortunes.”

“It appears we are not foolish enough to be lucky.”

Felipe stood and moved down the deck. Vincente noticed how swiftly he turned, how rigid his movements. He called to him.

“You seem more troubled than usual.”

Felipe stopped, hands braced hard against the bulwarks’ rail. His shoulders tightened as he decided whether to tell his captain what he knew.

“Adao knows enough of their tongue to make out what it is they’ve been chanting since we put them down there.”

The chanting. Straining to hear it, Vincente thought he could make them out through the top hatch to the main hold. A slow, low loop of words, sung over and over. They had chanted as they were brought on board and even as they were chained into their places in the hold. He imagined its purpose as something to soothe the children, something to force courage against the mounting fear that this was the beginning of a new and terrible life.

“These fears you have of pagan rituals lessen you, my friend. Chanting will have less effect on you than the drink does.”

“They claim to be protected. They say they will be saved by the Ghost Who Walks.”

Vincente’s pipe chose that moment to choke its last ember with a small pop and a weak gasp of smoke. The captain dragged a fresh match across the nearest beam and puffed on the pipe while Felipe waited.

“Now, say it again.” The captain said with white fury in his voice.

“I only repeat what I was told.”

“Repeating it makes you more foolish than the first who said it.” Softer now, as he moved towards his first; he clutched his collar and drew him close. “Felipe, I’m tired. Feed the flock. If they won’t stop their singing, cut one of their tongues out. We’re paid by the head, makes no mention of sopranos.”

The first mate nodded. The captain let him go and smiled. He turned and moved towards the entrance to his cabin.

“It’s getting cool, Felipe. There will be mist tonight. Perfect for hiding ghosts . . . and patrols.”

The captain motioned towards the main mast.

“Who’s in the masthead tonight?”

“Gabriel, sir.”

The captain bellowed as he made his way down to his cabin. “Tell that lazy scrubber to stay awake up there or I’ll nail his feet to the crosstrees!”

Felipe looked up the main mast, saw the shadow of the oaf, Gabriel, holding himself tight against the sliver of metal that was his nest, the iron hoop built around the masthead for the watch. Felipe’s eyes darkened, he couldn’t take out his wrath on the captain. This plebe would have to do.

Gabriel’s ears still smarted from the dressing down he’d received from the first mate. While he had been known to fall asleep during night watch, tonight that would certainly not be the case. Gabriel was uneasy. A slender hook of light was all that the moon gave them for luminance. The boat was motionless, the masthead swayed only under the pressure of his own weight. It made him nervous, made him feel somehow more fragile than he had felt when the ship was being buffeted by fiercest storms off the Cape. He blew out quick streams of misty breath. It dissipated almost instantly but Gabriel was amazed to see it. He felt a clutch of panic as he saw the approaching mist.

From Gabriel’s vantage point some 100 feet above the decks of A Promessa, he watched the slow crawling mist move across the dead waters and surround the boat. It clutched with gray shrouded claws digging into the wet, it hid everything above and below it except A Promessa, which floated naked on the mist’s shifting peak.

Gabriel suddenly coughed for several seconds before he was able to control himself. His cough’s echo caught him short at first, the panic bled the last of the warmth from his body and he shivered almost immediately. He drew himself up against the mast.

And then he was asleep. He slumped and fell to his knees. He slipped down and his chin knocked against the iron hoop and shattered three of his teeth. His arms lay across the hoop; he was secure. The poison in the dart piercing his neck insured he wouldn’t wake for at least 4 hours.

Something moved in the mist. A looming, jagged shape broke through the gray, shifting wall surrounding Promessa and looked as though it would ram the ship.

Below in the main hold the chanting stopped. The two guards assigned to watch over the new acquisitions in the main hold noticed only after a few jarring moments of silence. Amondo and Davi had been lulled into a near stupor by the chanting of the prisoners behind the bars, forty-two men, twenty women, and twelve children all chained one beside the other, lining the inside of the ships’ hull and filling the main hold so tightly there was barely room to breathe. They had sung words the men couldn’t understand, a nonsensical poem of sound that comforted the guards more than irritated them. The ordinary in A Promessa’s hull was raised pistols, the smashing of faces, tightening of chains, and leering at the women and making crudest advances. These were of the course for those confined to keep order on the slave deck, but for reasons neither of the guards were comfortable considering, they had kept their distance from this batch.

Rumors on ship surfaced as they neared the mainland where they were to pick up the slaves. Slavers for time in memoriam had avoided the Bangalla region. Word had that it was cursed and peopled by demons with unnatural powers. Men that dared approach or make dark and illegal commerce were said to be branded until death.

And then there was Adao, being coerced to the hold to hear what the savages were gibbering on about. Adao was pale before he neared the cage. The words were already haunting him. Something about a Ghost, one who protected them from harm, one who would track them down and take vengeance on those who’d enslaved them.

Now the chanting had stopped. The guards looked towards the cage. Each face was turned towards them, forty-two men, twenty women, twelve children, as marked on the sheet beside the cage, seventy-two souls bound for a lifetime of misery . . .

All of them were smiling.

Amondo and Davi froze. Then they both very slowly stood up. Neither sure why they were feeling so exposed. The serene looks on the faces of the prisoners remained unbroken, their eyes followed the pair’s every movement Amondo whispered out of the side of his mouth:

“This isn’t right.”

Davi moved closer to the bars. Amondo whispered through clenched teeth.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Going to wipe those grins off their faces.” Davi said.

He wanted to sound like he meant it, but he only managed to confirm to Amondo that both of them were frightened.

“Don’t be an idiot. Leave them be.”

Davi pulled a heavy iron ring of keys out of his pocket; he slipped one through the lock on the gate.

“Davi! Is it music you want? I could whistle something nice. I am a good whistler!”

“Shut up, Amondo.” Davi said as he pulled open the gate and stepped through.

He stood surrounded by the prisoners chained to the floor, to each other, to the walls. Davi knew that movement of any sort took great effort and caused even greater pain. Yet they sat and watched him with passive interest. If they were uncomfortable they did not show it, or worse, refused to. Davi felt a trickle of sweat bead past his temple. He wouldn’t believe it possible that a body so cold could sweat, but he could feel his hands getting sickly clammy; he wiped them against his jacket and pulled out his ragged hilted dagger. A Spanish blade, curved and sharp, Davi waved it towards the nearest person, a woman on the floor.

She pulled herself away from the waving knife, her chain yanked at her neighbors on both sides. Every move made against the momentum of the chain pushed it deeper into the flesh. Those on her sides, a man and a woman, bit back at the pain as fresh blood began to trickle from their necks. Davi waved the knife closer to the woman. This time she yelled—

“Yasani!”

“Boss, put the knife away.”

A voice to Davi’s right. He spoke Portuguese with an accent so slight it was almost laughable.

His name was Yasani. He held up his hands in a sign of peace, the chains weighing on his wrists. He was a young man sporting a cocky half grin even through the pain of the wound. He tapped his bare chest and motioned for Davi to come over. Davi moved away from the woman and took a step towards Yasani.

“You understand me?” asked Davi.

“That much is obvious. But do you understand me?”

Davi’s face darkened. He grabbed hold of Yasani’s wrists and yanked him towards the dagger. Yasani’s grin vanished as he stared down the lip of the blade. He looked up to Davi.

“Why have you stopped singing? Given up the Ghost have you?” Davi said.

“No boss, we have not given up.”

Yasani smiled.

“The Ghost is already here.”

There were three men on deck at that moment. Tiago stood at the wheel in the ship’s stern, near asleep for all the activity the calm had given him. Graciano was at the bow of the ship finishing off a cigarette when he turned to see Tomas emerge on deck below. He was heading to the galley. They all became aware within seconds of each other that there was an extra passenger on board the ship.

“Tomas, tell Cook that no amount of spice can disguise that we’ve eaten the same terrible meal for three days now.” Graciano yelled.

This startled Tomas who had become shaken by the supernatural air the night had taken on. The end of the chanting only made him more nervous, like whatever was being called forth could strike at any moment. He nervously laughed and said—

“The line for complaints starts behind our passengers. They’ve been eating what you’ve been throwing out.”

Another nervous laugh from Tomas, Graciano didn’t smile. He took another pull off his smoke and moved back towards the prow. Tomas kept on his way.

Graciano tossed the cigarette overboard and began to head back. He paused. Something wasn’t right. He hadn’t heard the cigarette hit the water. A night this calm, this quiet . . . He looked over the side. At first he wasn’t sure what he saw. It was a ship, a sloop perhaps but like none he’d ever seen before. Two sails on one mast but miraculously the mast was folded down across the length of the ship.

The sails themselves, Graciano couldn’t tell what material they were made of, it was a pockmarked patchwork design stretched across the sail. It was familiar to Graciano, but he couldn’t quite make it out. The way the sails reflected the moonlight cast an odd color to them, it helped them blend in with the night waters. With the mast down and the sails wrapped around the ship, it made it near invisible. Graciano looked at the patterns on the sail again. He gasped.

A skull.

As Graciano made this discovery Tiago looked up towards the sails. He thought he heard a soft thump above him. He saw something. One of the shadows seemed off between the main and topsails. He’d seen the light play against them so many times, he knew the shadows of the yardarms, the crosstrees, and the crossjacks; they could share the form of a man sometimes with the light in the right way, but this wasn’t any of those. Suddenly the shadow moved!

Tiago crouched at the site of it. Some kind of creature was dancing across the yardarms. Inhumanly nimble, it leapt from the main mast to the mizzenmast. Tiago couldn’t quite make it out through the sails. It was fast approaching the stern! Tiago was about to raise the alarm when the creature flew past the last sail obstructing his view.

It was a man. Or it had the shape of one anyway. It dove down towards him. Its skin was a dark purple, save for its face. Half of it was human, the other half . . . like a demon! Fear rooted Tiago to his place at the wheel. He looked away just as the creature was upon him and then . . . Nothing. He looked up to see the creature swinging with his momentum on a halyard line down onto the lower deck.

Tiago looked at his hand and saw the other reason he’d been frozen where he stood: a dart between the middle and index finger of his right hand.

“Help!” he croaked, and then dropped unconscious onto the wheel.

The man/creature still clinging to the halyard swung towards Tomas who had just moved towards the bow where he had heard Graciano shout about something. Graciano appeared ahead of him, shouting—

“Tomas, there’s a—”

He couldn’t finish; he was stunned by the apparition swinging towards Tomas.

“What?” Tomas asked.

He was swept up with a one handed grab. The momentum of the swing brought the creature and Tomas towards Graciano fast. He turned to flee. The creature swung Tomas at the man and the crewman’s thick boot caught the back of Graciano’s head. The sailor went down with a dull crunch against the deck.

The halyard reached the second apex of its swing and began to drop towards the lower deck once again. A rag was shoved in Tomas’ mouth cutting off the scream he’d been brewing. The creature pulled himself up, Tomas in tow, and dove off the halyard to a stay line and up to the nearest yardarm. From there he dove upwards, catching another line, and then up again to the next yardarm, all with Tomas in tow. Tomas closed his eyes. The higher they got the more certain he was of his doom. The strength of this creature was terrifying! With another gut churning lurch upward the movement stopped. Then he heard the creature speak.

“You’d better open your eyes, son.”

It was a low voice, deep and commanding. Portuguese, with an accent he couldn’t make.

He felt the pressure of a hand against his chest start to relax. He also felt the very slightest of breezes against his face. He opened his eyes.

He was standing on the second most yardarm of the foremast. Standing on the other side of the mast on the same yardarm was the creature. Tomas could see it was a man. Or it spoke like a man and had its shape. He was fit, broad shouldered, and square jawed. Tomas could not tell what kind of clothes the man was wearing. What strange fabric were the leggings or the shirt? It clung tight to the man’s physique and had a most unnatural color, a dark, almost royal purple. He wore black boots and holstered pistols that looked nothing like he’d seen before, a black mask over half his face. Tomas shuddered . . . and realized suddenly that he was standing on the second most yardarm of the foremast, some 90 feet above the main deck! He grabbed for the nearest lift line and stood there trying to keep his balance.

“You answer my questions and I’ll drop you back down on the deck without a scratch.”

Tomas looked down and was quickly rendered dizzy; he started to twist when a hand reached out to hold him steady and then pulled the rag from his mouth.

“Where are they being kept?”

“Who . . . Who are you?”

The punch came blindingly fast. Tomas was stemming the tide of blood coming from his nose before he realized he’d been hit. The masked man held him in place for the briefest moment then let him go. Tomas scrambled for the line again, spitting blood that dribbled across his lips.

“I’m the man who decides how quickly you reach the deck when you don’t answer my questions. Now tell me where they are!”

Tomas pointed down.

“In the main hold.”

“What’s the fastest way to get there?”

“Through the hatch in front of the main mast.”

The masked man looked down. His lips twisted into a dissatisfied sneer. He took on a more threatening demeanor.

“Not practical for my purposes, son. Got another route?”

“D-d-door underneath the quarter deck, down two decks to reach the main hold.”

“I’ll pass through the crew quarters on that route, won’t I?” The man asked, a hard edge coming into his voice.

“P-P-perhaps, but they all sleep like lambs sir, they’ll take no notice of you.”

Another punch. Tomas blinked and started to fall back when the solid arm of the masked man caught him in time. He pulled him forward again.

“You were going to the galley. You were going to feed them weren’t you?”

Tomas nodded vigorously, The masked man smiled.

“How about I give you a hand?”

The cook stirred the contents of the pot, staring ahead with dead eyes. The small galley was filled with the iron tools of a cook’s trade. The pots, the pans, the oven, and other essentials, like twenty-four bottles of rum shoved underneath a galley cupboard. For Breno, or Cook as he was always referred to (the word always spat out with hate, hunger, and disbelief), he found it best to be drunk as often as possible, or at least when necessary . . . which turned out to be always. Another hold over from Promessa’s whaling days, he found the labor attached to providing meals of any nature for an extra eighty passengers to be too stressful for his fragile, corpulent frame . . . He was a fat man who drank. A combination destined for doom. His joints ached, his vision was blurred and fogged, a side effect of the lower quality hooch the man had been drinking, and no matter of lenses would ever correct it to any satisfaction. His near blindness would be fine excuse for his sad attempts at providing delicious or at least adequate meals for the crew, if not for those who remember the days where his vision was keen and recipes were available for perusing, and Breno’s dishes were even worse.

He was a fat man and a drunk and terrible at his job, a depressing circle of truths that fed each other and made life on Promessa particularly cruel for Breno. The monotony of his duties, the schedule he had to keep. What he wouldn’t give for one night off.

The door opened, Tomas walked in. Breno nodded without looking up. It was time to feed the new acquisitions. He grabbed the large pot with both hands wrapped in rags to protect from the heat. He turned to give the pot to Tomas. Only Tomas wasn’t there.

The Phantom was.

He grabbed the cook’s hands, which still held the steaming pot. The Phantom drew the cook close, and smashed his skull against the man’s temple. He was out in a flash. The Phantom held the pot with the cook’s rag bandaged hands as the cook fell back unconscious. In a bizarre ballet, he twisted the cook around, dropped the pot on the stove, and then let Breno drop silently to the floor.

He turned to Tomas, leaning against the door with his hands tied in front of him. Tomas smiled weakly and waved, he seemed perfectly cowed and not up for much rebellion. The Phantom started to pull the apron off of Breno.

“You look nothing like him. You’re not even the same shape. It won’t work.” Said Tomas.

“Don’t tell me my business, boy.”

He drew a blade from his leg and tossed it at Tomas. Before Tomas could move the blade had cut! Cut through the line the Phantom had used to snare up his wrists. He was free! He looked at the blade, now wedged into the galley door, the slight rope sticking out from underneath it. He gave it a yank and it wouldn’t budge. He snorted with frustration.

“Grab that pot and fill it with the stew. Try anything stupid and I’ll feed you to the fishes.”

Tomas turned to see the Phantom now dressed in Cook’s clothes, he had pulled on the man’s oversized hooded sweater and it hung low enough over his face to be hidden. The rest was a miracle. An illusion performed by a master. He held himself differently, and managed to puff himself up and make the clothes fall off him in ways they would a much rounder man. He had tied small pots into the knees of the fat man’s pants and elbows of the sweater for some added mass. It was a hypnotizing performance. It wasn’t perfect, but in the darkness of the next deck he may actually pull it off. Tomas was getting desperate. He couldn’t possibly assist in this. The captain would flay the skin from his bones if he were to hand over the cargo to this bizarre chameleon. What could he do?

The Phantom broke his train of thought as he stepped forward. He plucked the knife from the door and stashed it within the folds of the apron.

“Let’s go.”

Vincente had stepped out onto the quarterdeck once more. Sleep escaped him still and his paranoia remained. He noticed Tiago slumped against the wheel. What excuse for this kind of idleness?!

He marched up and was about to knock the man off his perch when he heard someone approach from behind. He turned and saw Davi and the slave Yasani. He was handcuffed and his ankles secured. He stared straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge the captain. Vincente gritted his teeth as Davi stepped forward.

“This one speaks Portuguese. He knows about the Ghost Who Walks. Calls him the Phantom. Says he’s here to save them.”

Vincente’s eyes narrowed. He slowly looked back at the unconscious Tiago. He looked up at the mainmast.

“Gabriel!” he yelled.

Tomas led the way into the crew quarters holding the very full pot of thrice-cooked stew and desperately tried to work out his next move. Fear of the creature behind him was blinding him to his options. Even now he couldn’t help but be impressed with its pantomime abilities as it managed to mimic the movement of Cook almost down to a tee. He thought of it more as a creature once again. This was no ordinary man. Perhaps he was a ghost.

The room was size enough to fit the fourteen men sleeping on a series of overlapping hammocks strung from one end of the room to the other. On the average night the rocking of the boat would give the room an odd rhythm with the swaying of the hammocks to the collision of the waves. Now the room was quiet save for the snoring, snorting, and mumbling of shared sleep.

Tomas looked from one side of the hammocks to the other as they passed slowly between the sleeping crew. How could the dullards not have heard the commotion upstairs? How did his lie become truth? Then Tomas remembered the bottle and how it had been passed around hungrily and desperately several times while he was preparing for his shift. Much as the weird vibrations had affected him in his soul about this adventure, the rest of the crew had chosen to dull their minds with drink so as to deaden any nervous thoughts of jungle curses. When Adao had returned to the quarters and shared what he’d heard, Cook had been bullied for ample supplies of his rum. Having seen his share of revolt and the gruesome consequences thereof, Cook shared of his supply. The rum, at the very least, he’d managed to store with great quantities.

So the rum had been passed and the African demons were chased away by those of the fermented variety.

Tomas gritted his teeth and steadied his hold on the increasingly heavier pot. They were halfway across now, Tomas wanted to shout, to wake the men and call out the attack but he was unable. His fear of the Phantom was too great. Luckily for him someone else was awake and angry enough at Cook’s latest culinary efforts to voice his displeasure as loudly as possible. It was Michael, whose stomach was so blocked up with the slop that Cook had served that he would have needed at least four more kicks from the bottle before it rendered him as unconscious as his crewmates.

“Cook! You daft wretch!! Who ever dared confer upon you the title of cook should be cursed to live a thousand days with a stomach full of tacks. It still would not compare to one voyage with you at the helm of our gullets!!”

Tomas kept walking; the Phantom got closer behind him. They had already passed Michael, who wasn’t relenting with his abuse. He rolled off the hammock and stood in the middle of the room behind the retreating pair.

“Cook!! Turn and face me, you over salting blasphemer!!”

Finally, the confrontation began to stir the others. A like-minded pair quickly shouted encouragement to Michael. Perhaps another bottle was in the procuring.

The Phantom took note of who had awakened, what state they were in. Due to their inebriation most would be easy to take down, but for the others the drink only made them more dangerous. Michael was one of those and he was close to pressing the point with who he thought was Cook.

“Get us some more rum, you filthy goat.” Michael spat.

Michael moved forward and caught a better view of the maligned chef and saw that it was someone else entirely. His eyes widened as the Phantom looked up from under the hood and into the eyes of the slaver.

“Intruder!!” Michael screamed.

Quick and fierce, the Phantom struck. He quickly tore off the cook’s baggy garments and their shreds became weapons. The bottom halves of the pants he shot across the room, knocking off two men about to get up from their hammocks. They were hit square in the chest with the pots and flew off onto their backs with a heavy crunch. The top halves of the hooded sweater he twirled to his sides, he launched them out like staves. He swung one out to bash Michael in the face as he finally started to move into the fight. He was tossed back several feet, his nose bloodied from the iron pot in the sleeve. The other shirt stave caught the hook and tie of a hammock near him. The Phantom jerked down and the hammock and its occupant crashed down on top of his unfortunate downstairs neighbor.

That was the first ten seconds.

Tomas started to back away, but the Phantom reached out and tugged him into the fight as a crowd started to form in front of them, shouting, grasping, and punching. He spun Tomas around to face the crowd with his pot filled with the thrice-cooked stew. He pushed and swung Tomas around towards the frontal assault, the steaming stew spilling and spraying anyone it came in contact with. Several of the men screamed, clutched their faces, protected their eyes, and danced as best they could to out race the boiling stew. Tomas was too scared to drop the pot and too self-preserving to pull the pot close to himself where he would be splashed. The Phantom saw that there were still four of the men slowly coming to in the hammocks. He pulled one of his modified Colt revolvers and shot twice to either side of the walkway. Two hammocks slid and crashed down, one close enough to toss its occupant into the fray of the messy battle underway. A third and fourth shot and the two last occupied hammocks crashed down in front of crewmates trying to get around to pounce at him. Bodies were stacking up on both sides. Tomas screamed for peace! The Phantom put boot to his back and kicked him into a trio of his crewmates. They beat him back as the last of the stew was splashed everywhere.

Two had made it around the hammocks to get at him. He slammed the butt of his gun into the first man’s face then turned and delivered a brick solid right hook into the next attacker; he went down and was out before hitting the floor, a skull shaped scar etched forever onto his cheek.

He leapt at the remaining gaggle of sailors. Bounding in between them, he swung his legs and knocked one half of the gang into the other. A blur of punches and two men landed in a heap by the entrance to the cabin.

Where Vincente De Melo stepped through.

He watched the combat for a moment. Awe for the Phantom’s prowess winning out against the disgust he felt for the incompetence of his own men. Luckily he had other options.

He pulled the trigger of the two-barreled flintlock pistol. An explosion of light and thunderclap of sound and those men still standing in battle against the Phantom ducked away from it. All but the Phantom who turned still holding one crewman by the collar, fist raised for another bash. He dropped the man when he saw who was with Vincente and pulled both pistols with terrifying speed.

It was Yasani. Davi stood behind and jammed a pistol barrel to the back of the Bangallan’s head. Also standing at the door was Felipe, who had been wakened by the shots and was dumbfounded at what he saw before him.

Vincente held the pistol steady, aimed at the Phantom’s heart.

“The Ghost Who Walks, yes? They didn’t mention this part. But I suppose ‘The Ghost Who Delivers Swift, Unprovoked, and Brutal Thrashings to My Crew!!’ doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easy.”

“Put the pistol down and let him go.” The Phantom commanded.

“Oh no, no no. It is you who you will drop your pistols. I have you in my sights and my good man Davi has your friend in his. That puts us ahead, you understand? You wouldn’t have come this far just to let your man here die. I don’t believe so anyway. Should we test out my theory?”

Vincente nodded at Davi, who drew back on the pistol. Felipe’s eyes went to the Phantom. What would the man do?

There were only four men left standing from the original battle, each held marks from the fight from bruises to bloody scrapes. Each of them was pleased to see the tide turning against their tormentor. They moved up and around the Phantom. He kept his aim on De Melo, who seemed to be enjoying the face-off.

“To show you how gracious a host I am, I’ll let you make the next move.”

The Phantom stared at Yasani. He could see he was afraid but stood confident against his assailants. His bravery would be futile against Davi’s pistol, and that was the terrible truth. The toughest decisions are the ones you have two seconds to make.

“You let him go back to his people in the hold and I will lower my pistols.”

“I have no reason to bargain with you, Mr. Phantom. I can do as I please. But seeing as all it means is putting this smelly jungle rat back in the pit, I agree.” said Vincente.

The Phantom dropped the guns and was quickly grappled by the crewmen. It took everything they had, and he still managed to get his hand inside a pocket in his belt. He forced the crewmen to pause in front of Yasani as he was being dragged past him; he clutched the man’s hands to reassure him and passed along the object at the same time. He was confident he hadn’t been seen, but was sure it wouldn’t matter either way. Yasani and the Phantom smiled at each other, and the masked man winked behind the mask. Yasani knew it was a promise and he prayed that what he held in his hand would deliver on that.

But when Davi took him out of the crew quarters, the man held out his hand to him.

“Give it over. Give it over or I’ll break your fingers.”

Felipe stood at the back of the captain’s cabin and watched. It was a ludicrous scene he could never have envisioned. The captain poured from the bottle into a silver cup. He sipped the rum and stared at the masked man seated across the table from him.

The Phantom was tied to the chair with his hands behind his back. Tied tight, painfully so, he could only stare at his own cup of rum sat on the table a few feet in front of him.

“Can I help with you with something?” Vincente asked.

“You could untie me so I can have a drink.” The Phantom replied.

“I imagine that’s not all you’d do if we untied you.” Vincente said, taking another sip of the rum.

“You’re right. I’d knock your first mate unconscious and throw you through the door. Then I’d break your legs with this chair.” The Phantom said calmly.

“You see, this is why you remain tied.”

“Yes, I understand. It’s just whenever I get to this part the villain, that’s you, feels inclined to bore me with some debate on whether his deeds fall within some ill defined realm of supra morality, that he is in fact not a villain but a puppet controlled by the evils of commerce. Or you tell me the purpose of your sick, nefarious plans. But you look like a debater to me.” The Phantom grinned as he said this.

Vincente took another sip of the rum.

“So what I know is that you’re not a ghost but a man.”

“Perhaps. Or a ghost who looks like a man but has the power of demons!”

The Phantom’s ironic tone irritated Vincente who knew when he was being mocked.

“Are they yours?” He asked.

The Phantom’s smile faded.

“Say that again . . . if you dare.”

In the main hold Yasani watched Davi examine what the Phantom had given him. It was a small wooden whistle. Yasani did not know its purpose exactly but knew that help would come if he could just get his hands on it. Returned and chained with his fellow Bangallans, he could sense their fear. He smiled to reassure them and went back to watching Davi.

Amondo watched as well. He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He was happy to have missed out on the fisticuffs with the intruder up the next deck, but he was still distressed to know that this would have been the man’s next stop.

“He gave it to him, we should give it to the captain.” Amondo said for the third time.

Davi jeered towards the cage—

“Why did he give you this?” He asked with contempt. “Did he want you to entertain us with more music?”

Davi tapped the cage with the whistle. “I will blow you a tune about Lisbon, my dark friend. You will like, I promise.”

He blew into the whistle. Nothing happened. He blew again, and again. Nothing. No sound but Davi’s tuneless blowing. Yasani watched and his heart sunk into deep despair.

The Phantom’s ship was anchored by Promessa’s bow. Tomas, who had managed during the crew quarters scuffle to avoid anything worse than a few more thumps to the head, of which he’d had a few today already, was given the task of surveying the masked man’s ship. He stood on her main deck and marveled at the ship’s sleek design. It was built unlike any he had seen but from Tomas’ years at sea one thing was certain to him, it was a very fast ship.

He moved towards the main cabin door when he heard a deep, rolling growl erupt from under the folded sail. He looked towards the darkness under the sail’s crease and thought he saw something . . . his eyes widened with fear.

Without looking back he dove over the side for the safety of the misty water.

In the cabin, Felipe was growing nervous. The Phantom’s mood had darkened and Vincente kept playing the sadist.

“So you insist they are not your property. Yet you risked your life sailing to their rescue in the strangest ship I’ve ever seen. You render unconscious near everyone of my crew. This was no small task. This took some effort! There must be some reward for your activities?

“For I know that you are not a ghost. I see that you are a man, a white man to be exact. So there are earthly motivations for these events. You are not a man of the law otherwise why the mask? Why work alone? Are you a bounty hunter?”

The Phantom stared at Vincente and the captain took another sip of the rum.

“Lets just say I have an agreement with those people. I watch their backs, they watch mine.”

“Well, allow me to congratulate you for the failures on both counts.” Vincente winked. “And seeing as I have no nefarious plans, nor any intention to bore you with my views on morals and commerce as I have little of both and feel ill equipped to enter into debate on them. I know I am villainous to be doing what I am doing. I offer no defense for my actions. While opportunities like these exist, men like me are going to take them. It isn’t so hard to understand, is it? It’s just the way the world works. It’s the reason there’s more of me than of you. Although judging by your clothes, I’d say sanity has an awful lot to with it as well.”

In the main hold Amondo was growing tired of Davi’s study of the whistle. Davi blew into it a few more times and looked inside it to see if anything was blocking the sound. Amondo stood and stretched. He dipped his cup in the water bucket and drank as he caught the thirsty stares of their charges in the cage. He turned away so he couldn’t see them.

And saw the wolf. It had entered the hold through the crew quarters. Slipping past those left to watch after the Phantom’s attack. Its coarse gray hair bristled as it flexed its shoulders. It bared its teeth and uttered a slow, deep growl.

“Davi . . . I think you should stop blowing that whistle.”

Davi looked up. The whistle dropped from his lips shortly after.

“Untie him Felipe.” Vincente asked.

“Wha . . . What?” Felipe stammered.

“We’re taking him outside. I’m going to shoot him and throw him into the drink. Sorry, Phantom. As it appears there have been others you’ve interfered with, I can only assume their mistake was not killing you when they had the chance. I’d shoot you here but this is where I sleep . . . It wouldn’t be right.”

Felipe gingerly worked at the ropes behind the Phantom. The Phantom did nothing to interfere with the man. He barely moved a muscle. Vincente was behind him quickly with the gun pressed against the base of his neck.

Felipe opened the door and stepped through ahead of them. He was the first to see them. The prisoners. They were free and on the main decks, aft, and forward. They were surrounded. Vincente gritted his teeth as he saw them. His eyes narrowed with fury and he pulled back on the trigger.

The gun was gone. Lifted by the man to his right, Yasani, who stood with two pistols now, the captain’s and Davi’s.

“How?” The captain bellowed.

A wolf bound up the stairs and came to a graceful stop at the feet of the Phantom. Vincente and Felipe stiffened with fear upon seeing the beast. It licked its lips and cast a hungry glare towards the two of them.

“I told you I have an agreement with these people. I watch their backs, they watch mine.” He scratched behind the wolf’s ear. “And while men like you exist, I take every opportunity I can to punish them. That’s how my world works. Your ship is forfeit to these people.”

“What about us, then?” The captain asked.

The Phantom smiled.

“I am not a law man, so it’s not for me to decide.”

Vincente sighed with relief.

“The first patrol ship we meet will have men who will gladly make those decisions for me.”

He nodded towards Yasani as Vincente’s shoulders dropped with defeat.

“What course, captain?” the Phantom asked.

Yasani smiled and waved both fists in the air to his fellow Bangallans. They responded with loud cheers.

“We go home! Bangalla!”

The End

By stunning coincidence, GRANT SAUVÉ was also raised by his father to don a purple suit and fight pirates, but he chose the much less heroic and no less pirate ridden profession of writing instead. He writes for television (mostly), film (sometimes), and comic books (not often enough). He lives in Toronto with his imaginary wife Zelda and their two children Zippy 15 and Google.

Not That Kind of Girl

By Trina Robbins

All eyes were glued to the blonde at the bar. Few dames ventured into a dive like Sam’s, a rotting wooden establishment on the Bangalla coast, and those few were nothing like this one. Despite the faded dress and down-at-the-heel shoes, the sailors, dock workers, and various low lifes and drunks could see that she was no two-bit floozy. A layer of cheap face paint did nothing to conceal the girl’s freshness and youth. A faint breeze from the ceiling fan lifted wisps of her bob into a halo around her face. She was a kid, no more than nineteen, trying to look tough.

Pierre, a one-eyed giant of a man, a ship’s cook when he was sober, sniffed and surreptitiously wiped his face with a napkin. She reminded him of the kid sister he had left behind in Marrakesh, whom he would probably never see again. Two tables away from Pierre sat Archie, a little man from the docks of Liverpool, a dreamy expression transforming his weasly face. He was small, but he had a way with a knife, and he longed to protect this innocent child. And perhaps she would be grateful . . .

Oblivious to the stares, she gazed into her whisky, swirling the liquid around in the glass. “See anything in the glass?” It was a man in sunglasses, seated on the stool next to hers.

“Huh?” She looked up, suddenly aware of her surroundings. “No. Nothing there. No past, no future. Nothing anywhere—not for me.”

“Care to talk about it?”

The girl frowned. “What’s with the sunglasses in this dark joint? Are you some kind of creep? Whatever you want from me, I’m not that kind of girl.” She raised her glass defiantly, downed the amber liquid in one gulp, and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a coughing fit.

The man with the sunglasses patted her on the back. “I can tell that you’re not that kind of girl. I thought it might make you feel better to talk. As for the sunglasses, light bothers me.” He signaled to the bartender, “Another drink for the lady.”

The bartender put another glass in front of her. This time she took a small sip and smiled her thanks. “I’m an entertainer—not what you think. A pretty good dancer, and I’ve even done some acting in Summer stock. But times have been tough in the good old USA since the market crashed. The Depression, you know. Thought I had a job dancing here in Bangalla, at a joint on the docks called Ruby’s. Spent all my savings for passage on a ship to get here, and then I found out what kind of place Ruby’s was and what they really wanted me to do—” She shuddered. “Like I said, I’m not that kind of girl. So here I am, stuck in Bangalla without a cent.”

The man in sunglasses reached into his pocket and withdrew a wallet.

“Oh no,” she objected, “I won’t take charity. I’m not that kind of girl, either. I’ll be okay. Something will come up.” She didn’t sound too convinced.

The man paid for the drinks and stood up. He smiled—a bright sympathetic smile. “In case you change your mind, ask around for me. The name’s Walker.”

“Sure, Walker,” she answered, “My name’s Daisy.”

She turned back to her drink as he walked towards the door. A tall, thin man with a scar on his cheek emerged from his table in the shadows and took the seat vacated by Kit.

“Excuse me, Fraulein—is it Daisy?” he asked. He had a faint accent. “My name is Von Krauss. I overheard you say you had done some acting? I happen to need an actress, and I can pay well.”

Daisy squinted at him suspiciously. “Is this on the up and up, mister? No strings?”

The man extracted an envelope from his pocket, and placed it on the counter in front of her. “No strings. Just acting. You will find 250 dollars in there, and another 250 when the job is finished.”

Daisy shrugged. “Five hundred bucks! What have I got to lose?” She raised her glass. “Here’s to you, buddy. Gee, maybe my luck is changing.”

Neither of them noticed that the man called Walker had not yet left the bar, but stood near the doorway, watching them.

The jungles of Bangalla are not for the faint of heart. Snakes make their home in the dense brush, while clouds of mosquitoes buzz above and tarantulas and leeches fall from the trees. To prevent bites, it is necessary to wear long sleeves and boots, even in temperatures that top the century mark.

As she slogged through the bushes, mud sucking at her boots and making each step an effort, Daisy found herself missing Philadelphia and wishing she had never left home. She wondered if being bored to tears every day of her life might not be preferable to melting away in this steaming green furnace. But there was no turning back; it had been hours since she left the tiny coastal settlement that passed for a town with her new employer, the two burly white men who worked for him, and a small crew of native guides and carriers. Daisy knew the guides would not accompany her back to the town, and she didn’t relish the idea of floundering through the brush on her own, with not a clue as to how to find her way back to what was laughably called civilization.

One of the carriers stumbled, almost dropping the package he was carrying. “Dumkopf, careful!” It was Von Krauss. “That is the goddess’s costume, we must not get mud on it.”

Daisy asked, for the third time, “And all I have to do is a little dance, and then recite the lines I memorized?” It seemed like an easy way to earn 500 bucks, maybe too easy. She wondered what he was after. Treasure of course, maybe gold? Diamonds?

“That is all you have to do,” said Von Krauss. “The Bandar pygmies who inhabit this territory are an ignorant and superstitious people, easily fooled. With the help of our special effects, they will believe you are a goddess, and they will obey you.”

Daisy was still uneasy. She felt a twinge of guilt about stealing from gullible natives. “It doesn’t seem right, I mean, talking them into giving us their—what did you call it?—Cave of Light. Can we really just take it away from them like that?”

“They are not using the cave—in fact, they are afraid to go near it. Some kind of stupid tribal taboo. And the interests I represent offered them good money for it, but they refused to sell, so this is the only way.”

Daisy slapped ineffectually at a mosquito. It must be diamonds, she decided, for him to go to all this trouble. Maybe if she did a good acting job, he’d give her one. She flashed her brightest smile. “Won’t you tell me what’s in this Cave of Light, that makes it so important?”

“You do not need to know that. Let us just say that the interests I represent will find the contents of that cave very helpful in their plans for the future, and—oof!” He bumped into the man in front of him. The guides had stopped, and were muttering among themselves.

Von Krauss gritted his teeth. “Verdammt. What now?”

Nbongi, the lead carrier, spoke halting English. “Bwana, us now in Bandar land. Men say them go no further. Them say this land protected by Ghost Who Walks, and that to look upon his face is to die.”

Von Krausss laughed. “The Phantom. A jungle legend, I have heard of him, this ghost in purple. There is no truth to his stories.”

But the carriers had already put down their packs and melted into the brush. One of Von Krauss’ two white assistants spoke up. “Want us to go after them, herr Von Krauss?”

Nbongi said, “Them know secret paths of jungle. You no find them.” He grinned, exposing sharpened teeth. “But them not wait to collect wages. I stay and lead you to Cave of Light—if you give me their money.”

“Done,” said Von Krauss. “Horst, Wolf, you will carry the packs. Now let us pick up the pace. We have only a few hours before sunset and we must be at the cave by nightfall.”

The two white men hoisted the heavy packs, grumbling, and the party, smaller now, moved on.

The drums began fifteen minutes after they resumed their trek. Despite the heat, Daisy shivered. Nbongi explained. “Drums send message to people of Bandar, as you ordered, tell them to assemble at midnight, at Cave of Light.”

Von Krauss grunted, “Good. And we will be ready for them when they arrive.”

Waiting in a hidden stone passage that led through solid rock to the cave entrance, Daisy had backstage jitters. She wished the drums would stop. They had been going for hours without a break, and the deep, rhythmic boomlay boomlay boom was driving her nuts. She sighed and tugged at the top of her brief costume. The golden brassiere had no straps to hold it up, and she felt like it could slip at any moment.

She cleared her throat and practiced her lines, doing her best Greta Garbo imitation, “Hear me, oh people of the Bandar. I am the goddess of the green light. The Cave of Light is evil, oh my people. You must dig up the shining green metal for the white men to take away with them, so that it can no longer work its evil upon you. I have spoken.” She hoped she could pull off an approximation of that little shimmy Garbo did in Mata Hari, without getting tangled up in the folds of her filmy sequined skirt.

Von Krauss’ men, Horst and Wolf, were busy at the mouth of the passageway, laying down the “special effects,” which were really cheap fireworks. When Daisy “magically” appeared in the mouth of the cave, her entrance would be followed by a light show dazzling enough to convince the natives that they were witnessing magic.

She peered around the corner at the green glow that pulsated from the back of the cave. Von Krauss walked up to stand beside her. “What makes it shine like that?” she asked him.

“That is the glow of the world’s rarest metal, Xenium.”

“So, Xenium is a precious metal, even more valuable than diamonds?”

Von Krauss snorted. “Hah! Diamonds are nothing—pretty pebbles! Xenium is power! That green glow you see is the element that makes it more volatile than uranium, the most volatile element known to man. And there is enough Xenium in this cave to build a weapon that could destroy an entire continent.”

Daisy stared at her employer with dawning horror. Destroy a continent? She had thought he was after treasure. But it was a bigger and more terrible game that they had come for.

“Wait a minute . . .” she began.

But Von Krauss wasn’t listening. He had forgotten about her presence and his eyes gleamed with the reflected light from the cave as he spoke to himself. “Ja, the natives who dig up the Xenium for us will sicken and die, but not until we are long gone. The bomb we build from the Xenium will destroy any nation that stands in our way, and then—the world will be ours. The Führer himself will give me a medal for this!”

The Führer? Of course! Daisy listened to the radio to hear her favorite singers, like Bing Crosby or the Boswell Sisters, and she never paid much attention to the news. Nevertheless, some information had penetrated her skull, and she remembered it now. The Nazis! That group of thugs that had taken over Germany under a goon named Adolph Hitler. He was the guy they called the Führer. They had marched into Austria, and were even threatening to invade Poland. And hadn’t the newscasters related what they were doing to Jews, beating them up, taking their property, smashing their windows? She cursed herself for not listening closer. But Germany had seemed like a different world, and of no interest to her. Now she realized that there was only one world, and it was a very small one.

Von Krauss noticed Daisy’s alarm. “Don’t worry, Leibchen, you will return with me to Germany. You are charming, a perfect Aryan beauty. I will install you in my Tyrolean lodge; you will be well taken care of.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed and she placed her hands on her hips defiantly. “Not a chance, buster, I quit. There’ll be no goddess to fool the natives into giving away their cave. You Nazi punks will be sending nobody to their deaths digging your precious Xenium. When I get back to the coast, I’m alerting the Jungle Patrol to your nasty little game. And that’s not all! Don’t you go calling me an ‘Aryan beauty’ because I’m not that kind of girl. Daisy is my stage name. My real name is Dora Levine!”

“A Jew!” Von Krauss spat out the word. Suddenly he was pointing a Luger at her head. “Very well, then. If we have no goddess, we will impress the natives another way, with a human sacrifice to the god of the cave. Horst! Wolf! Come here and tie this Jew bitch up.”

Cursing softly, Daisy twisted and strained against the ropes that bound her to a rough stone altar at the mouth of the Cave of Light. She was sorry now that she had not paid more attention to undoing ropes and knots when she’ll been a Campfire Girl. On top of that, the gold brassiere was coming undone, threatening to expose more than the Hays Office would have permitted, had this been a talkie instead of terrifying real life.

Horst and Wolf had rigged up curtains in front of the altar to hide Daisy from view, but she could see through the small space left where the two curtains didn’t quite meet. She lay on a natural stone stage, elevated above the natives that had gathered below. The small crowd, wrapped in leather cloaks against the night chill, looked none too happy. They milled about and muttered among themselves. Not much of an audience for my last act, she thought. And those damned drums were still going!

Behind the altar, hidden from view in the passage, Horst and Wolf conversed with Nbongi in low tones, audible only to Daisy. “I do not like this,” Horst said, “Why so few? You promised that the drums would bring out the entire Bandar tribe. And anyway, I thought the Bandar were pygmies.”

Nbongi said, “Them afraid to come. Ghost Who Walks has warned them to stay away. Him say glowing metal make them bad sick.”

Wolf snorted. “The Ghost Who Walks? The Phantom? Surely you do not believe in the legend, Nbongi? Have you ever seen this Phantom?”

Nbongi’s voice held a tinge of fear. “I no see him. To look upon his face is to die!”

“Huh!” Wolf again. “Soon the natives will see Von Krauss in his getup. They will think that he is the Ghost Who Walks. And they will obey him!”

Suddenly the drums stopped, and the curtains parted. At the sight of Daisy, tied to the altar, the natives muttered even more loudly. Then one of them shouted and pointed to the stage. Daisy managed to turn her head in the direction of the native’s finger and saw Von Krauss emerge from the hidden passageway onto the stage to stand in front of her.

If she had not been scared half to death, Daisy would have laughed. Von Krauss looked pretty silly in a purple hood and purple long johns. He had painted black around his eyes, to resemble a mask. Was the Phantom supposed to look like that? Von Krauss turned towards the muttering natives and raised his arms. In one hand he held a dagger by its golden handle. It glowed green in the reflected light from the cave. The natives fell silent.

“Hear me, O people of the Bandar,” he intoned, “I am he who cannot die. I am the Ghost Who Walks. I am the Phantom!” The muttering rose to a roar.

Von Krauss shouted, “Silence!” and the roar ceased immediately. He continued, “You have been told not to touch the shining metal, that it will make you sicken and die. That was true. But now I sacrifice this woman to the god of the cave. In return, he promises not to hurt you when you touch the shining metal. He orders you to dig out the metal for the white men, and let them take it all away, where it will trouble you no longer.”

Daisy heard Horst, in the tunnel, chuckle. “Damn smart of Von Krauss. Now the murder of that woman will be blamed on the Phantom, a man who does not even exist.”

Wolf said, “Get ready. As soon as he plunges the dagger into that woman’s heart, we light the fireworks, and the natives will be convinced they are seeing the god of the cave.”

With horrified fascination, Daisy gazed up as Von Krauss lifted the dagger high above his head and brought it down . . .

And a shot rang out. Von Krauss screamed and fell to his knees. He dropped the dagger, and clutched at his bleeding hand. At the same time, an enormous white horse leaped up onto the stage. On the horse’s back sat an apparition in purple, a smoking gun in his hand. In one fluid motion he jumped off the horse, scooped the dagger from the ground and sliced off Daisy’s ropes. Neither of them paid attention to Von Krauss, who crawled away.

Suddenly, a change took place among the natives below the stage. They threw off their cloaks and stood, rifles at the ready, garbed in the green and khaki uniform of the Jungle Patrol. At the same time, the real pygmy Bandar tribe emerged from the bush, poison-tipped arrows in their quivers.

Daisy looked up at her mysterious savior and saw Horst over the man’s shoulder, aiming a rifle at his back. “Behind you,” she gasped. The man in purple whirled and fired.

“Never point a gun at the Phantom,” he muttered through gritted teeth, as Horst clutched his hand and staggered back into the shelter of the tunnel, leaving his weapon a twisted ruin on the ground. He turned back to Daisy. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Before she could answer, he jumped off the stage, joining the raging battle between the Jungle Patrol and Von Krauss’ henchmen. Daisy hid behind the altar and watched as Horst and Wolf emptied their weapons at the lawmen, who had taken cover behind surrounding rocks. Finally, ammunition gone and seeing no way out, the two men emerged from the tunnel with their hands in the air.

Behind them came Nbongi, grinning at the man in purple. To Daisy’s amazement, the two embraced like brothers.“Did I do well, Ghost Who Walks?” asked Nbongi.

“A good job, old friend,” answered the other. “Since the Bandar refused to sell the Cave of Light to Germany, we’ve known they would try to take it by force or trickery, and we’ve been prepared for this. The Nazis won’t be using our Xenium for their attempts at world domination.”

Nbongi nodded. “Blinded by their belief in their own supremacy and in the ‘natives’ inferiority, it was easy to lead them into this trap. Who is the gullible one now?”

Nbongi spoke perfect English!

The Phantom embraced his friend once more, then he turned away and leaped back onto the stone stage, he landed at Daisy’s side, where she sat on the altar, rubbing some feeling back into her numb wrists. “Let me help you,” he said. He took both her hands in his own and started massaging them.

Daisy stared up at him in awe. He was magnificent! Powerful muscles rippled beneath the purple costume that fit him like a second skin, and he towered above her at well over six feet. He had a strong, square jaw and the eyes that gazed at her through the eyeholes of his mask reflected honesty and compassion. She murmured, “You’re the Phantom? Are you real? They said you were just a legend.”

Gently, the Phantom lifted her to her feet, and administered a brotherly kiss on her cheek. Daisy’s face flamed, and she found herself whistfully wishing he had kissed her lips instead. “Was that real enough?” he asked her.

Then suddenly, before she had time to catch her breath, he pushed her roughly down onto the rocky ground. It happened so quickly and Daisy was so dazed that she didn’t understand what was happening until she heard the report of the gun and the scream of the bullet as it passed, missing her by inches.

“Verdammte Juden!” It was Von Krauss, who had somehow managed to sneak around the Jungle Patrol and now stood behind the lawmen and their prisoners, facing the stage, the Luger held in both trembling hands. “Die! Die for the glory of the Fatherland!” He fired the weapon at the same time that the Phantom pulled Daisy back behind the altar. Von Krauss’ wounded hand shook badly and the shot went wild, hitting something at the mouth of the passageway.

The Phantom peered into the passage. “Fireworks!” he exclaimed. “You fool, your bullet has set off the fireworks. In the time it takes one spark to reach the Xenium at the back of the cave, this whole thing will blow sky high. Run!”

Von Krauss and the lawmen raced for the bush. With lightning speed, the Phantom lifted Daisy, and carrying her as easily as if she were a child, he jumped off the stage. He managed to get them both behind a large rock, and threw her to the ground, covering her with his own body. An explosion, sounding as if the earth itself was breaking apart, deafened her.

They lay like that for what seemed to Daisy to be an eternity. The Phantom was so still that she feared he might be dead. Then he rolled off her and she sat up. He brushed dirt and debris from his shoulders and helped Daisy to her feet. He said something that she couldn’t hear. Her deafness was replaced by a terrible ringing in her ears.

She started to shout, “I can’t hear you!” Then she stopped and simply stared. The Cave of Light was completely gone! Where it had stood was now a gigantic steaming crater in the earth.

Daisy’s hearing started to return. The men of the Jungle Patrol were emerging cautiously from their shelters in the bush, dragging their prisoners with them. A lawman pointed to something in the underbrush and cried out, “Over here!”

The Phantom raced over to where the patrolman stood, and Daisy followed. She stopped, sickened by the sight of Von Krauss lying dead. A huge glowing rock from the cave had been thrown free in the explosion and had landed directly on the Nazi. His face was crushed into a bloody pulp, and she knew it was he only because of the ridiculous imitation Phantom costume he wore. She gagged, and turned away.

Seated behind the Phantom on his magnificent horse, Daisy clung to the man’s broad back as his gleaming steed sped through the jungle. Wet leaves brushed at her face, and his body was warm and solid. She was disappointed when they reached the outskirts of Bangalla faster than she would have liked.

He dismounted and helped her down. “This is as far as I go,” he said.

She looked away, not wanting him to see the wetness on her cheeks, and stroked Hero’s soft mane. “Then I guess it’s over. And the money Von Krauss gave me, blown to bits in the explosion, so I’m left with what I started with—a big fat zero.”

The Phantom produced an envelope from his saddlebag. “Not quite. There’s enough money in here—not a lot, but enough—to buy you some decent clothing, and pay for your hotel, with some left over. You’ll also find two tickets in the envelope; one is for a ship that sails for New York City tomorrow, the other is for a train that will take you from New York to Philadelphia.”

She started to protest, “But . . .”

He smiled, “I know. You don’t take charity, because you’re not that kind of girl. But this is a reward from the Jungle Patrol for your help in routing those Nazis.”

That smile. Suddenly Daisy knew. She took the envelope. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say . . .”

“Your thanks is enough. And I thank you. You saved my life by warning me. You were very brave.”

And before she could say another word, he was back in the saddle and riding off. He turned once. Hero reared up on his hind legs and the Phantom raised an arm in farewell. “Goodbye,” he called, and was gone.

Daisy waved and called back, “Goodbye!” In a lower voice she added, “Goodbye, Walker.”

The End

TRINA ROBBINS is a respected historian and writer who has been writing graphic novels, comics and books for over thirty years. Her subjects have ranged from Wonder Woman and the Powerpuff Girls to her own teenage superheroine, GoGirl!, and from women cartoonists and superheroines to women who kill. She has written over a dozen educational graphic novels for three different publishers, provided English language rewrites for shojo manga graphic novels, and lectured on comics and graphic novels throughout the United States and Europe. She lives in San Francisco, in a mouldering 102 year old house with her cats, shoes, and books.

Lessons Learned

By Richard Dean Starr

In the jungle of Bangalla, rain sometimes falls for a week at a time, a deluge which sheets down from skies as black and pitiless as a pirate’s heart. The Phantom sometimes thought that the namesake of his faithful wolf, Devil, might have emerged from the gates of Hell on just such a night, surrounded by the fire and fury of a particularly violent Atlantic Storm.

Although the Phantom was used to the sudden changes in the weather which were a part of life in Bangalla, even he had to admit that the weather in southern California, where he now found himself, could not have been more different from that of his homeland.

Overhead, stars as sharp and precise as diamonds cast bright, silvery light across the decrepit remains of the old abandoned marine park. Although it was technically winter in Los Angeles, the temperature was a balmy seventy-four degrees; had a light breeze not been blowing in from the ocean, it might have been warmer still.

As he crouched beside the ruins of a rusted carousel still painted with the flaking remnants of a fish theme, he cocked his head and listened. Because his hearing was remarkably acute, he was able to filter out the sounds of the ocean and the distant rumble of automobiles traversing the cliffside road beside the park.

Nothing.

There was no indication that the man he sought, or the boy who accompanied him, was anywhere nearby. Yet he knew better, for he had tracked them there just hours before. The Phantom would find them, and soon. It was only a matter of time.

In an uncharacteristically poetic moment of reflection, he imagined that the laughter of children who had once traversed the park could still be heard, echoing in the sounds of the sea crashing against the cliffs a hundred feet below.

Then he shook his head, allowing himself the barest hint of a smile. He was not a man prone to much philosophical self-reflection, especially while he was working. His father had been much different, a thoughtful man who studied as much philosophy as he did history and other subjects. Although he himself was a voracious reader, the current Phantom considered such pursuits of only mild value in the pursuit of evil.

Shifting his position, he took a deep breath.

The air, scented with jasmine and crisp with the salt scent of the Pacific, seemed free of the pollution which blanketed the Los Angeles basin. The Phantom knew this was an illusion, however; he had seen the foul yellow haze for himself when his private jet touched down at the Van Nuys airport the previous day.

Off to his right the thin, hollow scrape of shifting bricks drew his attention. The sound had come from inside the ruins of what looked like an old restaurant. He drew one of his two .45 caliber pistols and moved forward a couple of feet, still crouching to avoid being seen. He allowed himself a slight grin. His prey had finally revealed himself, as prey tended to do when one was patient enough.

Just then, he heard a loud and very distinct click from the carousel behind him. It was a sound he knew well:

The hammer of a gun being pulled back.

The Phantom turned on his heel, careful to keep his own weapon in clear sight and his finger away from the trigger. When he saw who it was standing beside the center ring of the old ride, his grin faded as quickly as it had come. A sad and terrible weight seemed to settle on his chest.

“Christopher,” The Phantom said, his voice nearly catching in his throat. “What are you doing, son?”

The boy raised the gun higher and took careful aim along the barrel. The Phantom knew the look in his son’s eyes, because it was the same one that often filled his own in similar situations:

Determination. And there was something else . . .

Before the Phantom could consider it further, he heard another voice issue from within the collapsed walls of the restaurant. “Finally, the father is destroyed by the son!”

Startled, The Phantom turned his head and saw the man he had tracked across half a world step out from the concealing shadows. Bathed in the moon’s argent light, the man’s grinning face seemed as white as a skull.

“Do it now, son,” the man urged the boy. “Kill him now and take your place in the world, this time as you have chosen it!”

Christopher hesitated. Then the boy’s mouth tightened, and before The Phantom could speak again, gunfire shattered the night.

It had begun in Bangalla a week before, on a cold and wet December day when Kit Walker sat down with his son to tell him the tale of The Ghost Who Walks.

Outside their spacious home, the storm-tossed sky was gray as wind-swept ash. Thunder and lightning lashed the clouds, each strike brightening the room for a millisecond, overwhelming the faint light cast by the elegant brass banker’s lamp on Kit’s hand-carved desk.

Christopher, home for the holiday break, had not taken the truth about his father well. This had surprised Kit immensely. When Kit had learned the history of The Phantom from his own father, he remembered being immeasurably excited. And why not? In the space of a few moments, his future had gone from one of potential drudgery and boredom to one filled with tremendous excitement and adventure, a comic book come to life.

His son’s negative reaction, however, caught him utterly unprepared. Christopher took one look at the legendary costume and the imposing black mask and shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t want to do it,” he said firmly. “And you can’t make me.”

Then he stood up from the leather couch and stalked out of Kit’s study, slamming the door behind him with uncharacteristic anger. Stunned into silence, Kit could only sit there with his mouth hanging open in astonishment. Temporarily forgotten, the famous purple costume lay draped over his knee like a wilted flower.

Later that night, lying in bed beside Diana with his hands clasped behind his head, he had expressed his confusion and hurt to his beloved wife. Her response had been equally baffling.

“Come now, Kit,” she said. “What were you expecting? He’s in sixth grade. His girlfriend just moved back to the United States and—”

“He has a girlfriend?” Kit interrupted, amazed. “He’s only twelve! Is that normal?” Then he sat up suddenly, horrified. “And what about Heloise? Does that mean she has a boyfriend?”

Although the lightning and thunder were no longer rending the night, a fierce wind had blown a heavy rain in from the sea. Kit could hear it battering the wooden shutters over their bedroom window, each gust like a hundred fingers tapping in unison against the wood.

“Of course it’s normal for Christopher to have a girlfriend,” Diana replied patiently, languidly turning the page of the book she was reading, a novel called On Stronger Tides. The cover featured a colorful painting of a pirate’s skeleton, a theme Kit didn’t particularly care for, even if the image itself was quite striking.

“And you can relax,” Diana continued. “Heloise won’t start dating for at least another year. Besides, didn’t you have a girlfriend in middle school?”

Kit tried to remember if he’d had a girlfriend in sixth grade. If memory served, he’d been painfully shy and kept mostly to himself at that age. Although he had excelled in athletics, as his own son did now, he had not socialized much with his fellow students outside of equestrian and outdoor training, athletic practice, or school games. Most of his free time had been spent reading comic books and novels or playing the guitar. The rest of it had been spent surfing, usually alone.

“Well, I—” Kit began, then frowned. “—um, no, I guess I didn’t.”

As he said this, Kit realized that he knew virtually nothing about his son’s activities outside the athletic field. Did he read and collect comic books, as Kit had in his youth? Did he enjoy movies? Just what did his son do in his spare time? Other than, apparently, pick up girls?

He had vowed to ask his son that question the very next day. But he had never gotten the opportunity.

Astonishingly, sometime in the night, Christopher had run away.

Although he was not a philosophical man, all things considered, the Phantom still found that the words of the famous Roman statesman, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, seemed oddly applicable to the events of his own life.

In fact, it sometimes seemed that Seneca could have written some of his most famous words specifically with the Walker family in mind—cryptic, yet pointed messages from an ancient time designed to inspire . . . or to mock.

Now, standing alone in his library buried deep within the labyrinth of Skull Cave, the Phantom read Seneca’s words once more:

“No one can wear a mask for very long.”

The quote was clearly metaphorical, but the Phantom knew Seneca could never have imagined the unbroken line of Phantoms across nearly four centuries—or just how long a mask truly could be worn.

Turning a page, he grimaced. The next snippet of the old Roman’s prose seemed far more appropriate to the events of the past twenty-four hours:

“The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.”

That morning, in a rare moment of hubris, the Phantom had allowed himself to believe that his son would be far easier to locate than any criminal he had ever tracked.

He had assumed that the boy would be quickly located, either at the train station trying to gain passage to one of the larger port cities, or at the airport engaged in a futile attempt to board a flight bound for the United States.

To his shock and dismay, the boy was not in either place. Or anywhere else, as it turned out.

Not that he would personally know; in his pride, he had dispatched the Jungle Patrol to locate his missing son, arrogantly assuming that such a matter would prove simple to resolve and that there was no need for concern. In truth, he had believed his son would be delivered home before breakfast was served.

Now, precious hours had slipped away while his associates searched for the boy in all the wrong places.

He inhaled sharply and slammed the book shut. For the first time, the Phantom found himself contemplating the permanent loss of his only son.

Slipping the book back onto the shelf, he was suddenly rocked by the realization that such an event would be tantamount to hell on Earth for both he and Diana—the birthday of an eternity which he dared not contemplate.

“Sir?”

The Phantom looked up and saw Guran standing in the doorway. Although a member of the pygmy tribe like his father and grandfather before him, Guran, unlike them, was not chief. Nor had he ever had any ambition to be. However, like his ancestral namesakes, he was perhaps the best friend of Kit Walker—and by extension, the Phantom.

“Yes, Guran?”

“I believe we’ve located what you seek,” Guran said calmly.

“Is that so,” the Phantom said, his eyes narrowing. “Lead on then, my friend.”

The route to the throne room, although circuitous, took only a few moments for the two men to navigate. When they entered the vast chamber, the Phantom paused to study the bound man who knelt before the Skull Throne, his slumped and blindfolded form lit from above by a lone ray of light emanating from a concealed opening in the cave roof.

As the Phantom moved farther into the cave, Guran stepped back, melting into the shadows to allow his friend to work without distraction.

Hearing the sounds of their footsteps on the rock, the man straightened up, twisting his head around wildly. “Where am I?” he cried out. “Who’s there? Say something!”

Stepping closer to the prisoner, the Phantom leaned down so his mouth was just inches from the man’s right ear. “You are in my domain,” he whispered “And I am the one you know as ‘The Ghost Who Walks’.”

At the sound of these words, the man let out a frightened bleat and fell over onto his side, kicking and scrambling in a futile attempt to free himself from the expertly knotted ropes which bound him.

Reaching down, the Phantom ripped away the man’s blindfold in a single fluid movement, bunching it into his fist as he stepped up to take his seat on the Skull Throne.

Lying on the floor, the man stared up at him with terror-filled eyes. The Phantom glared down at his prisoner, kneading the blindfold between his fingers as he pondered his next course of action.

Finally, he spoke.

“I’m seeking a boy,” he said finally. “He is young, just twelve years old. I understand you have information concerning his whereabouts?”

The man shook his head mutely and began to shake in fear.

Exhaling softly, the Phantom controlled his impatience. “You were overhead last night in a bar, bragging about receiving a large payment to smuggle the boy aboard a ship leaving the harbor this morning. Is this true?”

Before the man could shake his head again, the Phantom held up his hand in warning.

“Before you answer,” he said, “consider this: if you don’t tell me what I wish to know, you will never leave this place. Do you understand?”

The man began to shake harder and tears ran from his eyes, streaking the fine patina of dust and dirt on his face. The Phantom leaned forward on the throne.

“Answer now and truthfully,” he said menacingly, “or I promise that you will suffer the fate of all those who have opposed me.”

To his astonishment, rather than answering, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, unconscious, against the cave floor.

Leaning back, the Phantom tossed the blindfold to the ground. Guran came silently out of the shadows and picked it up, tucking it away in one of his pockets. Both men looked at the silent prisoner for a few moments before the Phantom spoke.

“Well,” he said finally, “it’s been a while since that’s happened.”

Guran shrugged. “When you talk that way, sir, I think you scare me as much as you scare them, although probably not for the same reasons.”

“It goes with the costume, my friend,” the Phantom said. “You try wearing this thing and then getting through to a lunkhead like that without some drama!”

“Your uniform would be a poor fit, sir,” Guran said mildly, “in more ways than one. And besides, purple is not my color.” He knelt down beside the prisoner and carefully lifted one eyelid, studying the man’s pupil with a clinical eye. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “I don’t believe you managed to put him to sleep merely by speaking, although I often find myself battling that very temptation during our conversations.”

“I’ll tell you what,” the Phantom said. “While I’d love to engage in some verbal sparring with you, Guran, you know we don’t have time. I need whatever information he has, and I need it now. You’re aware of what’s at stake, my friend.”

Guran nodded. “Indeed,” he said, “but this is more complicated that it appears.” He let the man’s eyelid go and stood up. “There is more here than meets the eye, if you’ll pardon the pun, sir.”

“Tell me,” the Phantom said seriously.

And Guran did.

It had been more than ten years since the last time Kit Walker had set foot in Los Angeles. The vast city, spread across more than four-thousand square miles, was not only as big and as crowded as he remembered it, but it seemed to have grown impossibly larger in the intervening years. Now, the region’s eighty-eight cities and one-hundred and forty unincorporated areas housed more than ten million people, something which could have presented an almost insurmountable obstacle to finding a lone twelve year-old boy.

Fortunately, through the concentrated efforts of Guran and his people, Kit Walker had discovered that finding his son would be far easier than he had anticipated.

As it turned out, the boy was not alone.

Now, seated in the pressurized cabin of a borrowed Gulfstream IV jet circling the city, Kit opened a folder on the small table in front of him. He studied over the first of several black and white photographs clipped to the inside cover. The face which stared back at him was one he thought he would never see again as long as he lived.

“Ivan Steranko,” Kit murmured. “I thought you were dead, and good riddance.”

Behind him, the door which separated the small sleeping chamber from the rest of the cabin opened. Diana made her way forward, slipping into the luxurious leather chair across from him. Glancing down at the open folder, she grimaced.

“Looking at that again?” she said. Her distaste for the man in the photo was clear.

“The folder?” Kit said. “Yes, I’m just checking to see if I’ve missed anything. I can’t afford to take any chances this time.”

“When I said ‘that’, I wasn’t referring to the folder,” Diana replied dryly.

Kit allowed a brief smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I was just thinking aloud. Did you hear back from Heloise’s school?”

“Yes, she’s in protective custody until we return to Bangalla.”

Kit let out a deep sigh. “Excellent. She’s safe, and that’s one less thing we have to worry about.” He glanced down at the paper. “You know, I had every reason to believe Steranko was dead; I’m still having trouble believing that he isn’t.”

“There is the possibility someone else could be using Steranko’s name to conceal their own identity,” Diana said.

“Maybe,” Kit acknowledged. “But somehow, I don’t think so. Others have discovered the true identity of the Phantom over the centuries, but Steranko is the only criminal of my generation who discovered the connection.”

“And didn’t share that knowledge with anyone else,” Diana added.

“Exactly. Which is what worries me.”

Kit picked up a half-empty bottle of Perrier from the cup holder built into the seat’s armrest. As he took a drink of the rapidly warming liquid, he considered the events which would most likely take place in the next few hours.

Although Steranko had created several significant obstacles to prevent Kit from tracking his son, they had not been insurmountable ones. In fact, as Guran and the rest of the Phantom’s team dug deeper through the maze of deception created by the former Russian intelligence officer turned rogue criminal, the mystery of his involvement in Christopher’s disappearance only deepened—along with his real motivation.

As much as Kit hated to admit it, there were still several unanswered questions and two less than desirable outcomes looming on the horizon: either Steranko had already killed Christopher. Or he had something much more sinister in mind for both of them.

Either way, Kit was going to have to proceed with extraordinary caution if he expected to extricate his family from Steranko’s clutches.

His wife met his eyes evenly across the table. Her gaze was strong, her jaw set with determination. Diana was not only an extraordinarily beauty with an intellect to match, she was also one of the bravest women Kit had ever known. At that moment, he realized that this was a fact as irrefutable as the setting of the sun or the inevitability of life . . . or death.

“You know what you have to do when we land,” Kit said. “If Guran is right, everything we do must be perfectly timed, or we could lose Christopher.”

Diana shook her head. “We won’t fail, Kit. More importantly, you won’t fail. You never have.”

Kit broke their gaze and stared out of the window as the city grew larger beneath them.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” he said. “For all of our sakes.”

As night fell across the City of Angels, the Phantom made his way along the edge of a high, grass-covered promontory suspended above the city of San Pedro and the Port of Los Angeles below. The port, home to the largest shipping center on the west coast of the United States, was ablaze with a myriad of lights from the offices and ships and loading cranes. Looking at it from such a high vantage point made it seem like a city within a city, a glittering sprawl of light stopped only by the abrupt and stygian darkness of the Pacific Ocean.

At the edge of the cliff, the Phantom saw the appointed meeting place which the Jungle Patrol had arranged—a massive Korean bell pavilion. It had been a gift to the United States from Korea in 1976, to commemorate the bicentennial of U.S. independence, among other things. But to him it appeared forlorn, a lone sentinel left behind to stand watch over a foreign land, awaiting a passage home which would never come.

Climbing up the grassy hill, he paused to study his surroundings. It was both odd and strangely appropriate that the pavilion—dubbed The Freedom Bell by the Korean government—had been built atop an abandoned anti-submarine gun emplacement from World War Two.

As he approached the pavilion, he noticed the shapes of three men standing in the darker shadows of the bell. One was leaning on the gong, which was held at bay by a massive chain. The other was standing with his arms crossed, looking impatient. Both men wore matching trench coats to ward off the ocean breeze. The third man stood between them, hands shackled at the waist, looking far more forlorn than the Phantom’s metaphorical vision of the pavilion ever could.

“Gentleman,” the Phantom said, stopping by the corner of the pavilion. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

The man leaning on the gong grunted. “Wasn’t our call. I’d rather be home with the wife, watching TV.”

“Yeah, me, too,” the second man said. “But I’ve got a kid about the same age as this Walker guy’s. Don’t matter to me who he is, no parent should have to go through something like this.”

The first man shrugged, but the Phantom chose to take that as acquiescence. He nodded toward their prisoner. “Did he tell you what I needed to know?”

“Only because we got to him before Steranko. Two agents were taking him out of his house when the place went up like a roman candle. Both of the agents are in the hospital and one might not make it.”

As if to emphasize his anger at this potential development, the first man reached over and whacked the prisoner in the back of the head. The man flinched and shot the agent a look at would have curdled milk.

“There’s no need to do that,” the Phantom said. He stepped toward the man and stared into his eyes. “You were Steranko’s driver when he arrived here,” he said. “Tell me everything that you told them. I haven’t got any more time to waste. If you aren’t entirely truthful, I’ll let these two gentlemen throw you off this cliff, and I may just help.”

Staring into the masked gaze of the Phantom, the man suddenly knew that the reputation of the Ghost Who Walks had been earned. And although he did not fully understand the quiet rage he saw reflected in those eyes, had he known the truth, then he would have instantly recognized the fury of a parent fearing for his child.

Haltingly at first, the man began to talk. And when he was done, the Phantom thanked the two FBI agents. Then he was gone, a ghost in the night, drifting into the shadows toward an unknown fate. The last thing the Phantom saw from atop the cliff was a lone freighter steaming toward the open ocean, her lights shining like a solitary beacon of hope in the darkness.

Following the man’s instructions had been simple. Almost too simple. It now appeared that guiding the Phantom to the abandoned marine park had been an elaborate part of the plan all along. Undoubtedly, it had given Steranko great pleasure to torture Kit and Diana with the knowledge that every moment spent trying to locate their missing son would be agony for them—each day like a thousand deaths, each hour its own lifetime.

When he heard the gunshots, the Phantom expected to feel the impact of the slugs tearing into this body. But he did not. Yet even as the realization hit home, that it would not have been as terrible a fate as seeing the vacant eyes of his son staring at him from behind the barrel, controlled by the will of another and forced to silently witness the murder of his father by his own hand.

When no bullets hit him, the Phantom turned to see Steranko stagger away from the ruins of the restaurant. His eyes were wide with surprise and his mouth was open in a soundless cry. Then he fell facedown onto the debris-covered ground, legs splayed out awkwardly behind him as a pool of blood began to spread out slowly from beneath his body.

The Phantom stared at the barrel of Christopher’s gun, feeling his heart thudding violently in his chest. No smoke curled from the barrel and there had been no tell-tale sound of an expelled cartridge hitting the ground. The boy was staring toward Steranko’s fallen body, but he had yet to remove his finger from the trigger.

To Kit’s astonishment, Diana rose from behind a nearby pile of rubble, the smoking barrel of a Remington rifle cradled in the crook of her right arm.

The Phantom allowed himself a long and slow exhalation of relief. Then, moving with the fluid grace for which he was known, he vaulted onto the slanted deck of the old carousel and gently took the gun from his son’s hands.

As he did so, the boy’s arms started to shake and tears began to flow freely from his eyes. Taking the boy in his arms, Kit pulled back his mask and hugged him fiercely. “It’s okay, son,” he said softly. “Everything is okay.”

The boy sobbed quietly into his father’s shoulder. Then Kit heard Diana climb onto the carousel beside them. She crouched down beside them and he felt his throat tighten with emotion as her arms encircled them both.

“Guran was right,” Kit said softly. “Christopher was hypnotized by Steranko, just like the rest of his operatives. You could see it in all of their eyes.”

“I never would have imagined he would order Christopher to kill you,” Diana said, shuddering. “What a horrible man.”

The three of them stayed that way for a while, taking comfort in each other. For how long, Kit couldn’t have said. It was enough that they were a family, still alive and whole and safe.

After a few moments, Christopher’s sobs began to die away. Pushing back slightly from his father, he looked at Kit and then wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I could have shot you,” he said hoarsely. “I almost did. I’m so sorry.”

Kit nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “But what’s important is that you didn’t. You were fighting him, weren’t you? I saw it in your eyes.”

Christopher nodded mutely.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you didn’t shoot me,” Kit said, trying for a bit of levity but failing miserably. He just wasn’t feeling particularly funny at the moment, he realized. Kit glanced at his wife and she nodded, ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry I tried to force my life onto you, Christopher,” Kit said carefully. “My father did it with me and I assumed I would handle it the same way. Now I realize times have changed and it wasn’t right for me to presume your future for you. No parent should ever do that.”

“Well I’m not sorry,” Christopher said, wiping away his tears.“Not now. Not after this. I want to learn, father; I want to be the next Phantom. I don’t want something like this to ever happen to anyone else!”

Releasing his family, Kit stood and pulled the mask back over his head. There would be plenty of time for discussions of Christopher’s future as the Phantom in the days and weeks to come.

“The police will be here soon. Diana?”

She nodded. “I called them as soon as I heard from you. I’m lucky I got here when I did. If Christopher had been unable to resist him for a moment more . . .”

The Phantom grinned and clapped his son on the shoulder. “He would have,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

But on some level, he wondered. Steranko’s powers of mental control were formidable—and unexpected. Guran had instructed Diana that an extraordinarily loud noise would be most likely to break any trance placed by Steranko. And while her choice to shoot Steranko had broken Christopher’s trance and taken Steranko down, there had still been a great deal of supposition and luck involved. Things could have very easily turned out differently. The Phantom was very curious to know where his nemesis had acquired such potent abilities, but those were answers which only Steranko could supply.

“Considering you’re a crack shot and a skilled tracker, I’ll assume you didn’t kill him?” he asked Diana.

“I promise, I only considered it for a moment,” she said. “But I decided that seeing him in prison for the rest of his life would be far more satisfying than taking a human life. In this case, I prefer to think of it as a temporary character flaw.”

As they climbed down from the carousel, the Phantom said, “Christopher, with all good luck it will be years before you wear this costume. I will admit I’ve been far too selfish in years past and I should have talked to you more and learned what’s important in your life. I apologize for that, son.”

“It’s all right,” Christopher said. “I’m just glad to be going home again.”

“Kit?”

The Phantom heard the note of alarm in Diana’s voice and turned quickly, prepared for the worst. Diana stood alone, pointing to the spot where Steranko had fallen.

To his astonishment, he saw that the body was gone.

He considered pursuing the injured criminal, but then thought better of it. The police would be arriving any minute. Given the amount of blood that Steranko had lost, it was only a matter of time before they found him somewhere in the old park, dead or dying from blood loss.

Now was the time to get his family to safety. And to ponder the lessons he had learned about himself and about what he valued most in the world.

If, by some miracle, Steranko managed to escape, there would be other opportunities to confront him. The Phantom was sure of this, for Steranko would never allow the ones who had wounded him and foiled his plans to go unpunished.

As for Christopher, the boy’s next few years would be filled with his own lessons—about becoming the next Phantom, and about life. The boy had learned a few of those lessons in the past two days, he knew, but perhaps the most important lesson of all was one they had all learned—about the value of family and friends . . . and of love.

As the three of them hurried out of the abandoned theme park together, The Phantom thought that perhaps this was the most valuable lesson of all.

The End

RICHARD DEAN STARR has published more than one-hundred articles, columns, and stories in magazines and newspaper including Starlog, Science Fiction Chronicle, and the Tribune-Georgian, just to name a few. His fiction has appeared in Bellboy: Odder Jobs, Kolchak: The Night Stalker Chronicles, Kolchak: The Night Stalker Casebook, and Tales of Zorro, as well as in the special Stephen King Halloween issue of Cemetery Dance magazine in 2005. He is also the author of the graphic novel Wyatt Earp: The Justice Riders, and editor of both Tales of Zorro and Sex, Lies and Private Eyes (with Joe Gentile). Starr is an active member of the HWA (Horror Writers Association) and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers (IAMTW) and a former member of the SFWA and the Georgia Press Association. He currently resides in Los Angeles, where he is a full-time copywriter and works on the occasional feature film. His official websites can be found at www.RichardDeanStarr.com and www.ExpertCopywriter.com.

Reflection of the Ghost

By Dan Wickline

The sun began to rise above the horizon, as the half-empty plane touched down on Bangalla’s landing strip. The passengers were eager to disembark from the tiny confines of the jet. The ride had been bumpy; turbulence from a thunderstorm had kicked the plane around most of the flight, only now the passengers were beginning to relax. But then, without any warning, the craft suddenly jerked to a stop. The confused passengers looked around for answers. A woman in the third row shrieked loudly and pointed out the window.

“We’ve landed in the middle of a war!” The woman cried out loud enough that even the pilots could hear her through the heavy cockpit door.

The stunned passengers moved towards the windows on the woman’s side of the plane, all wanting to get a glimpse of the ruckus. A truck with a covered bed and a blown out front tire had stopped on the tarmac and a handful of men dressed as mechanics carrying semi-automatic rifles stood behind it for cover. About thirty feet away two jeeps from the Jungle Patrol had stopped and the officers were using their own vehicles to shield them. The mechanics fired freely, but the officers were hesitant to return fire in fear of hitting the truck. The precious cargo the truck carried were children ranging from the age of eight to fourteen, twenty in all, bound and gagged to prevent them from fleeing. One of the mechanics got in a perfect shot, hitting the Jungle Patrol’s jeep in the gas tank. The jeep exploded, shooting flames and smoke into the air. The concussion flipped the second jeep completely over, sending the officers running for cover.

Inside the plane, the man in 2C retrieved his hat and coat from the overhead compartment. He continued to wear the sunglasses that he had on the entire flight. The man made his way through the gawking passengers towards the front exit. A tall, blond stewardess stepped in front of him. Her face looked young, but her eyes showed just how often she had dealt with unruly passengers. The sternness of her jaw indicated that she won most of those confrontations.

“Please return to your seat, sir.” The stewardess made it sound like a friendly order, like a drill sergeant sending you on a twenty-mile run with a smile on his face.

“I have to get out there.” The man said, trying to move around the uniformed obstacle. His tall, muscular frame was already cramped in the narrow aisle, but sliding past the stewardess was nearly impossible.

“We have been instructed to sit tight while the Jungle Patrol deals with the situation. No one is allowed to leave the plane until we get clearance.” The stewardess turned slightly, positioning herself directly into the man’s path.

“I understand you have your orders, but I need . . .” Before the man could finish his sentence, another passenger pointed towards the billowing smoke.

“Did you see that? Was that a guy on a horse?” Questioned the heavy-set man in 5A.

“I can barely see anything through all the smoke.” The elderly woman from 8C replied.

“I thought I saw a flash of purple.” The lanky gentleman from 7B noted.

What they only got a quick glimpse of was a man dressed in all purple and riding a white horse. The rider leapt over the Jungle Patrol’s jeeps and into the middle of the battle. He pulled out a pair of .45 pistols and with amazing accuracy fired two shots. The first shot hit one of the mechanics in the back of the hand. The second buried itself in the rifle just above the clip, rendering the weapon useless. The rider then turned and fired twice more, one bullet each into the leg and shoulder of another of the gunmen. In the blink of an eye two of the five mechanics were out of the fight.

The Phantom then holstered his pistols, rose up on the back of his white stallion and leapt towards another gunman. Bullets streaked past the masked man as he brought a powerful right punch to the side of the gunman’s face. A punch so strong the man was rendered unconscious and left with the indentation of a skull on his cheek from a ring on the striking fist. The Phantom landed as gently as a great cat, turning his body while retrieving the pistol from his right hip. A single shot sizzled through the air and buried itself in the rifle barrel of the fourth gunman as he turned to fire. The newly shot rifle round finding the jammed barrel impassable and backfired into the gunman’s face.

The masked man turned at the sounds of a click. The fifth gunman stood behind him with an empty weapon. The purple hero returned his pistol to his holster then motioned for the criminal to attack. The mechanic was a few inches taller than the masked man and built like a heavyweight champ. From his belt he pulled out a long hunting knife with a jagged back edge. With his right hand, he grasped the blade by the handle with the tip pointing down. He raced forward, bringing the knife in a stabbing motion towards the Phantom’s chest. The masked man crossed his hands high up in front of him, catching the criminal’s wrists between his own. But the mechanic countered by driving his free left fist into the Phantom’s midsection. As the hero staggered, the gunman followed up with a roundhouse kick to the jaw that sent the masked man spinning to his knees. The mechanic came up to administer a killing blow, but the purple hero drove an elbow into the man’s groin. The knife went flying as the Phantom brought his mighty right fist up, connecting just under the criminal’s chin. The mechanic was lifted off his feet and fell back hard onto the tarmac, the blow knocking him unconscious.

With the gunmen out of action and more Jungle Patrol officers on their way, The Phantom mounted his white horse and kicked it forward. A few strides across the tarmac and the purple rider faded into the dense jungle as if he had only been a ghost.

The man in the sunglasses from 2C couldn’t believe what he had seen. His keen eyes had seen through the smoke what the others could not. Many times he had heard stories of what it was like to see the Phantom in action, but he had never expected to see it himself. Still trying to comprehend it all, the man was startled by a gentle tapping on his shoulder. He turned to find the blonde stewardess trying to get his attention.

“We’ve just gotten permission to resume our approach to our gate.” She said in that same pleasant yet stern tone, “So if you will please return to your seat, Mr. Walker, we’ll have you off the plane shortly.”

Kit Walker returned to his seat as instructed, knowing that something was not quite right in his home of Bangalla. How could he have just witnessed The Phantom in action, when he himself was the Phantom?

After donning his familiar purple uniform, the true Phantom began investigating his doppelgänger. His first visit was to the secret passage that lead to his office as the mysterious commander of the Jungle Patrol. At the end of the cave-like passage, stuck into the stone, was a wall-mounted safe door with a dial combination lock. After unlocking the door and leaving a note for Colonel Worubu, the Phantom had time to check on his two most dependable allies, Hero and Devil. Both the magnificent horse and the courageous mountain wolf were pleased to see the return of the Ghost Who Walks. At least Kit knew the impostor hadn’t fooled them.

A return to the secret passage yielded the files the Phantom requested. Since Kit Walker had been in Europe for six weeks, he had asked the Colonel to put together all reported Phantom activity for that time period. Taking the files back to the Skull Cave, The Ghost Who Walks began digging for clues.

The first week was quiet, as he would have expected, as was most of the second week. But at the end of the second week there was a report of the Phantom saving a young child who got lost in the jungle. Though no one else saw him, the boy insisted that it was the Phantom that found him.

By the middle of the fourth week two poachers were found bound to a tree for the Jungle Patrol to find. Three other bodies were discovered in the area and obviously connected to the incident. The surviving poachers claimed to be innocent of any wrongdoing, and insisted a man in purple on a white horse unwarrantedly attacked them. Each had been marked as an enemy by the Phantom’s skull. With no evidence to prove their connection to any illegal activities, the poachers were escorted to the airport and asked to leave Bangalla.

From there, things picked up. In the fifth week the Jungle Patrol discovered a boat docked on a remote area of the coastline. On-board the boat they found five hundred kilos of cocaine and four dead men. Each of the men was killed by a shot from a .45 caliber pistol. None of them had enough time to reach for their weapons. The file referred to the incident as “a slaughter” and very unlike the Phantom.

Finally the event from that morning at the airport: a child-slavery ring that the Jungle Patrol had spent many weeks trying to crack with no luck. Someone happened to see them loading the truck and called the Jungle Patrol, otherwise they would never have been caught. Why did the impostor Phantom not use lethal force then? Did he know the children were in danger? Was he aware the Jungle Patrol needed to question them in hopes of finding the others involved in the slavery ring? Or had he just adapted to his role as the Ghost Who Walks?

With the setting of the sun, dusk brought new life to the jungle. The music of nature rang out; a tune that all who dwell there participates in. The gentle breezes rustled the leaves of the tallest trees mixed with the movement of predators stalking the shadows. But the music was stopped by a thunderous rhythm. The drums send word, as they have done for more than four centuries, word that the Phantom was needed. Reverberating from the mountains to the shore, no other sound dared interfere. And soon a second beat joined in. A steady and deep pounding that could only be made by a set of mighty hooves racing through the jungle.

The message sent out that night was simple: The Ghost Who Walks was needed at the airport. And just as the white stallion leapt from the jungle onto the tarmac, the drums stopped . . . the Phantom had arrived.

The Phantom dismounted and took in his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place at first. The only signs of life appeared to be coming from a hanger at the far end of the airport. Its large doors opened slightly. Doors that normally were either open all the way or closed up tight. He made his way across the tarmac to the hangar, approaching cautiously with his hands near his holstered .45s. Slowly he crept over to the open doors and peered inside.

The hangar was dark, the only light source coming from the setting sun through the windows and the door at the far end. Along the left side of the hanger were two airplanes. One was in a state of repair with parts all about and one engine torn apart, the protective hood lying on the ground beneath its exposed engine. The second plane appeared to be leaving soon, as a fuel truck was parked beside it, the hose still hanging between the two vehicles. The opposite side of the hanger held a variety of office spaces, sleeping quarters and a cafeteria, all of which were dark and deserted. The far doors were open about the same as the doors the Phantom came through, just enough for a man to pass. And that was exactly what was happening. Someone entered the hanger and began walking forward. With the setting sun at his back, the man appeared only as a silhouette to the Ghost Who Walks.

Afraid of no man, the Phantom made his own way forward. Each step gave clarity to what he faced. The outline of the man approaching was one of strength. The strides were long, the build was powerful and the contour of two hip-holsters soon took shape. As they neared the center of the hanger, the sun’s affect lessened and finally the purple costume, black mask and skull belt buckle were plainly visible. He now saw what he had been waiting weeks to see. The person whose life had become his singular focus. He was now going to face the true Phantom.

“I believe there was a mix-up at the drycleaner’s.” The real Phantom quipped. “You appear to be wearing my suit.”

“I knew you would eventually show if I remained patient.” The impostor stared across at his mirror image.

“Well, that brings up the question of the day. Who are you and why are you pretending to be me?”

“It’s very simple Phantom; I’m here to kill you.”

With lightning speed the impostor pulled his .45 pistol from his right holster and fired. But two shots echoed through the hanger as both masked men fired simultaneously, shooting the guns out of each other’s hands.

The impostor didn’t hesitate for even an instant; he moved forward and swung a powerful right cross towards his opponent’s jaw. But the real Phantom quickly ducked under and delivered a quick jab to the midsection. A following uppercut was blocked by a forearm, which led to an elbow to the bridge of the Phantom’s nose. Staggered for a moment, the Phantom swung a roundhouse kick into the side of the imposter’s head. The trading of blow for blow continued as neither man had a physical advantage. Like two heavyweights, the fighters gave as good as they got.

“We could be at this all night. You want to save all the trouble and surrender now?”

“I do not quit until my target is dead. It’s bad for business.”

The impostor tried reaching for his remaining pistol, but a karate chop from the Phantom left his hand too numb to open the holster. The chop also left the Phantom exposed, an opportunity the impostor wasn’t going to pass up. He drove his knuckles into the Phantom’s windpipe followed by a haymaker to the stomach. The Phantom reeled. The impostor grabbed the hero by his belt and shoulder and heaved him across the hanger into the steel body of a jet. The jarring hit knocked the fuel line loose. It fell to the floor where fuel began pouring from the nozzle.

The doppelgänger retrieved his other pistol lying a few feet away. The Ghost Who Walks tried using that time to clear his head and catch his breath. The impostor now stood a few feet away, both guns at the ready. The sound of an approaching jet rumbled in the distance.

“I expected you to be more of a challenge. The Phantom has the strength of ten men. The Phantom cannot die. He is the Ghost Who Walks. None of it is true. You are nothing more than a man; one who is about to die.”

The impostor raised his guns and fired, but the Phantom rolled out of the way just in time. The bullets hit the empty concrete where the masked man had been; a spark caught the spilt fuel from the gas truck and the flames raced back to their source. The impostor saw what was about to happen, turned towards the door and began running. The Phantom scrambled to his feet, but he was too far from either door.

The explosion turned the night sky into day, stunning the passengers exiting a commercial jet from America. Diana Palmer-Walker rubbed her eyes in an attempt to restore her vision after the blinding flash. The first thing she saw was the prone body of a man in purple lying a few hundred yards away. She recognized her husband’s uniform instantly and pushed her way through the crowd. At full speed she ran across the tarmac; her only concern was her husband’s well being. The Phantom began to rise just as Diana reached him.

“Kit! Kit! Are you all right? Kit!”

She helped him to his feet, but he was still dazed and groggy. Diana saw the white stallion approaching from out of the tree line. When it came within reach, she took the reins in her free hand and pulled the horse in close. Diana assumed that Hero was stunned by the blast, because the usually obedient horse was fighting to pull away. She firmed up her grip on the reins to keep control.

“We need to get you back to the Skull Cave. If I get up on Hero, can you pull yourself on behind me?”

“Yes.” It was the only reply the weakened man could say.

She mounted the horse and then reached down to give her husband a hand. It took great effort on both of their parts to get him on, but they did it. He could only hang loosely onto Diana’s back. She reached back and pulled his arms around her, holding them together with her own hand while controlling the reins with the others.

“Hang on, Kit. I’ll have you home in no time.”

Diana spurred the white stallion forward and headed for the safety of the Skull Cave.

The explosion would happen too quickly for him to get clear. The only option he had was to find shelter. The Phantom raced towards the other plane in the hanger and dove into the shell of the torn apart engine. He hoped the steel hood designed to control the heat of jet exhaust might be enough to protect him.

The explosion rocked the hanger; the concussion blew the engine shell into a stack of toolboxes. The wing of one of the jets crashed on the wall above and then plummeted down onto where he had landed, pinning the Ghost Who Walks beneath hundreds of pounds of metal.

The Phantom stayed tucked into the engine hood until the intense heat subsided. The ringing in his ears wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he shook his head. He pushed on the metal above him, but it wouldn’t budge so he leaned back for a moment to build up his strength. He craned his neck to look out the hanger door; if he could call for Hero he might be able to use the horse to pull him free.

Before the Phantom could call again he noticed something in the distance, a white stallion riding into the jungle carrying two riders. The impostor Phantom had survived and was making his escape; but worst of all, he had somehow taken Diana.

“Fweeet!” The Phantom whistled for his horse with a new urgency. The stallion responded quickly. The Phantom tied the horse’s reins around a cross bar on the steel hood, he then shifted his weight to create as much leverage as possible. While Hero pulled back with all his might, the Phantom put his shoulder into the steel hood above him and began to force himself upright. Every muscle in his body strained until finally the metal began to shift. With one last powerful thrust, the jet wing shifted aside. Once clear, the Phantom freed the reins from the wreckage, leapt quickly into the saddle and headed off after the impostor.

Diana helped the man she believed to be her husband off the horse. He continued to lean his weight against her, but kept his face turned slightly away so she could not get a good look at him. He only spoke when necessary, saying the fewest words, and always in a low raspy voice. Diana’s concern for her husband was the final piece to making his charade work.

“Just a little further, Kit. We’re almost there.” Diana tried to sound confident while she strained from the extra weight.

They worked their way up to the library where the impostor no longer needed to pretend. Moving quickly, he spun Diana around and forced her into a chair. His free hand pulled out his .45 and leveled it at Diana’s forehead.

“Kit . . . What are you?” Then she saw it; his jaw line was wrong, his nose too wide and his eyes were stone cold. “Who are you? Where is my husband?”

“Your husband is the true Phantom I assume? He was in the explosion as well, but closer to the detonation. Most likely he is dead.”

Tears flowed freely from Diana’s eyes as she took in the news. Kit couldn’t be dead. The Phantom can’t die. She sat quiet for a moment as the tears rolled down her cheeks. She wouldn’t take this man’s word for it . . . Kit could still be alive and she had to be brave.

“What do you want with me?”

“Until I can confirm his death, I will hang on to you as a hostage. You are the perfect bait if I need to lure the Phantom into a trap.” The impostor retrieved some lengths of rope from a coil that was laid on a table in the corner. He used the rope to bind Diana’s hands to the chair.

“But why? Why do you want him dead?”

“It’s not personal.” The masked man leaned back onto the table behind him. “The Phantom has interfered in the affairs of some powerful men. Those men hired me to eliminate their problem.”

“You’re a hired killer.” Diana spoke the words like she was spitting at him.

“I’ve been called worse.” The man said, almost smiling at the venom he saw in Diana’s eyes.

“Why are you dressed like the Phantom?”

“Because I’m very good at what I do, probably the best. I don’t just randomly kill someone. I study them until I know everything thing about them. I don’t shoot until I know which way the target would duck if they heard the shot. I don’t make my move until I know how many strides my target makes when going from his bed to the bathroom each night, and how often he goes. I study my target until failure is not possible.” The impostor paused for a moment as if silently reminiscing over past kills. “Your husband though was extremely difficult, as I could never find him. Oh, there were rumors and stories. Every one you run into has his own personal tale of the Ghost Who Walks. But no one knew where he was, how to find him, or even where to start looking. So I decided if I could not study the man, I would study the legend of the Phantom. I talked to anyone who had seen him. Found those he had fought and sent to jail. I weeded through the myths to find the truth. His costume, his horse, the jungle drums, the two rings and what each meant. But still, he eluded me.”

The impostor moved over to the bookcase, pulled out one of the leather bound journals, and carried it back to the table.

“Since I could not study him, I did the next best thing. I became him. I answered the jungle drums when they sounded. I helped the people of Bangalla. I even saved a few lives . . . something I had never done before. And the people were grateful. They either could not tell or just didn’t care that it was me and not their hero; they cared only that the Phantom came to save the day.”

“So you see how important the Phantom is to these people . . . to the world. Why do you still want to kill him?” Diana tried hard to comprehend the man’s motivations.

“But that is what I learned. It’s not the man in the mask that is important, but the legacy he represents. I will kill him because that’s what I was hired to do, but the legacy will survive. I will keep it alive.”

Diana was speechless. Did this man truly think that he could kill Kit and become the Phantom? She didn’t know what to say. In the silence the impostor turned away from his captive and lit an oil lamp on the table. He began reading the journal in front of him. It was written by the eighth Phantom and recorded the tale of the day he became the Ghost Who Walks. With her captor’s back turned, Diana began struggling against the ropes, trying desperately to find a way to free herself and warn her husband.

The Phantom was at a disadvantage. He knew Diana wouldn’t willingly take someone to the Skull Cave and it was possible she was leading him astray in hopes of stalling until help arrived. But the trail led incredibly to his home. He now knew that the impostor had even fooled his wife. Did the impostor have time to set a trap? Would his own home be used against him? The Phantom had to do what he always did, face danger head on.

He entered the cave cautiously, .45 in hand. The acoustics of the Skull Cave were amazing. It wasn’t possible to enter without The Phantom knowing. Even the slowest, quietest walk would carry through the cave like a clarion call. This would work against him now; his enemy would know he was coming. So instead of trying to be cautious, he sped up. The faster he moved, the less time the impostor would have to prepare and the better chance Kit would have of rescuing Diana.

Quickly searching the areas of the cave, the Phantom turned towards the library, but as he approached the impostor’s voice called out to him.

“Holster your weapon and come join us, Phantom.”

With Diana’s life in danger, he had no choice but to comply. He put his gun away and entered. Diana was still tied to the chair. The impostor leaned against the table, a gun in one hand and the journal in the other.

“Fascinating reading. I assume all of the books on the shelves are journals of the previous Phantoms? Each chronicling their individual adventures? Have no fear, I will be kind when I add the entry of your demise.” The impostor slipped the journal back into its place in the bookcase.

“Is this where I say ‘someone’s been sleeping in my bed and he’s still there’?”

“A sense of humor when facing imminent death, an admirable quality. I always prefer that to the whining and begging I usually get.”

“This is between you and I. Why don’t you let Diana go?”

“Not yet. But you have my word that she will be freed unharmed once you are gone. She may be able to help me with the nuances of being the Phantom that I haven’t learned yet.”

“It’s more than just wearing purple and fighting the bad guys. It’s a legacy that is passed down from father to son . . .”

“Well, it’s about to take a major detour.”

The impostor stood in front of Diana and aimed his weapon at the Phantom. As he pulled the trigger, Diana drove the heel of her shoe into the imposter’s knee. The bullet struck the cave wall beside her husband. Seizing the opening, the Phantom leapt across the distance and tackled the imposter. The two purple titans rolled along the floor exchanging punches.

From Diana’s viewpoint it became impossible to tell which of the masked men was actually Kit. With each punch, she didn’t know whether to cringe or cheer. She could only sit and watch.

They rolled to a point where the impostor lay flat on his back, giving him the leverage to toss the Phantom off of him and into the cave wall. The doppelgänger tried to get to his feet and pull his weapons. The Phantom recovered quickly, pushing off from the wall to ram his shoulder into the imposter’s midsection. The two .45s went flying across the room. The impostor drove his elbow into the back of the Phantom’s exposed neck. When the Phantom slumped forward, the impostor slammed his knee into the side of his opponent’s head. Falling to his side, the Ghost Who Walks spun on his hip, sweeping the legs of the impostor and sending him towards the table.

The impostor hit the table with enough force to break the legs on one side; the whole thing collapsed under him. The oil lamp he had lit for reading now crashed onto his shoulder, starting a fire. The accelerant spread out along the wood and cloth quickly, within seconds the table and the imposter’s back were engulfed in flames.

The Phantom quickly crossed the room and untied Diana as the flames continued to spread. He wasn’t sure what his opponent would do next, but he had to get his wife to safety.

“I thought you were supposed to be in the US?”

“When you said you were flying back from Europe, I figured I’d surprise you with some time alone.”

“This day has been full of surprises.” The Phantom helped his wife to her feet. “I need you to get out of here now.”

“What about the fire, the journals? Everything will be lost.”

“I’ll save what I can . . . now go!”

Diana raced out of the cave while the Phantom turned back to deal with his would-be-killer and raging fire.

The impostor was on his feet, staring at the wall of journals. Ignoring his own pain, he bent down and lifted the heavy wooden tabletop. The flames danced around his face. His purple uniform was charred beyond recognition. Then, the impostor made it worse. With the flaming table in his arms, he ran out of the library and headed for the mouth of the cave. The adrenaline allowed him to keep going even as his skin began to drip from his body. The heat charred his lungs when he tried to breath. And the flames only grew with the rush of air as he ran.

As Diana reached the mouth of the Skull Cave, she had to dive aside as the imposter’s flame covered body raced past her. He got to the clearing a few feet past and dropped the remnants of the table onto the ground. The blackened figure fell to its knees and then collapsed completely.

“Kit! Kit!” Diana screamed as she raced over to the fallen body, she couldn’t be sure which of the masked men now lay in front of her.

“Stand clear Diana!” A voice from behind her bellowed out.

The true Phantom raced forward carrying a large tarp. He covered the impostor with it, patting out the flames. Once he was sure everything was out, he pulled the tarp back and rolled the impostor over. It was obvious that the flames had done too much damage. The man was still alive, his breath shallow, his eyes barely open, but for the moment at least he was alive. Diana moved up and stood next to her husband.

“I don’t understand? Why did you do it?” Diana asked the dying man.

“When you said . . . everything . . . would be lost.” The impostor could barely speak. “I was sent . . . sent . . . to kill a man . . . but not . . . not at the cost . . . of a legacy.”

With those as his final words, the imposter’s eyes closed, never to re-open. The Phantom used the tarp to put out the last of the flames from the table then covered the corpse.

“So what now?” Diana asked. “Do you track down the man who hired him?”

“I could try, but The Phantom has made many enemies over the years. Without more to go on, we may never know. I doubt we’ll even learn who this gentleman was.”

“I still don’t understand why he sacrificed himself to save the journals.”

“He spent weeks being the Phantom. It’s not just a title and a cool set of rings. So even though he took it on for nefarious purposes, in the time that he was the Phantom, he came to realize what it means to be part of the legacy. What it means to be the Phantom.”

The End

DAN WICKLINE has been writing comics for the last 10 years. Starting out with his own imprint called Hardline Studios and then moving into freelance work in 2001. He’s worked for Avatar Press, Humanoids Publishing and Mam Tor Publishing among others. In 2005, Dan started working with IDW Publishing where he did a the graphic novel Blood-Stained Sword with Ben Templesmith and co-wrote 30 Days of Night: Dead Space with Steve Niles before taking on all the writing chores on the recent 30 Days of Night: Spreading the Disease. 2007 will see the release of a graphic novel called The Unusual Suspects through Top Cow, a mini-series called Unravel through Shadowline/Image and Strange Cases also through Image. More on Dan’s upcoming series can be found at http://www.danwickline.com.

A Ghost Without Yesterday

By David Michelinie

Green.

My eyes opened slowly, and that was all I could see. Plants, bushes, trees, vines. There were scatters of color—yellow flowers, brown bark, blue streaks in the canopy overhead—but everything else was an infinite and overwhelming green. I was in a jungle, sprawled on the ground. But what jungle, where? And why was I here? I couldn’t remember—

My name.

I jerked upright, pain pushing sunbursts through my eyes, then dropped back to the ground with greater understanding. The throbbing radiated from the back of my head; I’d been struck a blow, by accident or on purpose, and the trauma must have resulted in what doctors call retrograde amnesia—selective memory loss. That’s how I could know the electric blue petals of a nearby deluchos bush could be ground into powder to protect food plants from insects, but I didn’t have the first inkling as to who I was.

I eased myself up, more slowly this time, feeling something in my boot as I dragged my feet. A stick perhaps, or a pebble. But when I reached down I paused; the pants tucked into that boot were of some skintight purple material, and the sleeve of my shirt appeared to match. Coordinated purple, on safari? How odd. But then I saw silver on my ring finger, quickly turned my hand in hopes of a monogram, some clue to who I might be. But it wasn’t an initial on the ring; it was a skull. A shiver squirmed along my spine despite the jungle heat. What sort of man wears a skull as a decoration?

Then I dug into the boot, but found no answers. The “stick” was a dagger. Not a hunting knife, designed to skin or dress game, but a double-edged blade meant for combat. I resheathed the knife, carefully, and as I eased myself to a full sitting position I felt weights pulling at my hips. Holsters. I fought to keep my heartbeat steady as I opened one of the leather flaps. After all, firearms are practical tools in a jungle. Wild animals roam here, don’t they? Lions, hippos, snakes. A person would be stupid to travel unarmed. But the pistol I removed was a Colt Government Model, semi-automatic, .45 caliber, Not a hunting piece at all, but a short-range anti-personnel weapon. A gun for killing men.

I returned the pistol to its holster, forcing my dry throat to swallow. There must be a logical explanation for all this. If only I could think—! I leaned back against the boll of a tree, and grimaced as fresh pain shot through my head. I reached to touch the lump there, and felt cloth instead. I was wearing a hood. In the jungle? Was I insane? I reached back, found a seam and pulled the hood off, allowing cooler air to soothe the oozing wound on my scalp. The hood was the same color as my shirt and pants, making insanity a greater possibility. Could I actually be wearing a costume?

I shivered slightly, feeling a chill even as rivulets of sweat ran beneath my shirt, slid down my face and into my eyes. I wiped a hand across my brow—and wondered if the surprises would ever end. There was cloth on my face as well, something so gossamer I hadn’t even noticed it before. I slipped a fingernail under one edge and peeled it off, held it in front of me. The black, double diamond shape was unmistakable. It was a mask.

Good God, I thought. I’m a bandit!

But then I heard voices, found myself in a crouch without having consciously willed my limbs to move. My pain seemed forgotten, or at least ignored. I looked around quickly and saw I was in a shallow trough, apparently where I’d tumbled when I was injured. The voices were getting closer, approaching from a ridge just above, probably a path or trail of some sort. I spotted the rotting husk of a fallen tree some yards away. The trunk was hollow for several feet in, with armies of termites working to complete the job even as I crawled inside, tucking my legs to my chest to hide myself completely. And just in time.

Through a jagged split in the dead bark, I watched as a dozen or so men made their way along the trail above. Black men in uniform, carrying rifles; soldiers.

Or police.

“The Ghost Who Walks will not be found, Captain, if he does not wish to be found,” I heard one say.

The group halted along the path, and a muscular man in a peaked cap replied. “He was thrown from a truck during the fight, according to the renegade we captured. He could be injured. And I don’t need to remind you of all the things the Ghost has done over the years. There’s not one of you among us who hasn’t been affected. Whatever it takes, however long the search, we will find him. Now come on, let’s get moving.”

I waited where I was, listening as the sound of their shuffling footsteps diminished, until it faded altogether. It was only then that I stretched my legs and pushed myself from the hollow trunk, shaking my head and huffing through my nose to dislodge the termites who’d come looking for a fresher meal.

It was obvious the armed men were looking for me. Being tossed from a moving vehicle would explain the wound on my head. They even had a nickname for me: “Ghost.”

Because I was hard to catch? I frightened people? My skin was pale? I had no clue. But whatever I was, I had obviously committed abominable crimes to earn such focus, such dedication to bringing me to justice. Who was I? What was I? If only I could remember . . . !

It was then I noticed the growing shadows. The sun above the overhanging foliage had moved west, lowering. Dusk was approaching and I knew I had to do something. So I clambered up the gentle slope and began walking, moving along the rough path the soldiers had travelled. In the opposite direction.

Darkness came quickly, but not completely. I could catch occasional glimpses of a three-quarter moon through gaps in the jungle canopy, and enough illumination filtered down to light my way. I’d left the wider path and was following what appeared to be a game trail of some sort, little more than a vague absence of undergrowth. I was impressed that I’d even been able to find it; and puzzled at how I knew, in some way, that it would lead to water.

But then I slowed as I realized it was also leading to something else, something that could be trouble. There was smoke in the air, wood smoke, and my dark-adapted eyes could just make out a dim flicker in the blackness ahead. A campfire. It might be soldiers, hunters, almost anything. Though from this distance it would be easy to avoid whatever it was. I could simply alter my route to go around them, pick up the game trail on the other side.

But fire meant people, and people would have something I needed: clothes. If I was indeed on the lam, eager to shun notice, a matching purple ensemble would certainly draw unwanted attention when I finally reached civilization.

I eased forward, making far less noise than I expected, until I was peeking through parted branches at what appeared to be a temporary camp of some sort. There were men in khaki shorts and shirts, mostly black but some Chinese and one who could have been a Spaniard. The ones sitting around the fire were drinking and smoking, spitting whiskey into the flames and laughing at the fireballs that erupted. Most were drunk, and that was a good thing; most also had guns, and that was not.

I moved around the edge of the camp, toward burbling sounds that told me a stream was nearby. There were no posted guards, which meant the group was either arrogant or stupid. I hoped for both. As I crept between two of the tents, wondering if I should risk cutting my way inside to look for clothing, I heard something that made me stop. A cry of anger, followed by the sharp slap of fist on skin. Then a voice, higher in pitch than the others. A female voice.

I crept to a corner of the tent, looked around and saw a woman tied to a post, a white woman dressed in jodhpurs and a man’s longsleeve shirt. There was a red welt on her cheek, already beginning to swell. The Spaniard stood nearby, fingers swabbing a thin runnel of blood from between his lips. “Puta! I kill you for this!”

The woman answered with equal fire, in a decidedly American accent. “Stick that tongue in my mouth again, buster, and I’ll bite it all the way off!”

The Spaniard moved forward, teeth showing in a bloody sneer, snapped open a lock-blade knife with a flick of his wrist. “We will just see who loses what, señorita—!” But then one of the blacks stepped up, a tall man with ceremonial scars on his face, and grabbed the Spaniard by the arm. “Gunther gave her to us, Miguel. Not to you. And damaged goods don’t sell. You want her, bid for her at the auction.”

The moment stretched, and then the dark-eyed Spaniard closed his knife, spit in the woman’s general direction before walking away. And I holstered the pistol I hadn’t realized I’d drawn.

I moved behind the tents once again, careful to make no noise. These were slavers, dangerous men. I began to consider whether purple might be a good look for me after all. Fortunately, one of the revelers picked that moment to leave the camp to relieve himself. As I followed, I was inordinately pleased to see that it was the Spaniard. He stopped at the edge of the water, opened his fly and added to the stream. As I moved behind him, I hoped he wouldn’t misinterpret my words.

“You look about the right size.”

He whirled, eyes wide, and my fist pistoned into his jaw. He dropped like a boulder and I quickly began to unbutton his shirt. As I changed clothes, I saw my ring had left an impression on his skin, the shape of a skull. I turned the ring on my finger so that it faced my palm; no reason to unintentionally maim someone, I thought.

I kept my boots, stuck the pistols in my belt. Then used the dagger to dig a shallow hole nearby. I buried my odd costume where I could find it later, if for some reason I should want to, then turned to leave. And hesitated, wondering why. I had what I wanted, and no one even knew I’d been here. The smart thing would be to get far away before the unconscious man was discovered. And yet . . .

The woman. That was it. I was thinking of the woman. I shook my head and took a step into the jungle. Her problem was exactly that: hers. I had no interest in whether she lived or died. I was a criminal, wasn’t I? On the ran, responsible only for myself?

So why did I turn back to the camp, why did I walk slowly into the flickering firelight glow? She was worth money, I told myself. Yes, that must be it. I wanted the prize. What else could explain such foolhardy behavior?

An Asian-looking man at the fire saw me first, blinked to focus through a drunken haze. Then stood and pointed at me, shouting something in a language I didn’t understand. The others looked around and stood as well, reaching for weapons, surprised and frightened. The only one who remained calm was the black man with the scarred face. He kept his seat, turning only his head my way. “What do you want?”

“The woman,” I said.

“Ah.” the scarred man replied, turning back to the fire. “Kill him.”

But my pistols were already in my hands, spitting fire of their own. KRAK-KRAK, KRAK-KRAK-KRAK.

Two rifles, a machete and two revolvers flew into the air amid cries of shock and pain. Other gun barrels quickly lowered. Feet stepped back. The man with the scars was looking at me again.

“I have more men than you have bullets.”

I met his gaze. “Yes, but when I run out of bullets, you will have far fewer men.”

He was silent for a moment. Then a thin smile creased his face, crinkling the delicate pattern of scars. “I hope one day I will have the pleasure of killing you myself.” He then leaned forward, used a burning twig to light a cigarillo. “Take her.”

I kept a pistol in one hand, used my dagger to cut the woman’s bonds. Watched carefully as we backed into the undergrowth, where I motioned the woman to wait in the shadows. For five minutes we held still, but there were no signs of pursuit. One last surprise: the slavers’ leader was a man of his word.

We turned and, looking over our shoulders nonetheless, made our way into the jungle.

“This tastes kinda like raw potato, with sugar on it.”

We’d stopped about a mile from the slavers’ camp, on the other side of the stream.

My new companion—Kate Boker, she called herself—had insisted. Said her “dogs” would burst into flame if she walked another yard. I wasn’t tired but, like the scarred man had said, damaged goods don’t sell. The goa root I’d dug up and cut into strips would provide adequate nutrition, and had the added advantage of not needing to be cooked.

Kate chewed and swallowed with gusto. She was a smallish woman in her mid-twenties, with short brown hair, direct eyes and a quick smile. She tried that smile now as she looked at me in the moonlight. “So, tall dark and dangerous, you got a name?”

I almost said, “Probably.” But a lack of memory could be interpreted as weakness, might give her ideas. Instead, I picked something out of the air. “Welker. Um, Kip Welker.”

A funny name, but it seemed to fit. Sort of.

“Okay, Kip Welker, what’s your story? I mean, I already thanked you, and I meant it. But you’re more than a good Samaritan, I knew that the minute I lamped ya. And you’re American, I can tell from your voice. So what’re you doin’ in the middle of Africa, with a World War goin’ on, rescuin’ damsels in distress an’ shootin’ pistolas like Buffalo Bill in his prime?”

I leaned back against a tree, and replied with genuine hope, “You tell me.”

Her grin widened. “Okay, I’ll play. You’re O.S.S., right? Did I peg it?”

This time I didn’t even try to bluff. “What’s ‘oss’?”

She flapped her hand in an oh-come-off-it gesture. “Office of Strategic Services, Einstein. You’re a spy, aren’tcha?”

Was I? Kate leaned forward.

“Look, we’re on the same side. I’m a pilot. Civilian, but I try to do my part. I was ferryin’ some bigwig scientist from Johannesburg to the U.S. Military H.Q. in Tripoli. Guy named Smithson. He invented this new kind of machine-gun bullet made from somethin’ he called ‘heavy metal’. Supposed to cut through armor like a meat cleaver through custard. If the Allies can mass produce the stuff, Rommel’s tanks might as well be made of orange peels an’ Kleenex!”

She sat back, her lips stretching into a snarl of disgust. “ ’Cept we got shot down. My Electra was kinda beat up—you can’t get spare parts for love or money—so I was flyin’ low, nursin’ a bum carburetor. Never expected small arms fire from below. Lucky shot caught a prop link an’ I couldn’t keep her in the air. I . . .” Her anger softened a bit. “I made it out, but Smithson didn’t. Broken neck. I was able to drag the crate of ammo from the hold before the fire started, but . . .”

She squared her shoulders and went on. I had the impression nothing could keep this young lady down for long.

“I was tryin’ to figure out what to do when the matter was settled for me. A half-dozen guys with guns came out of the jungle, musta been the same yahoos who potshot my plane. They were wearin’ uniforms, green with black squiggles, but they weren’t local. Weren’t Nazis or Allies, either. They tied my hands, and I figured they were gonna do nasties on me. But their leader, some blond meatbag named Gunther, didn’t seem interested. I got the impression he wasn’t much interested in women as a species, if you catch my drift. At any rate, he only had eyes for that crate of ammo. Made two of his guys lug it away and then told the others to take me to those slave traders as a good will gift. One dirty hand washin’ the other, I guess.” She picked a bit of goa root from between her teeth, flicked it into the stream. “Bastards.”

Kate took a breath, and a trace of that infectious smile returned. “So, what’re we gonna do about it?”

Her story disturbed me. I resented this kind of activity taking place in my jungle. My jungle? Why had I thought that? I stood up, trying to clear my head. I had troubles of my own, not the least of which was trying to figure out who the hell I was. I answered with a single word.

“Nothing.”

Kate sprang to her feet, her earlier anger returning. “What do you mean? Doc Smithson’s formula may have burned with the plane, but if the wrong people got hold of those bullets, figured out how to make more—! Kip, thousands of American soldiers could be slaughtered!”

I looked in her eyes, saw strength and passion smoldering there. Wondered if she could see the tortured ambivalence in my own. Then I made a decision, reached down to put my hands on her waist. And lifted her off her feet.

“Hey, buster, just ’cause I need your help doesn’t give you the right to get fresh!”

I set her on a tree limb several feet above the ground. Then climbed into a fork made by the limbs of another tree nearby. “Old jungle saying . . .” I settled myself into the Y-shaped support, rearranging the pistols in my belt, “. . . sleepers on ground near streams make crocodiles very happy.”

Kate looked down, eyes widening slightly. “Croc—! Y-You mean . . . ?”

I tried a smile of my own. “Good night.”

I closed my eyes, surprisingly at ease in my odd arboreal bed. I lay there listening to the jungle symphony, the chirps, clicks, whistles and howls that made up the primeval night. I found it soothing, even comforting. And yet I couldn’t let go. My body was at rest, but my mind still stalked and prowled, trying to escape the words Kate Boker had spoken. Eventually it succeeded, and I slept; but not well.

She was gone of course. Even in the shallow light of predawn, when I first opened my eyes again, I could see that the tree next to mine was empty. The threat of being a midnight snack for hungry reptiles apparently hadn’t been enough to dissuade the determined Miss Boker. I dropped to the ground, irritated but impressed.

So what now? I could see scuff marks and a bent branch to the northeast. Her trail would be easy to follow. But why should I bother? I had no idea what Kate might bring on the open market; apparently slave trading was low on the list of crimes I may have committed. But surely the price wouldn’t be worth the effort. Especially when I sensed that my own answers, and my identity, lay somewhere to the south.

I grew jittery, pacing along the stream. I was uncomfortable with hesitation; it didn’t seem my way. So I said the hell with it and went with my instincts.

Northeast.

I heard the noise long before I reached the compound. The sound of heavy equipment, of bulldozers and petrol-powered generators, was as alien in the jungle as a wink from a corpse. I’d been following Kate’s spore all morning, and could tell from the freshness of broken vegetation that I was getting close. But I slowed when I heard the chug of engines. If nothing else, the last twelve hours had taught me the value of caution.

Good thing, too. As I eased my way through the undergrowth, I smelled a new smoke: tobacco. Then I saw him. Green uniform, with an irregular black and brown camouflage pattern. A cigarette in his mouth and a bolt-action rifle casually slung over one shoulder. These were the men who had shot Kate’s plane from the air. Some sort of paramilitary force, professional enough to post guards.

I avoided two more of the sentries before I reached a point where I could see what they were guarding. I knelt down, pushed aside the branches of a sprawling acacia tree and found myself looking into a large clearing. There were perhaps two dozen of the uniformed men in the open space, some without shirts as they toiled in the oppressive jungle heat. They worked with bulldozers, hammers, machetes and shovels, digging trenches and clearing brush hut what they were clearing it from was the real show.

At the far side of the clearing was a massive edifice of tan-colored stone. A good three stories tall, the building stretched far back into the jungle, making its true size impossible to determine. A deep portico extended from the front, sporting a stone roof held aloft by twin columns. And over the entire structure were wild, exotic carvings: snakes with human faces, birds carrying bones in their talons, circles that looked like blazing suns with a single eye in the middle. Lost cities and civilizations were far from unheard of in Africa, but this was truly bizarre.

Then something drew my attention to the portico: a voice, fierce and female, raised in familiar anger. Either Kate Boker preferred the direct approach, or was simply too driven to consider caution an acceptable delay. She was being held by two soldiers, and addressed by a muscular blond man in a different cut of uniform. Near them, in front of a gaping arched entrance to the interior of the building, was an MG42 machine gun on a waste-level tripod. An ammunition belt ran from the gun’s feed mechanism to a wooden crate on the ground. I had no doubt as to where the crate had come from.

I knew these were no half-drunk slavers, easily intimidated. This time I couldn’t just walk in and take Kate away. I needed to back off, work up a plan. So I started to get up—and heard the soft click of a safety catch being toggled to the “off’ position. I turned my head slowly, and saw three uniformed men standing behind me, pointing rifles at my head. Apparently two of them hadn’t bothered with safeties in the first place. I sighed, rose, and hoped that underestimating my enemies didn’t turn out to be a habit. Or my last mistake.

The blond man looked up with interest as I was marched across the clearing, my .45s and dagger now trophies in the guards’ own belts. Kate looked surprised, her mouth parting slightly. “You . . . you came after me?”

The muscleman smiled a pleasant welcome. “Ah, another guest,” he spoke with a slight Teutonic accent. “And you speak English as well? Sehr gut. I do enjoy practicing my languages.” He clicked his heels, made a small bow. “I am Gunther Rohr. And you are . . . ?”

“In something of a hurry,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “So if you’ll just let my friend go, we’ll be out of your hair and on our way.”

Gunther’s mouth pulled a mock moue. “Oh, dear, I am afraid that is out of the question. If word of our operation were to reach the outside world there could be most unfortunate repercussions. I’m sorry to say that you and your friend will have to remain our guests for . . . the duration.”

I gave bravado a shot. “ ‘Guests’? Where I come from, hotels don’t check people in at gunpoint!”

The German’s eyes suddenly narrowed, and his lips slimmed to a hard line. “Why did you say that? What do you know?”

Whatever I’d unwittingly said, it was obviously the wrong thing. I tried to backpeddle. “Just a joke, pal, a bad joke. Look, we have no idea what you’re doing here, and we don’t care. All we want is to get back to our safari and—”

“You are no hunter,” he said, looking into my eyes. “At least, not a hunter of animals.”

Kate spoke up. “C’mon, Gunny, you told me you weren’t a Nazi. So why do you need that ammunition?”

Gunther curled a finger at a young man standing nearby; the youth stepped forward with a silver tray holding a crystal decanter of dark red liquid. Gunther answered as he poured. “Though not a Nazi, I am German. I am also a realist. The war goes well for us now, but Herr Hitler’s obsession blinds him to the determination of you . . . Americans? Canadians?”

Kate held her head up. “Yanks.”

“So.” Gunther took a sip of wine. “We will lose, eventually. But we will try again. We are stubborn, we Germans. And practical. Between Reichs, the elite who escape their conquerors will seek a place to stay while planning their own return to power.” He gestured with his free hand at the massive building behind him. “That is why I sought out a structure such as this. It is isolated, unknown. And when supplied with running water, temperature controls and other such amenities, it will provide the fleeing commanders with a reasonably luxurious—what is the word? Hideout?”

Kate shook her head. “But if you aren’t political—?”

Gunther finished his wine, put his glass back on the silver tray. “Did I not say ‘practical,’ fraulein? The whole world knows of the vast treasure of art and jewels the German army has, ah, liberated in its march through Europe. I expect to receive a generous portion of those spoils in exchange for these accommodations.”

I asked the next question before Kate had a chance. “Then why the super ammo? Why do you need that kind of firepower if you’re not in the war?”

Gunther showed teeth, a serpent’s grin. “The one thing a hunted general will pay more for than luxury, is safety.” He walked to the MG42, put one hand on its pistol grip as his other pulled back the weapon’s charging handle. “How much, one may wonder, will they pay for protection like this?”

Two single-story outbuildings braced the portico, made from the same hard stone as the main structure. Gunther swung the machine gun’s barrel to the one on the right and pulled the trigger. The gun barked and bucked, chattering a thirty round burst that cut horizontally across the outbuilding’s front wall. The entire structure shattered, disintegrating, rendered to rubble by the experimental heavy metal bullets. Gunther turned back, wiping his palms on his camouflage tunic. “I believe that answers your question, ya?”

But then he looked at me, the skin between his brows knitting a jagged line. “You, on the other hand, pose another question entirely. You are more than you seem, mein freund. And your comment about a ‘hotel’ . . . ? I think we need to discover exactly who you are.”

I was about to ask him to tell me, if and when he found out, but then Gunther raised an eyebrow. And a mountain slammed into my back. I knew it was just a rifle butt, punching into a kidney, but it felt like a planet had crashed into me at full spin. The wind went out of my lungs and my knees collapsed. I heard Kate yelling something, felt hands on my arms, my heals scraping ruts in the dirt as I was dragged along the ground. And then nothing. Nothing but gray.

It was probably just minutes before awareness returned, but the lines and forms I saw made no sense. I swiveled my eyes; stone walls and the size of the room told me I was in the remaining outbuilding. My wrists and ankles had been tied with copper wire to a rusty set of box springs leaning against a wall at a forty-five degree angle, which explained my disorientation. There was a pounding in my ears, a mechanical throb like an unmuffled engine. I pushed my head forward, chin to chest, and saw a bulky generator on the floor nearby. A short, balding man in an incongruous flowered shirt was bent over the machine, making adjustments. I tensed as I saw a cable leading to a metal clamp attached to the box springs.

Then the little man looked up, smiled with teeth too even to be natural. “Ah, gut. You are awakening. Difficult to be telling me things when sleeping, ya?” A hissing laugh whistled through his dentures, “So, what is name, please?”

I opened my mouth, but the little man enjoyed his job too much to allow it to end so soon. He threw a switch before I could say a word. My body arched away from the box springs as every muscle contracted, cringing in a unified spasm of agony. My jaws clamped shut, teeth shredding skin from the side of my tongue. I felt like fire was ripping through my nerves, and my brain flashed colors that never existed. I wanted to scream, but my lungs didn’t work, my throat was locked. If I’d been able to cry, I knew tears would sizzle as they left my eyes. The torment lasted forever, perhaps ten seconds, and then the current stopped and I hung limp from my bonds, jerking in sporadic trembles, blood and saliva leaking from my lips.

The chugging of the generator had stopped, and I was vaguely aware of other sounds now. Impacts, blows, a scuffling of feet, grunts of effort or pain. I struggled to raise my head, and then to make sense of what I saw. There were four little men in flowered shirts, grappling with four short-haired women in jodhpurs. My mind was still reeling, and I laid my head back, trying to think, straining to concentrate. I knew my vision had been affected by the electric shock, I knew the woman must be Kate, and I knew . . . I knew . . .

I knew!

My eyes widened as my mind snapped into crystal clarity. The electricity must have done it, burned away the barriers my head trauma had built. I wasn’t “Kip Welker” at all. I was Kit Walker. I was The Ghost Who Walks. I was . . .

The Phantom.

I leaned my head forward. There were only two little men now, but they were getting the best of the two Kates, four hands around two throats, pushing toward the generator. I tensed my muscles, voluntarily this time, and lunged, throwing the entire weight of my body into forward motion. The box springs creaked and moved away from the wall about a foot, then dropped back. Kate was gasping now, her spine bending as she was forced back over the chugging machine while the little man scrabbled for the “on” switch. I threw myself forward again, and again the box springs moved with me, almost to upright this time, before falling back into the wall with a squeaking clatter. Then I heard the bald man’s whistling laugh, and my rage exploded. Kate Boker was an innocent, and she would not die. Not today, not in my jungle!

I wove my fingers into the rusty coils, forced my body back into the springs, compressing them. Then launched myself forward with every ounce of strength I possessed. The box springs followed, swinging up to reach perpendicular, then wobbling as if unsure. I jerked my head down, as if to snap my own neck, and the springs tilted again. I don’t know if it was the sound, or some sixth sense, but the little man in the flowered shirt finally looked around, sporting an expression of mild curiosity just before the edge of the box springs caught him on the shoulder, pushing him to the ground and slamming his head into the hard dirt floor.

Kate reacted quickly, started unwinding the wires that held me to the rusty springs. I watched the doorway as I muttered, “How . . . how did you . . . ?” I could hear the smile in her voice as she answered.

“Too many he-man types think with their pants. I told the guy guarding me I’d ring his bell if he’d bring me some of Gunny’s wine. He asked for a sample and while his attention was otherwise engaged, I clonked him with a lug wrench.”

I rubbed my wrists as I stood up. “Miss Boker, you are truly something.”

She punched me playfully on a bicep. “And don’t you forget it, buster.”

We were free, but not home free. And we still had a job to do. The workers in the compound were diligent, focused on their assigned tasks. That allowed us to move carefully and slowly between idle machinery and supply caches, to the now deserted portico.

Which is where our luck ran out, as Gunther Rohr chose that moment to step from the arched entrance of the main building. He saw me immediately, eyes glowering, and I realized I’d met that stare before.

Captain Wanaga of the Jungle Patrol had told me rumors about a mercenary force setting up shop somewhere in the Bangalla jungle. Soldiers for hire rarely bode well, so I followed clues to a trail in The Deep Woods, where a supply caravan was moving northeast. I dropped from a tree to the top of one of the trucks, thinking to hitch a ride all the way to their camp. But someone inside had heard me, and climbed from the back to investigate. I turned too late, and only caught a glimpse of the man before he knocked me from the truck, into whatever branch or boulder had caused my amnesia. That man stood before me in the portico now, drawing a pistol from a leather holster.

But now I knew who I was, had conscious thought to guide my instincts. I ducked down as the first bullet sang over my head, then rolled forward to put a heel in Gunther’s stomach. He wheezed as he dropped the pistol, then fell to his knees and drooped to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

Stealth was no longer an option; the soldiers had heard the shot and were scrambling for weapons of their own. I picked up Gunther’s pistol, a Walther 9mm Kurtz, an officer’s gun less powerful than my .45s. Nonetheless, I snapped off three quick shots: a hand, a rifle, one creased skull. But now they were returning fire, and I knew I couldn’t hold them all off, not for long.

Then I remembered the machine gun, and Gunther’s impressive demonstration. I dropped the Walther and ran for the tripod. Bullets whizzed all around me, and I knew I’d catch at least one or two before I could get the MG42 working. I only hoped my wounds wouldn’t be fatal, at least not until I’d done what I had to do.

But then I heard gunfire much closer, turned to see Kate on one knee, Walther in hand, shooting at the mercenaries to draw their fire. I shook my head in admiration as I dove for the tripod, determined to make use of the time Kate had bought me. I knew we’d never get the crate of ammo away now, not with an army on our tails. But there was still a way to make sure the experimental ammunition didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

Yanking back the charging handle, I swivelled the gun left, squeezing the trigger as the barrel lined up with one of the thick supporting columns. The gun roared and shook as the heavy metal bullets cut through stone, passing through to the other side. The column cracked, rumbled, and dust began to rain from the roof overhead. Quickly, yelling “Duck” to make sure Kate was out of the way, I swung the gun back to my right, spraying the second column in an angled line. More rumbles. Bits of stone joined the dust falling from the roof, and cracks began to snake up the face of the building itself.

The mercenaries had stopped shooting, stood staring at the massive stone edifice, aware that their gravy train was about to derail. I grabbed Kate by the arm and ran for the jungle. As we dashed between trees we felt the ground move, and couldn’t help turning back to look. Gunther Rohr was next to the machine gun, struggling to lift the crate of experimental ammo, when the roof gave way completely. Chunks of stone the size of staff cars toppled down, as the entire front of the building swayed, leaned forward and finally fell, crushing Gunther Rohr and his precious prize beneath tons of rock and ruin.

The silence that followed was startling, and eerily complete. So much so that Kate actually whispered when next she spoke. “We didn’t get it. We didn’t get the ammo back.”

I replied with equal softness. “No, but the bad-guys won’t get it either. They’ll never use it against American troops.”

She sighed, melancholy as she watched the dust cloud wafting over the now empty compound. “I guess we’ll just have to settle.”

She hated to lose, and she wasn’t alone. But I’d long ago learned that there are more important things than keeping score. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. You’re alive.”

Kate was still for a moment, as if considering. Then looked up at me with a hint of a returning smile.

“Well, there’s that.”

We stood on a small rise, looking down at the Jungle Patrol compound on the outskirts of Mawitaan. After three days of jungle, trees, jungle, vines and jungle, the sight of man-made buildings and the bustle of human activity was almost overpowering. Though not enough to keep Kate from rocking back and forth on her heels in anticipation.

“Gonna eat me a cow, Kip. Just walk right into the first restaurant I see, order a whole heifer medium rare and not stop ’til there’s nothin’ left but bones an’ hooves!” She turned to look at me, eyes twinkling. “Not that roots and berries aren’t yummy, y’understand.”

“No apology necessary. A juicy T-bone sounds pretty good to me right now, too.”

She grabbed my hand, started down the slope. “Then c’mon, we’ll—” She stopped, jerked back on one foot as I didn’t move. “What’s the matter?”

“You go ahead, Kate. Just tell Captain Wanaga what’s happened, and he’ll make sure you get everything you need. I . . . have to go pick up my other suit.”

“At least give me your address, phone number, something. How else will I be able to get in touch?”

“If you ever need me,” I answered with sincerity, “I’ll be there.”

She moved closer, taking my other hand in hers, steady brown eyes locked onto mine. “When I get my new plane, cowboy, I’m gonna take you for a ride. And I do mean the ride of your life.” Our bodies were almost touching; I could feel her heat. “You saved my life, maybe the lives of hundreds, thousands of others. I want to thank you.” There was a moment when I hesitated; but only a moment. Then I gave her hands a gentle squeeze and let them drop. Took a small step back.

“It’s what I do.”

I was sitting on the stone slab throne in Skull Cave, dressed in purple that now felt as natural as skin. I inhaled deeply, holding the damp air in my lungs, relishing familiar smells. I felt I’d never get enough of them. My gaze wandered along the bookcased walls, lingering here and there on trophies and mementos that were the legacy of my ancestors, the history of The Phantom for over four hundred years. And all the while, Devil, a grey wolf as fierce and loyal as any friend who ever lived, lay sleeping at my feet, his whispered breathing telling me he was there, exactly where he wanted to be. I was home; a home that, for a short while, I hadn’t even known I had. I prayed I’d never lose it again.

The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted my musing, and I turned to the great room’s hand-hewn doorway. Guran stood there, proper and polite, an assistant of unequaled tact. “Perhaps it is time for you to change to more formal wear, Mr. Walker. Your meeting with the ambassador in Mawitaan is in one hour.”

I nodded, then rose, and replied with true satisfaction.

“I remember.”

The End

DAVID MICHELINIE has not had a “real” job since selling his first story to DC Comics in 1973. To date, this is his most satisfying accomplishment. On a lesser plane, he has since sold some 600 comic book stories to Marvel, DC, Dark Horse, Valiant and Future Comics. He has published one novel (The Man Who Stole Tomorrow), collaborated on a second (Carnage in New York), and had a short story included in the original anthology, The Ultimate Spider-Man. Most recently, he wrote the Kolchak mini-series, “The Frankenstein Agenda” for Moonstone Books. Upcoming works include two new Iron Man projects for Marvel, to be published in conjunction with that character’s feature film debut in 2008, and a short story for the Moonstone anthology, Moonstone Monsters: Werewolves.

The Hungry Swamp

By Martin Powell

Rain. Wild, relentless, driving rain. For three dark grey days and the the blackest nights, the storm was savage and unending. It seemed like the End of the World.

“This is the last of them,” Dr. Quetzalli Cansino murmured softly as she released the snake out the window, allowing it to gently glide into the swelling swamp of its own will.

Nineteen year old Alan Craig stood next to her watching fitfully as the two meter long rainbow boa gracefully laced through the muddy surface, slipping beneath the dark brown waves before vanishing from their sight. Filthy rapidly rising water sloshed against the window sill, swirling like a living thing that would not be contained.

After the driving wind had diminished, they’d released all the animals that, hopefully, might chance to make it on their own. Only three other nonhuman patients remained, and neither doctor nor intern had any idea of what could be done for them. Or for themselves.

Alan’s scuffed, bruised fingers absently dug into his injured arm through the sling. Bone shifted under the skin with a grinding scrape, and a hiss of air escaped his clenched teeth. Quetzalli’s eyes cut toward him.

“We still have the morphine,” as usual her voice was low and professional.

Alan shook his head.

“Last resort,” he winced, shifting his arm. “My watch got broken, too. How long have we been drifting like this?”

Quetzalli consulted the slate-colored sky best as she could, the calming of the wind had allowed a thick veil of steamy ambiance to hang in the air, but the rain still blasted down like buckshot. There was not even a hint of the sun. It was stifling, hard to breathe.

"Maybe two days since being flooded out downstairs. Maybe four days since the storm surge sent us swirling into the swamp. A week maybe. Maybe less. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Inwardly Quetzalli shuddered, keeping a firm control over herself in front of the injured, exhausted intern.

The events she spoke of indeed reeled in their brains like a nightmare, creeping at the start with a slow-motion menace, then escalating with explosive suddenness. Without the sun it was impossible to tell exactly how long they had been lost in the deep swampland. And that wasn’t the worst of it.

Quetzalli couldn’t even be sure of how far into the bayou the hurricane had forced the Saint Louis Animal Hospital. Hour after horrible hour the screaming storm shook and shoved the two-story hundred and twelve year old building, ultimately purging the entire structure from its unstable, crumbling foundation. Ensnared amid the black tangles of cypress roots and snake-infested vines, the hospital had become a slowing sinking Ark, lost within the deep green claustrophobia that surrounded them on every side.

“Can’t . . . can’t remember when I ate last . . . or slept,” Alan slumped onto the warped wooden floor that was already damp from the invading bog below the boards.

Quetzalli’s brown eyes softened. Alan had been putting up a good front, but he was looking worse. She tripped twice from the debris in the swaying room that had once been an efficient, if grossly under-financed, veterinarian laboratory. With some effort she righted her over-turned desk and tugged open a rusty drawer, a scuffed ankle bleeding into her shoe. Rummaging inside for a moment, Quetzalli tossed a small packet to the intern.

“Go ahead,” she attempted to smile. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”

Alan devoured the rich dark sweetness in a single choking gulp.

Quetzalli busied herself to reexamining the intern’s injuries. The brightness in his eyes bothered her. No doubt about it, he was burning with fever. She keeled slightly over the tilting floor and knelt before a heavy iron safe. Slender, practiced fingers whirled the combination and she quickly found what she needed.

Filling a hypodermic, she frowned a bit as she noticed seeping puddles of muddy water squeezing between the cracking floorboards at her feet. She wondered how long it would be before the weight of the ponderous safe collapsed the entire floor. Nothing she could do about it, though. The safe was much too heavy for even both of them to budge.

Quetzalli administered the injection.

“It’s just more penicillin,” she explained.

“Wha . . . what’s gonna happen to us, Doc?” Alan seemed half asleep, less alarmed than before.

She felt the pulse in his neck, didn’t like what she counted.

“You didn’t have to stay with me, you know,” she changed the dressing, splint, and sling on Alan’s arm so gently that he didn’t grimace even once.

Alan closed his eyes, grinning slightly.

“I care about the critters, too, y’know . . . couldn’t just let the sheriff shoot ’em all . . . or the let the storm take ’em . . . couldn’t leave you here alone . . .”

He was dozing now. Good. That was a blessing.

As for what was going to happen to them, well, she pretty much figured that out, too. Rescue was out of the question. Most everyone probably evacuated, or were dead. Quetzalli knew that she shouldn’t have stayed. Alan wouldn’t have been hurt if she’d left, too.

A frightened whimper softly rose from one of the three large cages that were still occupied. The young doctor slid her hand between the bars and stroked the soft grey fur, soothing the creature inside. Anxious yellow eyes from the other steel enclosures grew calmer at the whispered affection in her voice. She’d always had that touch, even when she was an impoverished little waif in Puerto Rico.

She had worked so hard for this. No way would she abandon them now. She simply couldn’t. Ever.

Nervously her sensitive fingers felt for comfort at the bracelet on her left wrist, tracing and re-tracing its odd engraved design. A flood of memories washed over her, indelible and indestructible, connected to that simple band of gold, her sole luxury, given as a gift so long ago. For a moment, she almost dared to hope . . .

Suddenly Quetzalli’s ears popped painfully, as the air pressure altered. Glancing out the broken window she saw the driving rain had slowed to a simmer. The sudden hush was astonishing.

This was just a reprieve, Quetzalli knew. Merely the passing over of the Eye of the hurricane. The tempest’s terrible twin would follow soon enough.

Even the low droning of insects came back to life, buzzing deep inside her head. The whining pitch grew louder, closer, then she realized that it was the choppy moan of an outboard boat motor that sliced though the silence.

Instantly, Alan awakened, staggering to his feet.

“Doc! We’re saved!” he beamed through red-rimmed, fevered eyes and rushed to the window. “Hey—! Over here! We’re over here . . .”

Horrified, Quetzalli watched as Alan’s neck jerked back with a snap, crumpling him backwards unto the hard floor. She froze upon seeing that the impact of a bullet had taken away most of his forehead. A half-smile of hope still played upon his lips.

The sound of the boat motor was getting closer.

Quetzalli crawled quickly to her ruined desk, grappling a heavy blue-steeled revolver from where she’d kept it hidden. She rapidly swung out the cylinder, grimacing at her carelessness.

Just two shots left. Got to make them count.

The whole of downtown New Orleans was a wet, rotting graveyard.

Deputy Floyd Thomas cursed under his breath as his third attempt with a rope and grapple failed to reach his target. The man and little girl clung helplessly on the sagging telephone pole, screaming in unison as the flooding avenue beneath them rushed at their backs. There wasn’t much time left.

The deputy tried again. Still no good. The heavy humid air was steaming with floating ribbons of pale yellow mist. Floyd’s eyes, and his aim, weren’t what they used to be. His shoulder felt half-wrenched from its socket. No excuse. He flung the hook and rope again. He cursed again, louder. Useless.

The foul bile-colored flood abruptly bloated in its speed and intensity, suddenly becoming an even more monstrous thing. The seasoned deputy had never seen anything like it as the deluge clawed, scraped, and crushed its violence through the derelict remains of a ghost town. So much water, hellish tons of it. The levies must have burst, bleeding in the whole damned angry Atlantic.

All else he tried had failed. Floyd did the only other thing he could think of—he dove in toward the man and child.

It was like being swallowed in a stinking, choking cesspool when the deputy first hit the water. It was much colder than he thought it would be, and even more savage as the racing torrent banged him along the jagged edge of the avenue like a rag doll. A rib cracked. Then another. Desperate, work-toughened hands sought a life-hold and miraculously gripped it.

Floyd frantically found himself perched atop the crossbar of a granite crucifix, protruding through the sucking murk from a Lafayette mausoleum submerged four meters below. The cemetery? Here? His mind raced, pained and confused. The flood had utterly disguised the entire area beneath its dark, boiling mask. He recognized nothing. It was like another world.

Floyd was no closer to the victims on the bending phone pole. He knew they were close to letting go, or being swallowed up in all the froth and filth below. Got to do something.

More horror came in the surge of a swelling wake that completely immersed him. Floyd’s exhausted lungs gave out after a few scant seconds as the brackish flood rammed down his throat. The rushing current was hellishly strong, but the deputy’s fingers held tightly to the granite cross, ripping into his fingertips.

Much too quickly came another gushing barrage. And another. This time the wave was too ponderous. No air left. If only something could be done . . . something that he hadn’t thought of . . .

The answer came from above.

Miraculously, a mighty hand drove down from the surface gripping the deputy’s coat collar and bolted him bodily upward with a sickening spasm of vertigo. Instantly he’d been effortlessly dragged onto the deck of a compact fishing schooner. At last he could breathe again.

Floyd’s head was still spinning as he peered up at his rescuer, a tall broad-shouldered man in a trench coat. Ridiculously the deputy thought he’d also seen a pair of gleaming yellow-green eyes from inside the shadows of the open cabin doorway.

“Hurt bad?” the man’s voice carried effortlessly over the roaring deluge, evoking a tone like thunder under control.

Floyd shook his head, unable to yet to speak. He peered closer at the man who’d saved him, unable to see much as a low-brimmed hat hid most of the face in shadow. The deputy collapsed to his knees.

“Th-the man . . . and that . . . little girl . . .”

The big man nodded, patting him gently on the shoulder.

“I saw them. You’re in shock, Deputy. Try to get your breath back.”

Floyd was becoming hysterical.

“Move this damned boat! Go after ’em!”

“No good,” the stranger said bluntly. “Those dangling telephone lines would ensnare the propeller.”

“But—how’re we gonna save ’em—?!”

The stranger smiled.

“You seemed to have the best idea.”

With a rapid blur of motion the stranger flung the trench coat and hat aside, revealing an odd garment beneath that conformed to his writhing musculature like a second skin.

Next, unbelievably, he plunged into the raging flood like the madman the deputy himself had been. He didn’t stand a chance.

For the first time in his life, Deputy Floyd Thomas fainted dead away.

“Easy now . . . you’re all right,” a deep, confident voice melted through the murk.

Floyd opened his eyes, still lost for an instant, on the edge of panic. He bolted upright on the cot and a strong hand firmly gripped his shoulder. It was the stranger from the flood smiling down at him.

“Where . . . am . . . I . . . ?” Floyd barely recognized his own voice.

The stranger’s grin grew. Immediately the deputy’s nerves calmed, even though he suddenly noticed that this big man in the strange suit inexplicably wore a mask.

“You’re safe in an emergency shelter, Deputy Thomas,” the eyes behind the mask were intense though somehow also comforting. “I taped up those ribs of yours, but they’re going to hurt. Try not to exert yourself unnecessarily. I’ll be right back.”

The masked stranger responded to a groan from across the room, moving like a great graceful cat despite his size. Floyd could see that he wasn’t alone in the shelter, not by a long shot. There were dozens of people there, many were standing by and staring at him, others reclined on similar makeshift cots and groaning in agony. Some were stone silent and moved not at all.

Miraculously, the deputy recognized the man and girl from the flood. The shared sentiment in their eyes was as obvious as it was overwhelming.

“He said that you tried to save us and almost drowned yourself,” the man said, choked with emotion. “We’re alive because of both of you.”

Floyd fought the tears for a moment, then let them flow.

The room was oppressively, hellishly hot and a searing fire burned in his chest as he surveyed his surroundings. It was a common office building, he decided, simply yet expertly converted for this emergency. There were dozens of gallons of fresh water, boxes of canned food, and even medical supplies. The situation had been well thought out, apparently prepared in advance by the masked man that was bending over an injured elderly woman and gently redressing her wounds.

“We don’t know who he is,” the man with the girl confessed, “but the others here say that he’s been rescuing people for days, tending injuries, bringing water and food . . . not eating or sleeping himself. He even performed successful surgery on Ruth over there.”

For the first time Floyd noticed a distinctive signet ring on the right hand of the masked man, glinting even in the dank muted light. The ring was unusual, made of a weighty metal, embellished with the grimacing face of a Skull. Dimly at first, then more vividly, ages-old stories from Floyd’s long gone grandfather flooded his memory. Thrilling tales told when he was just a boy, so long ago, but that he could never ever truly forget. It all fit. The strange costume. The rings on each fist. The heavy automatics holstered on his hips. Floyd looked long at the masked face, at the strong chin and handsome jaw. How could he still look so young? Was he truly immortal after all?

“I think maybe he’s our Guardian Angel,” the girl smiled.

“Or . . . a Ghost,” Floyd grinned back at her and the girl’s eyes grew round.

The Ghost Who Walks! The Man Who Cannot Die!

He was suddenly astonishingly aware of their savior’s identity.

The masked man returned, gently patted the still wide-eyed girl on her head, and quietly asked her father for some privacy with the deputy. He knelt next to Floyd.

“We need to talk, Deputy Thomas. Are you feeling up to it?”

Floyd was dumbfounded for a long moment. There were so many things he needed to say, questions he wanted to ask. He could never have prepared for the legend to come alive right in front of him. It took a bit of time to accept.

“So,” Floyd finally managed, “what is the Phantom doing so far from the Deep Woods?”

The Phantom laughed softly.

“Where else would I be?” he replied, frankly.

The deputy shook his head.

“When Sheriff Bruze left . . . he said nothing could be done. Not to expect any rescue for anyone left behind.”

“And yet, you stayed to help.”

Floyd shrugged.

“I’ve anticipated this catastrophe and prepared, best I could, to deal with it when the time came,” the Phantom continued. “Within the hour a squadron of Coast Guard Patrol boats will be here and carry you all to safety. They are instructed to take their orders from you concerning future rescue missions. You know this area, its people, and they trust you. There is still much to do.”

Floyd let that sink in. He nodded. The Phantom leaned close to him.

“Deputy Thomas,” he took a deep deliberate breath, as if suddenly seeking to control a smoldering temper. “I know that Sheriff Cauldon Bruze has done far worse than abandon this city. I need to know what happened at the Saint Louis Animal Hospital. I understand that you were there.”

The deputy nodded again, suppressing a shudder as the Phantom’s eyes narrowed through the slits of the mask.

“Not much to tell,” he began uneasily. “Doc Cansino and the Sheriff . . . they had a history together, did you know? Years ago he’d been a night watchman for her clinic. Some drugs went missing. He gambled a lot, was always needing money. The Doc couldn’t prove it was him, but she fired him anyway. There was always bad blood between them after that, even after he won the election. Anyway . . . with the storm coming, the Sheriff ordered the Doc to evacuate. He’d already commandeered her own vehicle for himself, so she couldn’t transport her animals. She refused to leave. He went in the place and starting shooting everything. Killed most of them, I guess, before I could stop him. Somehow the Doc took his own pistol from him and forced him out at gunpoint. She blew out all four of the tires on the van, too. Couldn’t believe it. Last I saw of the Sheriff, he was high-tailing it on foot. Stubborn lady, that Doc.”

The Phantom smiled slightly.

“Then,” Floyd went on, “when the storm surge came, the Doc’s whole damned place was just swept away. It was an old building, made mostly from cypress. I saw it sailing away like a clipper ship, forced through the flood, probably now deep into the swamp. Just didn’t seem real . . . none of this does.”

The oppressive weight of the moist, muggy air abruptly grew lighter as the sound of boat motors droned from below. As if on cue, the Phantom stood to his full height. He seemed well satisfied by what he’d been told. “She can’t be still alive . . . you can’t go into those swamps alone!” Floyd gasped, grimly realizing the masked man’s intentions.

“It’s an old debt,” the Phantom said softly. “Devil, it’s time.”

The deputy was startled as a silent grey shape rose from a darkened corner. Protectively, the great mountain wolf padded toward his masked master.

“Besides,” the Phantom nodded, “who ever said I’d be alone?”

Quetzalli smudged the blood away from her busted lip. She keeled in the corner, still half off-balance, crouched on one knee. For half a second she considered dishing back more than she’d got. The gun in Sheriff Bruze’s hand made her think better of that.

“Tell me the numbers,” Bruze towered over the locked safe, spinning the dial with his rough paw-like fist.

Quetzalli narrowed her eyes back at him, saying nothing.

He checked the revolver, satisfied that it still contained two bullets. He’d taken it back from her easily as if she’d been a child. She hated her own weakness, for not using it when she’d had the chance. Pistol firmly in hand, he absently tossed the empty deer rifle out the window. It’s last round had been spent on Alan. Looters, drug addicts, and savagely starving alligators had absorbed a lot of ammunition in the past few days and bullets were scarce as diamonds. Bruze felt lots better gripping a loaded gun again.

“The numbers, Quetzalli . . .” he barked again.

Ever so slightly she shook her head.

Bruze stomped furiously around the safe, his great bulk causing tremors in the already sagging floorboards. Two fugitive conspirators had come in the motorboat with Bruze, now looming dangerously in the back of the room near Alan’s body. The tension crackled in unison with the dropping air pressure and the distant rumbling thunder.

All Hell was about to break loose.

“Look, Doc,” Bruze menaced her closer. “We aim to take that morphine . . . and any other drugs you got in there. Stuff will be worth a fortune now that the hospitals are wrecked. Even animal tranquilizers will be like gold. The way I see it, you’re living on borrowed time as it is. We’re in the eye of the storm right now. The rest is coming. And soon. It’ll be worse than before. Just give us the goddamned drugs, and we’ll take you outta here.”

Quetzalli’s pale brow creased as she looked down at Alan. The frozen hint of a smile on his chalky face was heartbreaking.

“Why’d you kill him?” she murmured, at length.

Bruze barely glanced at the corpse.

“Figured you still had my gun,” he shrugged. “Didn’t trust the college kid, that’s all. Knew you wouldn’t have the stomach to use it.”

A faked grin cracked his weathered face as he cocked the hammer, aiming the barrel between her eyes.

“The numbers, Doc. I mean it.”

It was Quetzalli’s turn to smile.

“Or what?” she scoffed. “I give you the drugs and you’ll kill me anyway. I won’t help you murder this town.”

Bruze’s face twisted and grew red. Slowly, dramatically, he swung the gun toward the three cages in the back of the room. The things inside seemed to sense his intentions, suddenly growling in triplicate.

Quetzalli’s heart jolted in her chest. She hid her fear best she could.

“Really?” Bruze almost laughed. “How about these last pets of yours?”

She knew he meant it. She’d seen it before.

“You know,” Bruze cocked his head toward the two men who’d come with him. “I was telling Justin and Jimbo here about that pet project of yours right when we first spotted the building here in the swamp. You’re sinking, you know. Whole damned place will be swallowed up before morning.”

He approached the cages and violently kicked the closest one. The animal inside glowered with hatred, its splinted and bandaged paw raking at the bars.

“Anyway . . . yeah, I told them how you got good government money for taking care of these damned vermin. Just don’t seem right, using my taxes for such nonsense. Ain’t right at all.”

“Wolves aren’t vermin,” Quetzalli hissed.

Bruze blinked at her for a moment, almost stunned that she still refused to comply.

“All right,” he aimed at the grey, snarling head. “I’ve got two shots left. Justin . . . Jimbo . . . find some clubs. After I shoot this one, we’ll beat the other two to death. The last slug is for the Doc.”

Quetzalli attempted to get to her feet as the other men lumbered away like automatons, rummaging through the debris in search of bludgeons as ordered. She was shaky, more weakened than she thought. Her cheek muscles flexed painfully. Bruze might’ve fractured her jaw. No matter. She was ready to pounce, claw, bite . . . whatever it took. Staggering again, she steadied herself. Damned if she was going out on her knees.

Bruze’s gaze upon the caged wolf remained deadly.

“Last time, Doc,” his tone couldn’t have been colder. “The numbers.”

She said nothing. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. Quetzalli’s small fists clenched and she crept slowly toward him. Instinctively, Bruze pointed the gun at her.

A sudden clamor resounded behind him. He jumped visibly, startled by the noise. The icy silence that followed unnerved him even more. Still, he couldn’t, dared not take his eyes off Quetzalli. He knew hot murder in a killer’s eyes when he saw it.

“Jimbo—? Justin . . . ? What in hell’s going on back there . . . ?” he was sweating, but the room felt colder. “Boys? Dammit—answer me!”

Only silence.

Then an awful scream bellowed from somewhere outside. Somewhere close. Another shriek followed, but seemed cut short. The voices had been of men . . . but they’d cried out like children caught in a nightmare.

Silence again.

Bruze felt frozen, unable to move. What was going on? Where in hell were they?

With a wet, splashing thud the crumbled form of Jimbo was flung inside through the window. Justin immediately followed, striking the sopping floor like a bundle of boneless rags. Both men were unconscious, their arms and legs twisted at unnatural joints and uneven angles. Upon their crushed, sunken jawbones was a livid scarlet welt shaped very much like a Skull.

Bruze forgot about Quetzalli then, and she nearly about him. Both of them stared soundlessly at the window as a giant figure crept in with the liquid ease of a prowling panther. The creature’s skin-tight clothing was covered in swamp slime and Spanish moss. The fierce masked face was terrifying and predatory.

The Phantom stood before them silent as a ghost.

“Put down that gun,” unlike the rest of him, the voice seemed real enough.

Bruze still could only stare, almost blankly. The gun in his shaking grip wavered, but was still pointed at the Phantom’s chest.

A Skull-ringed hand, practiced, sure, and unshaken, touched the automatic pistol in its holster. Piercing eyes burned through the mask.

“You can’t win, Bruze. Forget it.”

Bruze slightly lowered the weapon, darting quick glances all about in a growing, frenzied panic. He even glanced for a second at Quetzalli, with the lost, frantic face of a madman. No one knew what to expect. Not even the Ghost Who Walks.

Suddenly, like a crazed cornered animal, Bruze lunged himself at the Phantom. Together they crashed across the room, their weight snapping the splintering floorboards and letting in more of the swamp. Bruze flailed with his one free arm while the Phantom held the gun hand fast. The big sheriff was wild, vicious. His kicking weighted boots scuffed away skin, as thick calloused fingers dug into bruising flesh through the strange slippery fabric under his monstrous grip. In a fast, ferocious motion that same savage hand clawed at the Phantom’s throat. The room whirled and blurred for the Man Who Cannot Die . . . but only for an instant.

The Phantom’s driving fist felt ribs crack and collapse, as Bruze dropped his deadly strangle-hold. Another piston-like blow chopped against bone, leaving the deep crimson mark of the Skull against Bruze’s shattered jaw. He dropped limply to the floor, coughing up fragmented molars. Never had he been struck so hard, and so fast.

Somehow, through his panic and terror, Bruze had retained his grip on the gun.

The Phantom seemed almost a ghostly double image as Bruze struggled to his feet, half-conscious yet still seeking a killing shot. His spastic finger jerked the trigger with a snap. The Phantom had already drawn his own automatics before Bruze’s wild bullet glanced off the heavy steel safe with a screaming ricochet.

Before Bruze could fire again, a bristling grey demon leaped at him from another window. Yellow-green eyes burned with feral hatred as the long jaws tore into the man’s wrist like an iron trap, taking him down. The wolf! What was left of Bruze’s sanity was close to snapping. He could still hear the raging growls of all three of the shaggy beasts still in their locked cages.

A fourth wolf! How could this be?

Devil’s teeth met bone, and beyond. No one was allowed to point a weapon at his master. The wolf’s response had been immediate and terrifying. Bruze’s wrist lost all sensation as nerves and tendons severed. The gun discharged harmlessly.

“Devil—that’s enough,” the Phantom’s command wasn’t loud, but the wolf obeyed instantly.

The struggle was over. Bruze curled up in shock, whimpering through tightly clenched teeth, a shadow of what he’d been mere moments before.

Devil rejoined the Phantom, reveling in the affectionate softly spoken praise of his master. The wolf then sniffed the air and turned his intelligent eyes toward Quetzalli. His shaggy head tilted left, then right, and he padded curiously over to her. Astonished, she knelt down to meet him.

“Devil . . .” she nearly whispered, tears filling her eyes. “. . . I’ve missed you, too.”

The Phantom watched the emotional reunion with a gentle smile. For several moments neither he nor the woman would speak. Finally, Quetzalli reluctantly released the wolf from her embrace and looked up at the man who’d saved her.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said at last. “I can’t believe you found me.”

The Phantom helped her to her feet. His firm grip felt reassuring on her wrist which bore a golden bracelet with a strange mark, like an image of crossed swords. An identical likeness was etched upon the heavy ring worn on his left hand, the hand closest to his heart.

“The Phantom forgets no one wearing his Good Mark,” he replied, as if he was reciting an ancient proverb. “Devil and I owe you too much.”

The wolf whined softly at the woman, wagging his bushy tail. Quetzalli’s gentle fingers lightly stroked a spot behind his right ear, instantly finding the long-healed surgical scar from her life-saving sutures.

“Still good as new,” she smiled, and Devil lightly licked her hand.

“Now let’s open these cages,” the Phantom said. “There’s a bad storm coming . . . and there’s room enough in the boat for everyone.”

The End

MARTIN POWELL has been a professional writer since 1986 and is perhaps best known for Scarlet in Gaslight, the Eisner nominated graphic novel featuring Sherlock Holmes and Count Dracula. Martin has contributed to many other classic characters such as Kolchak: The Night Stalker, The Spider, The Avenger, Captain Midnight, Frankenstein, The Domino Lady, and The Ghost. His comic book work has been celebrated in a special exhibit at The International Museum of Cartoon Art at Boca Raton, Florida. He lives in a creepy one hundred twelve year old haunted house in Minneapolis with artist Lisa Bandemer, their two nearly human dogs, and five diabolical cats. Martin received a Captain Action doll with a Phantom costume for Christmas when he was six years old, and he hasn’t been the same ever since. You can learn more about Martin and his work at http://www.comicspace.com/martinpowell/ or at his MySpace page http://www.myspace.com/martinpowellphantomshadow.

The Ghosts Who Walk

By Craig Shaw Gardner

“Ah Mr. Walker. So good to see you again.” The hotel clerk frowned at his computer screen. “You have not been with us in quite some time.”

Actually, the Phantom thought, he hardly remembered the hotel lobby. But Mr. Walker had been here many times—many Mr. Walker’s had stayed here over the years. And besides the computers and a few modern light fixtures, He doubted this lobby had changed much in the last hundred years. That was the way Mr. Walker liked it.

He took his passport back from the hotel clerk and tucked it into the breast pocket of his tailored business suit. On this trip, the Phantom wore a disguise of another kind.

The desk clerk offered him a key. “The Prince of Wales Suite, as per our instructions.”

“The Prince of Wales,” Walker agreed. From the way the clerk leaned forward, he could tell the other man wanted to say something more.

“It is the only suite that still opens with a key. The rest of the locks are controlled by computer. It is reserved for our most distinguished guests.”

“Do you have many thefts?” the Phantom asked before the clerk could make any more enquiries. Petty burglary had been a cottage industry in London Hotels for many years.

The clerk frowned even more deeply at that. “Far fewer than the norm. And we have successfully prosecuted three separate cases in the last two years.”

In other words, the Phantom thought, the answer was yes. And no matter how advanced the security system, thieves could find a way around it. No, the Phantom had found other, more successful ways to discourage thieves—stories and legends about a man who never dies—“the Ghost Who Walks.” But those legends held power back in his jungle home. London was another matter entirely.

“I’ll call a bellman to carry your bags.” The clerk hit a small silver bell at his side. “I trust you’ll find everything quite satisfactory.”

He nodded pleasantly as the clerk turned back to his duties. The staff had always treated “the Walker family” well here. Mr. Walker, after all, held a controlling interest in the hotel. lt was always wise to diversify one’s investments, or so his grandfather had thought when he first bought the place.

The clerk nodded a final time as he returned to his computer screen. His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, Mr. Walker. It appears we have a package for you.”

The clerk handed him an envelope, letter sized, of purest white, slightly yellowed at the edge. But the Phantom could feel something hard and heavy sealed inside. He would open it when he reached the privacy of his room.

Who would leave him a package? And how long had it waited here for him?

“Eddie, please take Mr. Walker’s bags to the Prince of Wales Suite?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Walker, if you would follow me?”

The Phantom looked to his left and saw a compact man of advanced years pick up his suitcase and overnight bag. The man, who wore a bellman’s uniform, had a full head of snow white hair and an easy smile, but his back was bent a bit and his shoulders slumped, perhaps from a life of carrying bags.

The bellman led the way to the elevator at the far side of the lobby. He glanced up at Walker as they waited for the lift’s arrival.

“If you’ll pardon an old man’s curiosity, there was a Mr. Walker who stayed in the same suite years and years ago. Might he be a relation?”

First the mysterious package, and now this. The hotel was full of surprises. Thanks to his life in the jungle—and certain rare and exotic plants he cultivated there—the Phantom did not age in the same way as most men. Even though decades had passed since his father had last stayed here, he imagined he and his father would appear to be of a similar age and general look. And Eddie must have worked here, all those years ago.

“He might,” Walker replied vaguely. “My family has used this hotel for years.”

The older man nodded. “I’ve been a bellman here for nigh on forty years, and it’s been quite an education.” Eddie touched his white shock of hair with a pair of fingers. “The body’s a little bent these days, but the brain’s as keen as ever. I’ve always had a head for detail. It helps me to take care of the needs of my guests.”

“Well, you’ve certainly impressed me.”

Eddie frowned as a crowd of overdressed ladies bustled by. “Watch it there. The lobby always gets crowded at tea time.” He tapped his hairline again. “But about my memory. It’s not as sharp as all that. The Prince of Wales Suite is vacant more often than it is in use—it’s reserved for special guests of the owner, as they tell me. So it’s easy to remember who comes and goes.”

So Mr. Walker was already special? He was unused to the world of modern-day London. It was only now that he realized that using his privilege might compromise his anonymity. He would have to be more careful how he acted once he left the relative safety of the hotel.

“Oh! Excuse me!” An older woman fell heavily against him. The Phantom caught her before she could reach the floor.

“Sheila dear!” the man by her side called. “Don’t make a scene.” He reached forward and grabbed the woman’s left hand. “I’m afraid my wife has had a bit too much to drink.”

“So sorry,” she murmured in the Phantom’s general direction. She was quite stylishly dressed—perhaps a bit overdressed, actually, for the middle of the day—wrapped in a mink stole and sporting an elaborate diamond necklace. The Phantom felt something scrape against the back of his hand as her husband pulled her free of his grip. He glanced at his skin and saw the slightest of scratches. She must have scraped him with one of her impeccably polished, scarlet nails.

The woman smiled weakly as her husband bustled her away.

“The lift’s here,” the bellman called as the door opened before them. “Let’s get you away from the crowd.”

The Phantom thought that was a good idea. He was more used to the rhythms of the wild than he was to the press of the city. Maybe that’s why he had stayed away so long.

No doubt he should have come to London sooner. Certain things could not be done from his jungle home. Even in this age of satellite communication, people reacted better if they could connect their business with a face, a reassuring voice, a warm handshake and a smile. His goals were for peace and understanding—something you could no longer take for granted, but rather had to negotiate for in this modern, increasingly hostile world. And this negotiation was best conducted in person, one human being to another.

The Phantom shook his head. Why did he feel so ill-at-ease? While he had not been in London for quite some time, he had visited other cities. He always found so-called “civilization” disorienting for the first day or two.

“Here we are sir. Top floor. If you would just follow me?”

The Phantom walked the short distance to the door of the suite.

“If I might have the key?” Eddie quickly unlocked and opened the door, then stood aside to allow Mr. Walker to enter.

“I’ll give you a quick tour,” the bellman said as he entered the suite behind him. The Phantom followed Eddie from room to room, not wishing to explain he had been here before. It was every bit as impressive as the last time he had stayed here—two bedrooms, a sitting room, a sun room and a balcony overlooking the park. The rooms themselves were filled with dark, polished wood and marble, the walls and fixtures barely changed in the hundred years since the hotel was built.

“You get a real sense of history with this place,” Eddie said as he, too, looked around. “But you’ve got all the latest as well. They’ve upgraded to all the modern conveniences—you’ll find outlets for your computer in every room. But this is still the grand old hotel. They used to say it was haunted, you know.”

“Quite impressive,” the Phantom agreed, handing Eddie a folded bill.

“Thank you much sir.” The money disappeared smoothly into Eddie’s pocket. “If there’s anything you need, you know who to call.” He walked quickly from the room, closing the door behind him.

The Phantom realized he was staring at the closed door. He had a bit of a headache. Perhaps he should sit and compose himself for a moment.

But first he needed to check that everything was in place. And he had been left a message. He pulled the sealed envelope from his inner pocket. Inside was a single, folded sheet of paper, as white as the original color of the envelope.

Mr. Walker.

This message has been sent to you because of certain unforeseen changes around the hotel. There are certain individuals present who do not have your best interests at heart. Be certain to study your history.

Hope all goes well,

—T.P.

T.P.? The Phantom?

This appeared to be a warning from a Phantom that had gone before him—a warning from someone long dead. If that was so, then something must have triggered this missive, something his father—or his grandfather—had put into place years ago.

Check your history, the message had said.

His headache was getting worse.

The room began to whirl around him. This was more than fatigue and a strange city. Something had been passed to him—where? When that woman had fallen . . .

He shook his head to clear it. He had to squint to focus his eyes. He finally spotted the book in the upper left-hand corner, dark purple leather stamped with gold letters.

WALKER’S HISTORY OF THE WORLD.

He pulled the heavy volume three inches out from the shelf, and the wall swung away to reveal the hidden room.

His grandfather had had this suite built to include something extra—a place where he might store those items from his jungle home that he might find a need for in London. And the Phantom needed them now.

That long-ago Phantom had stocked a small jungle apothecary—dried herbs, leaves, roots and the like—cures with a long shelf life. As part of his training, he had memorized the best natural cures for a hundred different ailments. He staggered across the tiny room—more like a large closet, shelves lined with books and jars, drawers hiding weapons and other necessities. What could he use now, when he was almost too far gone to do anything but determine his symptoms?

His hands shook as he opened a pair of the airtight containers and quickly grabbed a few of the more universal antidotes. He swallowed them dry.

He hoped he had taken them in time.

He could no longer keep his eyes open. He felt as though he was falling.

Everything was dark.

He was in the jungle.

“You do not look well, my son.”

He looked up, and saw the lined face of his father, half-hidden behind the Phantom mask. “What should I do, father?”

“What are your symptoms?” His father’s tone reminded him of the lessons he was given as a boy. He quickly explained how he thought the poison was delivered, and the nature of his body’s reaction.

His father nodded approval. “Now you must choose your cure. You have studied them all, and studied them well? Which one would you choose?”

He told his father of the twin remedies he had ingested.

“You may have acted in time to counteract the immediate effects. But with a drug of this power, there are long-term issues as well.”

Did his father tell him the rest, or did he already know? If he had not taken the drugs quickly enough, he would be paralyzed. And if his body was not found in three days, he would be dead.

His father continued: “We are dealing with someone who knows many mysteries of the jungle, someone with a knowledge close to that of the Phantom’s. This poison is designed not to kill you immediately, but to make you suffer. I believe we are facing someone who has been an enemy for a very long time.”

The older Phantom looked up suddenly. “Our time is at an end. But remember, I am with you always. All the generations of Phantom are near.”

He glanced down at his body, and realized he was no longer a boy, but the full grown man he had been for so many years. But his father had been gone so long. He had a hundred questions. He wanted to call out to his father, but his voice was gone.

And so was the older Phantom.

He opened his eyes.

He awoke to the sound a key in the door. The key turned more than once, the locking mechanisms clicking in and out of place.

But the door didn’t move.

He heard a muffled curse from the other side. The door shook violently, but didn’t open.

The door was bolted from the inside. How? It must have happened when he opened the door to his secret room—a failsafe built by the room’s original designer, so there would be no surprise visits from the maid while the Phantom was working.

The Phantom turned his head. It hurt, but the muscles worked. With some difficulty, he got to his feet. The poison was still in his system, but he didn’t think it would kill him. He quickly pulled open one of the lower drawers in the hidden room, and selected a short knife, which he hid up his right sleeve, and a snub nosed .38 that he could stick into the back of his waistband. He would show them that the Phantom held a surprise or two as well.

In the meantime, he would like to see just who it was that would poison the Phantom. But that meant letting the enemy in. Which he would do, after making one short phone call.

The front desk assured him it would be no problem.

He replaced the hotel phone in its cradle, then kicked the hidden door closed as he lay back on the floor, face up, so that his gun would be hidden underneath him. He wanted to be prepared for whatever else his foes had to offer.

The hotel room door sprung open as if it had been pushed by invisible hands.

“What the—” a man’s voice began.

“Must be some sort of time lock,” a woman replied. “Either that or we managed to find a secret catch.”

So they still thought they were in control. The Phantom lay perfectly still on the floor, as if their plan to poison him had succeeded.

The two walked into the room—the woman who had “accidentally” scratched him and the man claiming to be her husband. The Phantom waited patiently to see what they would do next.

They walked beyond where he could see without moving his head.

The woman spoke first. “Ah, and here’s our Mr. Walker. I told you that scratch would do the job.”

“You’re right, as always,” the man replied.

“It’s important to be right.”

“Can he see us?”

“And hear us, too. I thought both were more important than a quicker form of death. He needs to know his fate, and just who brings it.”

The man sighed.

“And what do you have to say about it?” the woman demanded. “I make the rules here.”

“Your need for vengeance . . .” the man began, but his words trailed away to silence.

She leaned directly into the Phantom’s field of vision. Underneath her heavy make-up, he could see she was still a handsome woman. “He was never enough of a man for me. Ah, Mr. Phantom. What I might do to you, if I were a younger woman. But that day is passed. You had your chance, many years ago, with a certain female pirate? Too bad you can’t speak, and tell me how fondly you remember me.

“But we haven’t seen each other in years. I left the jungle behind and took on far less worthy adversaries. Comparatively petty crimes, that have left me wealthy and bored beyond measure. But I never forgot you, or your treasure.”

Her scarlet grin widened as she continued. “That jungle poison coursing through your system? You are familiar with it, in its natural form. But we have refined it. It attacks your nervous system twice, first to paralyze, then to kill. Even one with your superb conditioning will be rendered helpless.”

“Are you sure he can hear you?” the man said.

The Phantom could do more than that. These were the sort of criminals who had fought him in his youth, and his father and grandfather had fought before him. He had caught and sent most of them to prison. He hadn’t given much thought to those few who had escaped.

Now, he had to overwhelm them, despite a body still stunned by the effects of their drugs. His reactions would be slow. He would have to rely on his training and discipline. He had to wait for the right moment.

The woman paused to look at her companion. “You’re right for once. Seeing him paralyzed like this is like talking to a wax dummy. But I’ve come prepared for anything.” She rummaged through her purse.

“I’ll make certain he’s aware of everything.” She smiled back at the Phantom. “This will revive you a bit.”

She sprayed a foul mist full on his face before he could make a move.

The jungle had returned. He was surrounded by heat, and light. A familiar face looked down at him.

“The drugs fight in your system,” his father remarked.

“Is that why I’ve returned? I can’t stay here long. I can’t let them win.”

His father smiled. “Their kind never wins. Not in the long run. The Phantom sees to that.”

“I have to find a way to overpower them.”

“You talk as though you are alone. The Phantom is never alone.” He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Your time will come. You’ll know what to do.”

The woman had slapped his cheek. His eyes opened.

“Was that supposed to happen?” the man asked.

The woman frowned, her face so close to the Phantom’s that he could smell alcohol on her breath. “I don’t understand. That should have made him more alert for a few minutes. Give his facial muscles a bit of movement. Of course, it will also hasten his death. Perhaps my new distillation of the drug was more potent than we imagined.”

“Look at that!” the man called. Bright shafts of light stretched across the room as the sun set over the city.

The woman turned her head to glace out the window. “The colors are beautiful. But it gets dark so early this time of year.” She smiled back down at the Phantom.

“It’s your last sunset, I’m afraid. And you get quite a view from the penthouse. Pity you can’t see any of it.”

The Phantom groaned, as if he could only now get his voice to work.

“Well, he’s looking at you now.”

“Not for long, I fear.” She shook her head in a parody of regret. “So you won’t let me boast to my heart’s content? Even now, the Phantom frustrates me. But you won’t frustrate me for long. As I began to say, I am the only one of the lady pirates left alive. And I am very very rich. But I can never be rich enough.” Her smile returned. “That is, until I take the Phantom’s treasure, something that would never happen when you were alive, protecting it in your jungle home.”

“Others—will look for me,” he whispered.

The woman laughed. “Your business associates? That company that was going to help you make improvements to your jungle home?” She glanced at the man standing by her side. “I’m afraid we’ve never properly introduced ourselves. We are Amalgamated Industries, I’m afraid. We are the ones that brought you here. And those schools will never be built. No plans will ever be drawn for new irrigation systems. Oh, our operatives will enter your jungle, but for quite a different purpose.”

“You brought me to London to kill me?” the Phantom asked.

“It was the only way. You are a man of mystery, whoever you really are. It took us years to track you down.” She stroked his cheek with her well-manicured hand. “But you, or whoever went before you, was a bit more trusting, back in those days when the Phantom led the Jungle Patrol. Small things, really, little bits of information that needed to be pieced together. But half a century ago, somebody talked, and others remembered. It has been information that I paid dearly for over the years, information that led me to track the movements of one Mr. Walker.

“And now, at last, we are here.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Tell them to go away!” the woman whispered.

“Not now!” the man announced loudly. “We’re busy!”

The Phantom tensed his legs. The muscles worked, but he could barely feel them.

“Sir, I need you to open up.” The voice was muffled by the door. “There’s been an emergency.”

“I guess we can kill two as easily as one,” the woman agreed in a soft voice. “You had better let him in.” She looked up as the man walked toward the door.

The Phantom made his move.

“Telegram for you, sir,” the bellman announced as the door swung open. But the intruders both held guns in their hands. The Phantom threw his weight against the woman, knocking her off-balance. But the man was too far away. He lifted his gun, and pointed it at the bellman.

The Phantom saw Eddie’s face for an instant before the lights went out.

All three of the others in the room cried out in surprise. The first man tripped, falling loudly to the floor. Eddie fell back against the now closed door. But the Phantom was used to moving in the dark. He had spent his youth exploring caves in his jungle home. This hotel room was only a cave of a different sort.

He followed the male intruder’s breathing, and found a pressure point on the back of his neck. The man fainted dead away. The woman was using a wall to climb back to her feet. The Phantom reached from behind and knocked her out as well. But he needed something to keep them subdued. He envisioned the room as he slid the knife from his sleeve.

“Ah, there it is.” Eddie had flicked on the light switch. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine, Eddie,” the Phantom replied, “thanks to you arriving when you did. I’m afraid I had to use some of your telephone cord to tie these two up.”

“Perfectly understandable, sir,” Eddie replied, as though he saw people tied up in front of him every day.

“We’ll need to call the police,” the Phantom continued. “But they know me.”

“No doubt, sir. Always glad to be of service.”

“You certainly were,” the Phantom agreed. “It was quick thinking on your part to turn off the lights.”

Eddie seemed surprised for the first time. “Turn off the lights? I’m afraid I didn’t touch them.”

But how? the Phantom thought but didn’t say. Some other failsafe, perhaps, installed by his ancestors? But how would it have been triggered?

“I’d say faulty wiring,” Eddie ventured, “if the whole electrical system hadn’t been upgraded a couple years back. But then, they used to say the top floors of this place were haunted.”

“Haunted?”

Eddie smiled. “This is far from the only strange thing I’ve seen here, Mr. Walker. Working in a hotel for forty years can be an education. But I need to find you another phone.”

And the Phantom would have to find some way to properly thank him. He glanced down at his captives, both bound and gagged, and thought about his strange power outage. Was the hotel haunted? Or were the Phantoms of the past still with him, as they told him in his dreams? Over the years, he had seen many things in his jungle home that defied a conventional explanation. It seemed fitting that the Phantom’s mystery might extend to London as well.

The Phantom needed to see these two arrested, and then get himself checked for any lingering effects of the drugs. Who knew what had really happened here?

He had seen many strange things in the Jungle.

And London was just a jungle of a different sort, especially when you were known as the Ghost Who Walked.

The End

CRAIG SHAW GARDNER is the author of more than thirty books, including A Malady of Magics and Revenge of the Fluffy Bunnies. His numerous media tie-ins include The Cylon’s Secret (a Battlestar Galactica book), and the novelization of the first Batman film, which was a New York Times bestseller. You can read more about him at his website, www.CraigShawGardner.com. which features, among other things, an ongoing comic strip called The Big Whosis, inspired, in part, by The Phantom!

About the Artists

DOUGLAS KLAUBA is an award winning illustrator who was born in Chicago with a pencil and a paintbrush always in hand. His work is instantly recognizable by its pulp magazine and retro movie poster influences, blended to create what Klauba calls his “Heroic Deco” style. Doug’s paintings have been included in the art annuals of Spectrum: The Best in Contemporary Fantastic Art and the Society of Illustrators. His painting Mercury Jack has exhibited in the Spectrum Show at the Museum of American Illustration and his painting da Vinci’s Dream was awarded Best in Show at the 2005 World’s Fantasy Convention. www.douglasklauba.com

RUBÉN PROCOPIO is a multi talented artist with extensive animation industry experience. Fascinated with comic books and cartoons since childhood and guided in his artistic development by his father Adolfo, an acclaimed Walt Disney Imagineering sculptor, Rubén joined Walt Disney Feature Animation at age 18 and trained under Eric Larson, one of Disney’s legendary “nine old men.” Rubén’s 25 year span at the studio included working on many acclaimed Disney feature films such as The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and The Lion King, and is credited with restoring the maquette process to feature animation film production. In 2003 Rubén founded Masked Avenger Studios (www.MaskedAvenger.com). which provides sculpture, design, comics and animation services to the entertainment and collectibles industry. Clients include Walt Disney Studios, Warner Bros., New Line Cinema, Cartoon Network , Laika, Enesco, Electric Tiki and DC Comics. Rubén created the Chameleon Man™ a original comic book character published in Silver Comics, as well as recently illustrating a Ron Marz story and cover for the First U.S. Phantom Annual published by Moonstone Books. A huge Phantom fan and the masked heroes of yesteryear lead to the name of his studio and collaboration in Electric Tiki’s Classic Heroes line which also includes a statue of the Phantom himself. Rubén resides in Burbank, California, where his interests include classic movies, horses, travel and weekly visits to the comic book store.