THE PHANTOM
CHRONICLES

VOLUME 2

15 all new prose stories, with spot illustrations. Harlan Ellison, Ed Gorman, Robin Wayne Bailey, Mike Bullock, Tom DeFalco, Win Scott Eckert, Matthew Baugh, Joe Gentile, Mark Justice, Jeff Mariotte, Joe McKinney, Nate Meyer, Will Murray, C.J. Henderson, Martin Powell, and Aaron M. Shaps.

BONUS section HC exclusive: Ed Rhoades “History of the Phantom”, and a new Phantom story by Saurav Mohapatra & C.J. Henderson!

For the VERY first time anywhere . . . this book will have the first team-up ever of the Phantom and the Green Hornet . . . a brand new story fragment written by master wordsmith Harlan Ellison!

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!

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

With an introduction by the Phantom creator’s Lee Falk’s daughter Diane Falk!

THE PHANTOM CHRONICLES 2

All stories © 2010 by King Features Syndicate, Inc (All Rights Reserved)

. . . except for “The Soul of Solomon” and “What Is, Is; Sometimes, Perhaps, What Ain’t Shouldn’t Be” © 2010 by The Kilimanjaro Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Harlan Ellison is a registered trademark of the Kilimanjaro Corporation.

The PHANTOM is a trademark of Hearst Holdings, Inc.

Produced under license.

The Green Hornet and Kato are Copyright © 2010 by The Green Hornet, Inc. All rights reserved. The Green Hornet, Black Beauty, Kato, and the hornet logos are trademarks of The Green Hornet, Inc.” Produced under license.

ISBN

(Hardcover)

10 digit: 1-933076-66-6
13 digit: 978-1-933076-66-9

Cover Painting: Mark Romanoski.

Interior Illustrations: Stephen Bryant.

Illustrations for Harlan Ellison’s story provided by Rubén Procopio and Jeff Butler.

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 written consent of the publisher and the copyright holder.

Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Moonstone Entertainment, Inc, 582 Torrence Ave., Calumet City, IL, 60409

www.moonstonebooks.com

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Diane M. Falk-Fitzpatrick

GHOST STORY

Tom Defalco

ENCOUNTER ON A JUNGLE NIGHT

Aaron M. Shaps

THE DEVEL’S KETTLE

Will Murray

THE PHANTOM OF COBTREE MANOR

Matthew Baugh

A GRIM CERTITUDE

Nathan Meyer

THE SKY WARRIORS

Mark Justice

THE LEOPARD’S EYE

Jeff Mariotte

I OF THE STORM

Mike Bullock

NIGHT VISITOR TO BANGALLA

Robin Wayne Bailey

A MAN OF HIS WORD

Joe McKinney

JUSTICE DELAYED

Ed Gorman - Richard Dean Starr

DEVIL AT MY SIDE

Joe Gentile

NO GHOSTS NEED APPLY

Win Scott Eckert

THE DIAMONDS OF THE BRUMOLI

C.J. Henderson

THE SOUL OF SOLOMON

Harlan Ellison

Bonus Section

THE PHANTOM HISTORY

Ed Rhoades

THE PLAGUE

Saurav Mohapatra - C.J. Henderson

Introduction

Diane M. Falk-Fitzpatrick

An early memory of mine of our father, Lee Falk, was our holding hands while walking together on my first day of school. His support and encouragement for education, and all constructive efforts was lifelong. He also respected true feelings. (Even if we trusted someone who did not deserve our love and trust, rather than saying, ‘I told you so’, he would express respect for the fact that we really believed in the original goodness of that person or project).

As a parent, our father emphasized traditional education and values. His popular writing emphasized classic values, and he did not encourage his own children to read cartoons; instead, telling them stories in advance of publication. Our father used his children’s responses to a new Phantom or Mandrake story to determine whether or not he would contiuue to use a specific plot or storyline. The primary message in his stories was based on the maxims that “Might does not always equal Right”; and, “a quick Mind with serious study and Thought, leads to Success.” About writing, he would say, “write what you know.” He also applied his standards and principles while vetoing or approving any film scripts of ‘The Phantom’, or other related projects that involved his writings and creative work.

Lee Falk, our Father and Friend, was a Renaissance man. He was a musician, composer, playwright, theater producer and director for more than 300 theater productions, with another cartoonist, the famous Al Capp. Lee Falk was the creator and continuous writer for more than seven decades of The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician. (Since he also wrote for both the Sunday papers and the week-day—each had their own sequential stories; this meant that he was writing four(4) simultaneous and original stories), although born to Jewish parents, our father, was interested in and comfortable with interfaith environments and he attended church service with his family (and even smiled in church), and sang Christmas carols around a community Christmas tree in Gramercy Park, in New York City, where we lived in the 1950’s, near the Players’ Club, venue for great theater and arts professionals, like himself.

He also encouraged us to study different faith traditions; even alluding to a panoply of all the great religious symbols and founders as being important to study. Although he was not conventionally religious, he was passionate for social justice, and a good family man. He would even say to his children, “I may not agree with your ideas, but I defend your right to express your beliefs.”

Also, in a way, his characters were and are ‘Messiah-figures’ who always overcame evil with goodness. Either with the brute force in the jungle of ‘The Phantom’, or with the telepathy and magic of ‘Mandrake the Magician’.

His passion for social justice was expressed especially through his work with theater. While he worked with famous celebrities to sell-out audiences for more than 300 theater productions in summer and winter stock theaters in Boston, Cambridge, Marblehead, New York, and in Nassau, in the Bahamas, he desegregated theaters especially in the South, with the great Afro-American actor, Paul Robeson. Our father worked with many celebrities: Marlon Brando, Charlton Heston, David Niven, Ethel Waters, Celeste Holmes, Louise Hart, Constance Moorehead, and many others, all of whom greatly respected him. He would also direct the same actors and theater productions to perform in the Black churches in Nassau in the Bahamas where theater had never before been performed.

The continuing storyline allowed our father to write about societal ills. The Phantom’ flourished because he dealt with the timely issues of most interest to his readers. The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician has had themes about the environment, international conflicts. Human Rights, and the Women’s Movement. And, his lifelong memberships with ‘Amnesty International’ and P.E.N. are further evidence of his passion for social justice.

His great love of theater and his extensive talent and writing ability came together when he compared the writing of plays to that of creating a comic strip. “I think the art of writing a comic strip is closer to the theater and to film technique than any other kind of writing I know. When I write stories for ‘Mandrake’ and ‘The Phantom’, I write a complete scenario for the artist in which I detail the description of the scene, the action, and the costumes. If new characters are introduced, I write descriptions and dialogue for each panel. With each scenario in front of him, a cameraman could take this and shoot it, or an artist can take it and draw it.” (Even the great French filmmaker, Alain Renais, claimed inspiration for his ‘Last Summer in Marianbad’ from ‘Mandrake the Magician’ noticing a movement panel to panel that one reads in the bande designe or the sequential art of ‘comic strips’)

While our father was continuously involved with writing, theater and political issues to improve everything from the environment to social justice, and said many times, “He who is not involved with the Action and Passion of his Time, will be judged not to have lived at all”, also valued personal family times together.

Advice to his children included, “find something that you love; and, if circumstances permit, work for free,” and “You will have success and victory in spite of difficulties.” and, “when you write, write what you know”; and, “My tastes are simple, I love the Best.”

Family life in New York City included Sunday walks in Central Park, visits to the city’s great museums, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Hayden Planetarium and the Natural History Museum, art galleries, and theater visits and viewings. Weekends also included visits to the studios of artist friends, and attendance at theater events of fellow actors, directors, and producers. Our father was also a creative chef, creating dishes from his own inspiration as well as from historical recipes. Eventually he published with the The Cartoonists Cookbook (with such recipes as “Eggs Falk to the Fourth Power” and Truro Cape Chili) with family, friends and colleagues.

Our father lived for more than 40 years in New York City, at The Beresford apartments with a panoramic view of the New York skyline and Central Park. He frequently conversed with friends in the arts and literature, including Alan Lomax (with his own department at The Library of Congress for the study and recording of original music and dance of world cultures: Cantometrics and Choreometrics); collage and abstract expressionist painter, Shirlann Smith; mosaic and community arts sculptor, Pedro Silva; the Pulitzer Prize winning Norman Mailer; and, Ed Duffy; Jack Kahn of The New Yorker Magazine; Mexican silversmith Xavier Gonzales and his wife, Ethel Edwards, famous for her canvases, the series, ‘Moon Viewing Parties’, among notable others.

He also spent summers with his family in Truro, on Cape Cod where he invented 50 cent, 75 cent and one dollar sunsets (these last were considered the most spectacular). He often shared a sense of fun, adventure, and humor.

When asked about what is next, he always replied, “I continue to enjoy life, and I hope that the Phantom and Mandrake do also. I have been writing about them for so long. I feel that I am a chronicler of what they say and do: They are very strong characters with lives of their own. And I am happily married with wonderful grown children and grandchildren. There is not a lot more one could ask for.”

Somehow our connection came ‘full circle’ during the very last days of his life, while breathing through a heavy oxygen mask, all we could do was hold hands.

To our father, Lee Falk, we Thank You for the great creative legacy that you have left to us and to the World. May others learn from you and imitate your great Heart, Mind and Spirit.

THE
PHANTOM
CHRONICLES

VOLUME 2

Ghost Story

By Tom Defalco

Tree branches clawed at my eyes. Their roots snaked toward my ankles and tried to rip me from my feet. Fear twisted in my gut, wrapping around my heart like a rusty wire. Sweat rained from my brow, soaking my shirt and filling the air with an acrid stench. I was running through the jungle as if the Devil himself were behind me. To tell you the truth, I would have preferred the Devil. He would have just settled for my soul. The monster behind me had already slaughtered my friends and wouldn’t stop until it tore me limb from limb. I knew I was only postponing the inevitable. There was no escape. I was already as good as dead. It was only a matter of time before the Ghost caught me.

I burst through a wall of underbrush and almost stumbled as I realized that I had somehow reached a small dirt road. I whipped my head to the left where I spotted a clearing about a mile or so away. It led to a small village. I stood rooted to the ground for a moment, trying to decide if I should run toward the village or away from it. The monster would follow whatever I chose. It would never stop hunting me. I decided to head for the village. I wanted one last drink before I kissed this world goodbye.

I forgot where I first heard it, but there’s an old expression that says criminals are supposed to be a cowardly and superstitious lot. I might have read it in the bible or one of those old comic books that I used to find at the mission trading post. That expression never really applied to me. At least not until tonight. I ain’t saying I’m a stranger to fear. Far from it. Some of the scrapes I’ve been in, you’d have to be a complete nut job if you weren’t afraid. But I ain’t no coward. Ain’t never backed down from a fair light or run out on a friend. The same could be said for being superstitious. Sure, I’ve been known to curse my luck from time to time. Who hasn’t? That doesn’t mean I’m superstitious. I always believed a man made his own luck. I never bought any of that supernatural jazz. Tarot cards, horoscopes, black cats, good luck charms—c’mon, nobody in his right mind believes in that garbage! The same goes for fate or ghosts. At least that’s what I used to think. My entire world changed a few hours ago. That’s when I first became a superstitious coward. That’s when I first saw the Ghost and knew I was destined to die. I’m not kidding, man. The Ghost is real and he’s out there somewhere, waiting in the jungle. It’s only a matter of time before he comes for me. He’s going to kill me and no one can stop him.

I was on the edge of exhaustion when I finally reached the village and my eyes cut toward a bar that had obviously seen better days. I didn’t care. I wanted a drink and a place to catch my breath so I pushed my way inside.

It was a real dump. There were a half dozen tables, a dirt floor, a few locals and a tall grizzled bartender with muscled arms that looked like a pair of steel cables. He wasn’t happy to see me. I didn’t blame him. I was a disheveled mess with wild hair, torn clothes and more sweat and dirt than any man had a right to carry. He took one look at me and his right hand instinctively snaked under the bar, reaching for a gun, a baseball bat or some other kind of a pacifier.

“Maybe you should keep walking, son,” he said with a well-practiced glare.

“I need a whiskey,” I said, shoving a fat roll of bills in his face. “Better make it a full bottle.”

He looked down at my money, realized they were euros, and his face visibly twisting as greed warred with common sense. He’d been around long enough to recognize the stink of desperation and danger that clung to me like an angry lover, but he was a bartender not a priest. Greed won. With his eyes locked on mine, he reached back without looking and grabbed an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Red. A glass that might have been washed in the last decade soon joined it.

I offered him my roll and he took the whole thing. Under other circumstances I probably would have complained about the price. It really didn’t matter tonight. Nothing did. I knew I wouldn’t live to see another morning and it didn’t matter if I died with money in my pockets or not.

Of course, I still had plenty more. For the first time in my life, I was a rich man. I carried a small fortune in the nap sack secured to my back. More than enough to buy anything I wanted. Make that almost anything. There was no bargaining with the Ghost.

A couple of day laborers were already at the bar along with a big guy who sat by himself in the corner, sipping something white and milky. I wasn’t in the mood for company so I picked up my bottle and glass. I headed for a table and sat facing the door. I wanted to see the Ghost and look him in the face before he killed me.

With my eyes riveted on the door, I poured myself a quick Johnny Walker, followed by another. I didn’t know what death would be like, but I was trying to prepare myself. Would I feel anything? Would I even know that I was dead? What if my parents were right? What if there really was a heaven or hell?

I took a long hard look at the car wreck that had been my life and started wishing I had the time to make some amends. I wanted a second chance. Yeah, but I’m sure that’s how everyone feels when they know the Grim Reaper’s at the door.

“Are you all right, mister?” The big guy asked. He moved so silently that I didn’t even realize he had joined me until he spoke. He wore a black watch cap pulled low to his brow, casting most of his face in shadow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I sure did,” I said, laughing without any trace of humor. “A real monster who is coming to kill me.”

I was about to tell the big guy to take a hike when I suddenly realized that I didn’t want to die alone. I figured him for a stumblebum down on his luck, looking to cage a few drinks, but I didn’t care. I wanted the company so I invited him to join me.

I offered him the bottle and was surprised when he shook his head.

He didn’t want a free drink. He just wanted to talk.

“Tell me about this ghost you saw,” he said. “What makes you think he wants to kill you?”

“Because he’s already killed all my friends.”

The big guy’s grim expression grew even grimmer and that’s when I first took a good look at him. This was no bum. There was something intimidating, almost overwhelming about the way he stood and the set of his jaw. I almost felt like I was in the presence of royalty. Dark glasses covered his eyes, but I could still feel them boring into me, urging me to speak.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

I sighed and felt my entire body go numb. Part of me realized that this could be the one and only time I got to tell my side of the story. Who knows? If he liked it enough, he might even repeat it, spreading it around until I became another one of those jungle legends. It was the only shot I had at some kind of immortality. I figured it would be nice to be remembered after I was gone so I started at the beginning . . .

My name is William Jurgans, though most everyone just calls me Fast Willie. I guess you could call me a punk. I’ve been mixed up in a little of this and that—gambling, hijacking, leg breaking. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m a simple, honest crook. I never had the ambition or the guts to become a master criminal. I never robbed anyone who couldn’t afford it and never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. Sure, the Jungle Patrol might tell you different, but they got a pretty narrow view when it comes to criminals and crime.

My parents moved us over to Africa while I was just a kid. They were a pair of sincere born agains who signed on for what was supposed to be a two-year hitch with an evangelical group. Me, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. They packed me up with the rest of the luggage and took me along.

We lived in a rundown mission with a half dozen other families. I hated it and couldn’t wait to get back to the States. It was not to be. My parents seemed to be a lot more interested in thumping their bible than raising a child. While they were out preaching, I hung around the mission trading post. That’s where I learned how to smoke, drink and curse. It’s also where I first came to the notice of the Jungle Patrol. My so-called criminal career began with petty mischief and soon moved up the ladder to theft and burglary.

My parents were horrified by my behavior and promised to set me straight. To their credit, they really did try their best, but I was as already set in my ways as much as they were in theirs. They eventually decided to sign on with the mission for an additional two years. When they started making noises about a third tour, I realized they were never going to leave.

That’s when I decided to set out on my own I packed my clothes and slipped away one night. It was the last time I ever saw my parents. I assume they were as relieved to be rid of me as I was with them. I’ve been on the bum ever since, hoping to make a big score, one large enough to carry me back to the States in style. I’ve tried my hand at honest work over the years, but I’ve mainly earned my keep in the realm of the corrupt.

Yeah, I ran afoul of the Jungle Patrol on quite a few occasions and took a couple of short falls. That’s just the cost of doing business. I always did my time like a man. I never ratted out another con or played cozy with the guards.

I first met Louis “The Charmer” Citronno during one of those stretches. He was a mountain of a man, the kind you’d expect to move through life with an angry snarl and swinging fists. But Louis had been born with a silver tongue. He preferred talking to fighting and had this almost magical ability to talk anyone into practically anything. I know the Charmer had most of the prison guards in his pocket and heard a rumor that the warden had even fallen for a couple of his scams.

Of course, he also had his deadly side. A couple of cons once tried to corner him in the laundry room. Neither survived the encounter. Louis kept a small switchblade strapped to his right ankle and I’ve seen him use it maybe half dozen times. He didn’t particularly liked inflicting pain. He always aimed for the heart to prevent needless suffering.

Louis took a liking to me and we always kept in touch. We even worked a couple of jobs together after we got released. Louis focused on logistics. I hired the crews and performed the actual crimes. The Charmer knew he could depend on me to do my job and keep my mouth closed. I was a good soldier.

One thing about Louis, he always dreamed large. He used to talk about finding the score of score—the one job that would net him enough to retire in style. Unfortunately, he finally found it.

He called me out of the blue one day and we arranged a meet at a familiar tavern.

“Got a sweet deal coming together,” Louis said. “Couple of weeks back, I scored a contact with access to a big shipment of antibiotics that had somehow been misplaced.”

“Somehow,” I said.

“I didn’t ask about the details. They weren’t any of my business,” he smiled. “Anyway, I ended up selling the antibiotics to a handful of hospitals and clinics along the coast of Bangalla.”

“I suppose you made a big profit.”

“Actually, I took a loss,” his smile grew even brighter. “Sold them below the going rate.”

I leaned back and took a long pull on my beer. “I’m listening.”

“Figured I could con them into trusting me and set them up for an even bigger score.”

“Did it work?”

“Better than I ever imagined,” his smile was practically going nova. “I claimed my source could supply all the antibiotics they wanted. I just needed to pay for them in advance.”

“How much you get?”

“Nearly a hundred thousand euros.”

“Congratulations.”

“Didn’t even tell you the best part. I’m going to triple my stake by using those euros as a down payment on a shipment of guns for a warlord I know. That’s where you come in.”

It was now my turn to smile. “What do you need?”

“Half dozen men you can trust, horses, mules and supplies for four, maybe five days. We travel north for two, make the exchange on the third and scurry home as fast as our horses can carry us. I’ve already made the appropriate arrangements with my warlord friend and can handle things from there.”

“I assume you’ll be traveling with us.”

“Gotta protect my investment.”

“What’s my cut and how much can I offer each man?”

He threw out an initial offer. I countered with another and we haggled until we finally settled on fair price. It only took me a few days to line up my crew. I pulled in Bulldozer Bantalla who stood five feet five in his stocking feet, but was almost as wide as he was tall. Catman C’btambo made most of his living as a poacher. His weapons of choice were a pair of razor-sharp machetes that he called his claws and he specialized in stealing lion cubs from the government game reserves that he later sold on the black market. Sharp-eyes Salizar was a pretty fair shot with a rifle, who knew the jungle like the back of his hand and split his time between leading rich tourists on safaris and robbing their hotel rooms. I had worked with the Kebo brothers—Matty and Leon—on many a fine score and knew I could depend on them to watch my back and hold their ground if things went south. I also brought in Miles Jordon to tend the animals.

Counting me and the Charmer, I figured we’d need eight horses, a couple of spares and a half dozen pack mules. Of course, the first problem was finding a horse that could carry Bulldozer. Miles thought outside the box and suggested a domesticated water buffalo. I thought he was kidding until he showed up with one. Bulldozer was a little wary at first, but was game enough to mount it. He soon learned how to direct it and even named it “Babe.”

The second problem occurred on the night the Charmer laid out his map and told us where we were supposed to meet the gunrunners.

“That’s awfully close to the Bangalla border and the edge of the Deep Woods.” Sharp-eyes said.

“The border’s at least a dozen miles away,” the Charmer pointed out. “What’s the problem?”

Sharp-eyes nervously glanced around the table, but nobody responded right away. Bulldozer finally spoke up, “No Bangalla, me. Don’t want no trouble with the Ghost.”

The Charmer sat back with a neutral expression on his face. “As I’ve already said, we’re not going into Bangalla and I’m pretty sure you won’t be running into any ghosts on this job. Unless, of course, circumstances force you to make to make a few.”

Bulldozer slowly shook his head before continuing in the kind of soft voice one uses to speak to a petulant child, “My people believe in ghosts. The land is full of them, but they don’t scare me. No, there’s only one Ghost I fear and he lives in Bangalla.”

The silence grew so thick I doubted even Catman’s machetes could cut it. We all knew who Bulldozer meant. I first heard of the Ghost who haunted Bangalla back when I lived in the mission. He was a legendary figure that the natives spoke about in whispers. The new missionaries like my parents tried to discourage such talk. The older hands didn’t waste their time. They concentrated on battles they had a chance of winning. According to the legends, the Ghost was an immortal jungle guardian who protected the people of Bangalla from criminals, despots and pirates. He was also known by other names like, “The Guardian of the Eastern Dark” and “The Man Who Cannot Die”, but the most popular one was “The Ghost Who Walks.”

The Charmer didn’t believe in the legends anymore than I did, but he knew better than to challenge the lifelong beliefs of a man like Bulldozer. With an earnest expression, he looked Bulldozer right in the eye and said. “I understand your concerns and I share them. Running into the Ghost would be bad for business and very hazardous to our health. You have my solemn word that we will not cross the border into Bangalla.”

Bulldozer sat stone still, his face expressionless. He didn’t move for nearly a full a minute. Then, he slowly nodded. “No Bangalla, us.”

“No Bangalla, us,” the Charmer agreed.

Of course, he neglected to mention the string of Bangallan hospitals that he had already fleeced. I thought I was doing him a favor and being a good soldier by keeping mum. My mistake. He and the rest of the crew would still be alive if I had only opened my mouth.

We headed out the following day, riding at a leisurely, but steady pace. The Charmer carried the money in a nap sack that he’d occasionally pass to me whenever he wanted a break. It took the eight of us most of the first day to leave any trace of civilization behind. We could still see the lights from a couple of distant villages when night fell.

We settled around the campfire that first night and swapped old war stories. The Charmer hadn’t skimped on supplies, focusing mainly on thick steaks and baking potatoes. We ate hearty and laughed at each other’s tales of triumph and tragedy.

At least most of us did. Bulldozer moseyed off by himself and amused himself with a deck of cards. At one point, Catman called over to him, “Why you playing by yourself, big man? Bring those cards over here and we can have ourselves a real game.”

“These cards are not for games, no,” Bulldozer said.

Catman looked puzzled for a moment, turned to the rest of us and shrugged before launching into a story that involved an escaped lion club, a luxury hotel and banquet room filled with foreign teachers.

The party broke up around midnight. Two men were assigned to guard the camp at any one time. Since we only needed two shifts of three hours each to get us through the night, the Charmer and I both volunteered for separate shifts. We wanted to make sure one of us could keep on eye on the money at all times. The guys who got to sleep through the night didn’t complain.

I was paired with Matty Kebo the first night. I always liked Matty. He was a good man, but limited. He followed orders and could be trusted to do his end of a job. Unfortunately, he tended to party away his profits whenever he made a score and was usually dead broke within a couple of days. Although he was younger, Leon tended to be the more responsible brother. It usually took him a week or so to squander his new riches. On the plus side, the Kebo brothers were usually available and I’ve never known them to rat anyone out.

We hit the deep jungle by the afternoon of the second day. People like Bulldozer, Sharp-eyes and Catman feel right at home in the jungle. Not me. I hated the constant heat and the air which was so heavy with moisture that it was almost too thick to breathe. The stink of rotting vegetation and decomposing animals made me want to puke. Every step my horse took seemed to disturb a new swarm of biting insects. The occasional growls and howls of unknown predators put me on edge. The towering trees reminded me of the old mission church. I felt like I was heading up the long aisle for another scolding.

The Charmer and Sharp-eyes often paused to go over the map together. I noticed that a few minutes later Bulldozer would invariably ride up beside Sharp-eyes a few minutes later and question him, making absolutely sure we were giving the Bangalla border a wide berth. This must have gone on four or five times before Sharp-eyes had his fill.

“You ride that smelly buffalo up to me one more time and I’m gonna empty my rifle in its head,” Sharp-eyes said. “I’ll let you to guess where I’ll aim after I’ve reloaded.”

“Just checking, me,” Bulldozer said without a flicker of emotion. “No Bangalla, us.”

“That’s right, big man. No Bangalla, us.”

Everyone was a little on edge when we set up camp for that second night. We were scheduled to meet with the gunrunners a few hours after sunup so we were all on full alert. No matter how well you know the other party, no matter how many times you’ve successfully dealt with them before, any deal can go sour when money’s involved. We’re called criminals for a reason.

Bulldozer went off by himself again, but I decided to join him this time. He pulled out a deck of cards that looked a little larger than usual and shuffled them up. He dealt out ten cards, placing two in the center and arranging four more around them, one at each point in the compass. He laid out the remaining four in a straight line, one on top of the other.

He slowly began turning over cards, starting with the two in the center. That’s when I noticed they had different suits and pictures than regular playing cards.

“These are tarot cards,” I said. “You’re trying to read the future.”

“Yes,” he said, “And it always comes out the same.”

“I’m hoping that’s good news.”

Bulldozer looked up at me, his face filled with resignation. His gaze was locked on mine as he flipped over the next card. We both looked down to see a grinning skeleton sitting on a white horse.

“No good news, us,” he said.

I merely snorted and rejoined the others. Like I told you before, I ain’t particularly superstitious. Good or bad, I’ve always believed a man made his own luck. If all you needed was a fancy deck of cards to tell the future, every bookie would have one. Bankers would be trained to read fortunes so they’d know where to invest their money and the Jungle Patrol would arrest you before you had a chance to commit a crime.

Yeah, I didn’t believe in that superstitious nonsense. But I kept seeing Bulldozer’s look of resignation every time I glanced into the jungle. I wondered what was waiting for us out there.

We got an early start the next day. Our plan was simple. We split up a mile or so before we reached the rendezvous point. The Charmer, Bulldozer and me accompanied Miles and the pack mules into the gunrunners’ camp to make the exchange. I carried the nap sack with the money and wouldn’t surrender it until the Charmer gave me the okay. The Kebo brothers circled around to the East of their camp, Sharp-eyes took the West and Catman followed us from the South so we’d have them in a crossfire in case anything went wrong.

Yeah, we planned for everything.

Except for what actually happened.

We knew something was wrong right off. No one challenged us as we approached the camp and we didn’t spot a single sentry. These guys were well hidden or a might too overconfident. Either way, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were riding into a trap.

It was an ambush, all right. But it hadn’t been set for us. The camp was in ruins. The air was heavy with the stink of cordite. Tents had been torn and riddled with gunfire. Supplies lay scattered on the ground. A couple of discarded knifes and handguns gleamed in the morning sun. The grass still held the impressions of fallen bodies, but there wasn’t a single one to be seen. Whoever or whatever had attacked this camp had also carried off all the gunrunners and the weapons we had come for.

Bulldozer turned toward me, looking like a child lost in a storm. “It’s the Ghost,” he whispered.

“Don’t start that nonsense now,” the Charmer began. He was interrupted by the sound of rifle fire to our left. We heard three rapid shots.

“Sharp-eyes!” I shouted, reining my horse to the West.

“You two stay here,” the Charmer said behind me, knowing that neither Bulldozer nor Miles could keep up with us.

We covered maybe a quarter mile before the underbrush grew so thick that we had to slow down to a canter. I was tempted to leave the horses behind and continue on foot, but the Charmer wasn’t having any of that. We proceeded until we arrived at a spot that showed the traces of a recent struggle. The only sign of Sharp-eyes was his hunting rifle. It hung from a nearby tree branch, its barrel twisted, its stock cracked.

“His attacker was mounted,” the Charmer said, pointing toward horse tracks that led into the bush. “He’s circling around us, moving toward Catman.”

We followed the trail as it curved to the South, moving as fast as our horses could safely carry us through the underbrush. We soon spotted Catman up ahead. He was fighting a tall, dark figure that seemed to move with the speed of a striking snake. With a razor-sharp machete in either hand, Catman closed in on the shadowy stranger.

The Charmer and I drew our guns and were about to join in when a savage growl riveted our attention. A flash of fangs and fur seemed to spring from the jungle, causing our horses to rear up in terror and unseat the Charmer. A monstrous wolf snapped at my horse as if it were deliberately herding it away from the fight. While I struggled to regain control, a sharp whistle suddenly tore through the air. The wolf snapped off a final growl and raced back into the jungle.

I cut my eyes toward where I had last seen the Catman. He was already gone. So was the dark stranger, but I did catch a glimpse of a great white stallion as it disappeared among the trees. A stallion that bore an uncanny resemblance to Bulldozer’s card.

“Help me up,” the Charmer said, extending a hand. His horse had fled during the confusion so we had to share our ride. After he settled behind me, I returned to the gunrunners’ camp. Miles looked up expectedly, but Bulldozer merely stared at the ground.

“Who’s out there?” Miles asked. “Is it the Jungle Patrol?”

“We wish,” the Charmer mumbled.

“What do you mean?” Miles’ eyes ripped from the Charmer to me and then went back, again. “Where are the others?”

Gunshots erupted to our right, followed by a blood-freezing scream. I couldn’t tell if it was Matty or Leon. Not that it really mattered. I knew they were both as good as dead.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” the Charmer said as he mounted one of spare horses. “We’ll leave the pack mules and only carry enough food to get us home.”

“You go,” Bulldozer said and sat on the ground. “I stay.” He withdrew his deck of cards and started shuffling.

“Are you out of your mind?” the Charmer shouted. “Our only hope is to stick together.”

Bulldozer began to place the cards in the same pattern he’d used last night. “No one escapes the Ghost Who Walks.”

“Get up or I’ll kill you where you sit,” the Charmer said, aiming his handgun at the back of Bulldozer’s head. “You’re endangering us all.”

Bulldozer merely shrugged. “Already dead, us.”

“Suit yourself,” the Charmer holstered his gun in disgust, turning toward Miles and me. “What about you two?”

“You kidding?” Miles said. “I ain’t staying behind.”

I didn’t even bother to answer. I just turned my horse to the South and kicked it into a full gallop. The three of us raced along the trail, goading each other to go faster and faster. It almost seemed like the horses were just as afraid as we were and couldn’t wait to get home. They clawed up the ground as if as if the hounds of hell were nipping at their tails.

Miles had more experience in the saddle than either the Charmer or me and had already pulled a couple of lengths ahead of us when tragedy struck. His horse slammed into a partially exposed root and pitched forward, throwing Miles over its head as its front leg collapsed beneath it.

He hit the ground as his horse whinnied and writhed in pain.

The Charmer whipped out his handgun and quickly put the poor animal out of its misery. I dismounted and ran toward Miles. He lay on his back, moaning. Tears swam from his eyes and his left arm twisted away from him at an unnatural angle.

“What are we gonna do?” I asked.

“Leave him,” the Charmer said. “He’ll only slow us down in this condition.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Ain’t like we got a lot of choice,” the Charmer leveled his gun toward Miles. “But I won’t let him suffer.”

Before I could protest, a single shot roared. But it was the Charmer who screamed in pain. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was shaking his empty gun hand as if it had suddenly caught fire. I was puzzled until I suddenly spotted the dark-clad stranger. He was maybe a hundred yards behind us, holstering his gun as he sat on his white stallion. He had obviously shot the gun from the Charmer’s hand.

I suddenly realized that my own horse had been spooked by the gunshot and had bolted into the jungle. I was on foot and knew better than to ask the Charmer for help. I’d already seen enough of his brand of mercy.

With a snarl, the Charmer grabbed his reins with his good hand. However, even before he could coax his horse into a trot, a flash fur leaped past me and slammed the Charmer from his saddle. The wolf had returned.

The Ghost rode up to the Charmer and leapt from his horse to land directly in front of him. Towering over the dark-clad figure by head and a half, the Charmer charged forward, his fists swinging wildly. The Ghost seemed to move without effort, casually drifting between the larger man’s blows. His own punches were powerful and accurate. Each one backed the Charmer up a few steps until the Ghost nailed him on the jaw with a solid right uppercut that lifted him from his feet.

Red-faced and soaked with sweat, the Charmer hit the ground, but he still had some fight left. I watched as he reached for the small switchblade that he always kept strapped to his right ankle. He whipped it toward the Ghost’s thigh, obviously hoping to cut an artery. Once again, the shadowy stranger seemed to anticipate his opponent and nonchalantly stepped to the side before finishing the Charmer off with a roundhouse kick to the side of his head.

The Ghost raised his head and stared straight at me. I could feel my blood turning into ice as he peered into very soul.

I suddenly understood why Bulldozer hadn’t bothered to run. He knew escape was impossible. So did I. It didn’t matter. I ran, anyway. I didn’t have Bulldozer’s courage and just wasn’t ready to accept my fate. I ran and ran and kept on running until I ended up here.

I knocked back another Johnny Walker and looked at the big guy across the table.

“An interesting story,” he said. “How does it end?” His black watch cap was still pulled low to his brow, casting most of his face in shadow, but I still could feel his eyes burning behind those dark glasses. I felt compelled to keep speaking.

“You tell me,” I barely managed to say.

“You can keep on running,” the Ghost said. “Or you can turn yourself in. The Jungle Patrol has an outpost at the far end of the village. If you like, I’ll even escort you to their door.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. “How come you’re willing to spare me?”

A hint of a smile played across his lips.

“Come on,” was all he said, “Don’t make me regret this decision.”

He walked me down to the Jungle Patrol, but left me to enter alone. I turned over the nap sack full of money to the desk officer and asked to see his superior. A few minutes later I was singing my heart out in an interrogation room. They videotaped my entire confession, typed up my statement and presented it to me for my signature.

When they led me to their jail, I got the surprise of my life. I found the Charmer, Sharp-eyes, Catman, Miles, the Kebo Brothers and Bulldozer waiting for me. They all looked like they’d been through hell. Bulldozer was the only one who wasn’t wearing bandages or some kind of cast. He was also the only one who even bothered to look up when I entered the cell.

“No one escapes the Ghost Who Walks,” he said.

The End

A former editor-in-chief of Marvel Comics with over thirty books currently in print, TOM DeFALCO has written comic books, graphic novels, short stories, prose novels and books like Spider-Man: The Ultimate Guide and Comic Creators on Fantastic Four. He was a major contributor to The Marvel Encyclopedia and The Marvel Chronology. DeFalco has recently worked on Star Wars: The Clone Wars for Titan Comics, The Man From RIVERDALE for Archie Comics a Flash Gordon-related story for Ardden entertainment. The Flying Fool for Moonstone’s Air Fighters Comics, The Black Knight for Marvel Digital Comics and The Spectacular Spider-Girl for Marvel Comics.

Encounter on a Jungle Night

By Aaron M. Shaps

I used to own a Rottweiler named Ruger. He lived to the age of nine.

He was the greatest and most loyal friend I’ve ever known.

Toward the end, the last six months or so, his life became increasingly difficult as one health problem after another reduced the once robust and virile beast to a mere shadow of his youthful self. No one of these ailments alone was serious enough to bring him down, but it was their cumulative effect, you see, that served to break both poor old Ruger’s body and his spirit.

There were good days, even in those twilight times, when I caught unmistakable flashes of my old friend, however fleeting they might have been. But, more often than not in those last few months we spent together, whenever I looked into his big, brown eyes I understood that even though my friend had gone almost completely blind, he could still see very clearly the darkness just over the horizon.

It’s been more than thirty years since I made the decision to put him down—perhaps the most difficult choice I’ve ever had to make in a long lifetime of difficult choices—and nary a day’s gone by that I haven’t thought of him, haven’t missed some endearing quirk of his indomitable personality to one degree or another. Yet, in recent times, I find my memories of Ruger weighing more and more heavily upon my consciousness. Perhaps this is because I feel now as Ruger did in those final days. If you were to look into my eyes at this very moment, you would undoubtedly see the same thing that broke my heart every time I saw it in his the unquestionable knowledge that the end is drawing near.

The realization that my time is almost up.

It is for this reason alone that I have, at lone last, summoned the courage to put pen to paper and revisit the events of that fateful night that happened so many years ago, and half a world away.

I have seldom spoken, and certainly never written, about my experiences in the War. For the most part, this is because I fought on the side that is widely regarded—and rightly so—as being very much on the wrong side of history.

I was a Nazi.

I realize I am most likely in dire jeopardy of losing you at this very moment, so please believe me when I say that during the War I had no familiarity whatsoever with the nightmarish Final Solution, nor did I ever so much as lay eyes on one of the abominable death camps that claimed the lives of so many poor souls. These are not the actions of the proud and noble Germany I was raised to revere in my heart, and the unconscionable atrocities perpetrated by my government have, as well they should, haunted me throughout my life.

Thus, while I am in no way an apologist, let me say that I was only a boy of nineteen when Hitler began his march across Europe and I began my military service. My father and grandfather before me had both been fighting men, so a soldier’s life was something to which I was heavily predisposed, and while I had little interest in politics or international affairs, I was afflicted with a terrible and chronic case of the wanderlust. As this was the case, I had few qualms about my decision to enlist, preferring the adventurous and highly romanticized life of a warrior to the dull and repetitive existence of, say, a filing clerk or tradesman.

I proved to be a quick study with regard to military tactics—a fact that frequently led to my finding myself on the front lines of Germany’s offensive push to conquer the continent. By early 1943, the year in which the events of this story occur, I was a battle-scarred combat veteran, having been involved in more than my fair share of savage, blistering bloodshed. Although I had initially joined the military in order to avoid a life of humdrum repetition, I found myself growing extremely weary of—and highly desensitized to—the monotonous combat of the European theatre. Thus, when I heard that the High Command was seeking battle-tested volunteers to help protect a remote research installation deep in the jungles of Africa, I jumped at the chance to escape and pursue adventure in the mysterious, untamed wilderness of the Dark Continent.

My arrival was precipitated by a monstrous storm that blasted the coast for an entire day and displaced thousands of natives from hundreds of villages. The destruction was unlike anything I had ever seen, and bear in mind that I’d just spent the last several years of my life waging one battle after another across the charred face of a Europe engulfed in the most epic war the world had ever tried to survive. In retrospect, I was a fool not to have recognized the terrible omen for what it was.

At the time, however, I simply took it all in stride, my attitude being that I had desired adventure and now here it was before me. In truth, regardless of the hellish devastation that was there to greet me, I found the Dark Continent to be as completely alien and wonderfully exotic as one would no doubt expect to find the surface of the Red Planet.

It was exactly as I’d hoped it would be.

Thus, as countless villagers attempted to wade through the rising, mud-thick floodwaters behind us, collecting the shattered pieces of their primitive lives, our convoy pushed on, plunging deep into the primordial jungle and toward a future engulfed in shadow by the very real and ever-present threat of unknown peril.

For several hours we forged ahead through the impossibly thick brush on a makeshift trail that seemed to lead straight into the heart of the great forest. I had been struck almost immediately by the dense nature of the jungle air—never in my life had I encountered humidity so miserably heavy and almost unbearably stifling—and the overall atmosphere helped contribute to a general sense of mystery and foreboding that permeated the night and was so palpable it seemed I might be able to slice through it with my boot-knife were I to try.

I knew almost nothing about the outpost itself, little more, in fact, than it was known as “Outpost Zero,” and that it had been built into some kind of existing structure. Although exactly what kind of structure one might find deep in the jungles of Africa suitable for a military installation of such importance was something I could not guess. The outpost was commanded by one Colonel Baron Helmut Maximilian Hein, a man whose name was familiar to most Germans, but who was, himself, shrouded in the shadows of mystery.

Colonel Hein was an adventurer and star athlete he competed in both fencing and wrestling at the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin—and possessed a singular intellect to match his staggering physical prowess. As a pilot he led the Wehrmacht to crushing victory in countless campaigns, becoming one of the most decorated warriors to serve under the German flag. An expert in several fields of science, he was integral in the development of the Heinkel He 178 prototype jet aircraft, and was rumored to be involved in a top-secret space program that was said to be one of the Führer’s pet projects.

By the time I’d first heard of Outpost Zero, Hein had retired from active combat and abandoned the fields of rocketry and aeronautics, disappearing into the emerald forests of Africa to pursue new research. It was murmured he had chosen to focus his formidable mind on the science of biology.

Lost in thought, I wandered back to the tedious nautical voyage that had brought me to this strange place. There had been a deck hand aboard the vessel, a native of the region named K’wasi, who had helped us to pass the time on those long, uneventful nights at sea by regaling us with bizarre tales of African lore. Of particular interest were his accounts of a mythical protector spirit—a “jungle devil,” as K’wasi called him whom the natives referred to as “The Ghost Who Walks”, or “Guardian of the Eastern Dark.” This Jungle Devil had been watching over the indigenous population for centuries, and, according to K’wasi, countless rogues and miscreants had met with an untimely demise after crossing paths with the spectral avenger. One could always identify those benevolent individuals who had encountered the Jungle Devil, the storyteller related, by the mark he would leave upon their skin—“The Good Mark,” given to those over whom the forest spirit had decided to keep vigil. As for those malevolent souls who had been fortunate enough to survive their confrontation with The Ghost Who Walks, there was—according to the native—an “Evil Mark,” or “Skull Mark,” bestowed upon their flesh as a reminder to them and a warning to others that the Guardian of the Eastern Dark is never to be trifled with.

As we rolled on through the teeming thicket, I couldn’t help but wonder what K’wasi’s Jungle Devil might think of a foreign military force in the jungle under his protection. As I stared into the night I could almost feel him watching us from the ink black shadows that encircled us. I strained my vision, imagining what it might be like to see, even if only for a moment, a pair of ghoulish, glowing eyes peering back at me from the brush.

Then, all at once, I was snapped back into the moment as the rumbling convoy crested a ridge and I caught my first glimpse of Outpost Zero. There, rising from the ancient woods’ jade foliage and silhouetted against the brilliant light of the full moon, was the gray stone face of what appeared to be a massive European castle.

The word “surreal” does not even begin to aptly describe the moment. I felt as though I must have lost my mind, that somehow this was all some kind of wild fever dream, the synapses in my brain suddenly misfiring to an erratic and completely unpredictable degree.

We drew closer, and the colossal front gate shuddered to life, opening like the mouth of some great leviathan that threatened to devour us all. As my heart pounded mercilessly in my chest, the convoy passed slowly through this cavernous maw and into the mind-numbing enigma that lay beyond.

After spending close to a fortnight at Outpost Zero, much of the overriding air of mystery about the place still remained. Many questions loomed large, not the least of which concerned the origins of the fortress itself.

Upon my advent to this inexplicable and oddly unsettling locale I had made fast friends with another young officer, a man named Krieger, who, like me, had taken this particular post in the hope of finding unforgettable adventure in a far-off land. Krieger had been stationed at the outpost for more than a month before I arrived, yet he could offer little more in the way of illumination than I.

“Colonel Hein discovered this fortress on an earlier expedition,” he had explained. “It is a forbidden place. The natives—many of them—are afraid to come here. He believes it was erected by the English after the crusades, built from stone dragged from a quarry many kilometers to the North—he found an ancient, overgrown road that trails off into the jungle in that direction on one of his excursions. According to him, the castle was meant to protect something the Templars carried here from Arabia. Something lost to time.”

Hein.

Nearly two weeks had passed and I had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of the reclusive figure, he appeared to spend all hours of the day and night locked away in his laboratory methodically conducting his research, about which I knew nothing. Nor, it seemed, did anyone else I’d encountered. Krieger had spied him only twice—once, on guard duty late at night, as Colonel Hein had marched off into the jungle alone, armed to the teeth and in search of God knows what; and again, the next afternoon, when the elusive scientist returned to the fortress crusted with blood and dragging the carcass of a large, mutilated, unknown animal.

My new friend had been visibly shaken by the incident.

“The creature,” he recalled, “appeared to be some strange mixture of beast and man.”

Krieger’s tale and the many unanswered questions about the nature of Hein’s unfathomable work notwithstanding, I was nevertheless beginning to settle into my new role. My duties were simple: I, like the other hundred or so men stationed at the castle, had been charged with guarding the perimeter of the outpost, watching the skies for aerial surveillance and attack, and patrolling the forest in the immediate vicinity in search of spies, saboteurs, and enemy assault parties.

In our leisure time we were given free run of the huge structure—the exception being Hein’s private quarters and laboratory—and when not standing guard or on patrol, Krieger and I spent the vast majority of our free time exploring the jungle surrounding the castle in search of new clues as to its origin. On one such outing we stumbled upon the Colonel’s ancient road and decided to follow it into the jungle for several kilometers, hoping, perhaps, to discover some rarified artifact of antiquity.

It was there, deep in the prehistoric jungle on that hellishly hot and humid afternoon, that I first heard the roar of the Beast.

As my friend and I crouched to examine the crumbled paving stones of the old road, there came a sound in the distance that shook the very ground upon which our feet were so firmly planted; a rumbling, thunderous din that sent countless flocks of brilliantly decorated birds hurtling from the emerald trees surrounding us and up toward the heavens as fast as their brightly colored wings could carry them. As we stood suddenly, seized in the icy clutches of primal, unrelenting fear, a herd of snorting, squealing wild pigs came throttling toward us through the brush from the direction of the cry, surging past us without casting so much as a wayward glance in our direction as they fled the source of that monstrous call.

The roar came again, louder this time. Closer. And another sound, that of trees being effortlessly uprooted and cast asunder like kindling, as something mountainous in size tore through the heavy foliage and made its way toward us. It was fight or flight time, and in that moment I devolved into something considerably less than a man. I was in pure survival mode, nothing but lizard brain instinct, as Krieger and I began to run in the direction of the castle as fast as our piston legs could propel us. I hacked frantically at the thick vines before me, my machete a blinding blur of gunmetal gray gripped desperately in a white-knuckled fist. I could no longer hear the horrific commotion behind me—the only audible sound was the deafening throb of my own racing heart—and I dared not look back out of sheer terror over what I might see closing in.

Even running at full speed, it seemed to take twice as long to traverse the distance back to the castle as it had to travel from it. When we finally did reach the fortress, we were nearly shot dead by a heavy machine-gunner sentry as we exploded from the thicket, two ghost-white wild-eyed lunatics drenched in sweat and babbling near-incoherent gibberish about giant jungle monsters giving chase.

Word of the incident spread like wildfire through the ranks, and the next day the order came directly from Colonel Hein that the forest surrounding Outpost Zero was now off-limits, save for scheduled patrols.

Several nights later, Outpost Zero was pummeled by a tropical storm of biblical proportions. The heavy rain beat at the ground like a million tiny fists, and lethal bolts of lightning, each accompanied by a deafening thunderclap, streaked through the sky and down toward the earth in elaborate spider web patterns. The raw, celestial energy split ancient trees in two and erupted in brilliant flashes of light on the horizon as it pierced the heavy canopy and struck the jungle floor below.

Krieger and I were engaged in an engrossing game of cards with several other soldiers, keeping dry and warm in a large interior room illuminated by the crackling flames leaping wildly inside an elegant fireplace built into one wall. So engrossed were we, in fact, that the lot of us failed to notice a new presence enter the room.

“I’d like to play a game of chess,” an unknown voice rang out. “Is anyone here any good?”

The moment gave us all pause. We turned as one and looked toward the open doorway—there, standing silhouetted in the buzzing electric light from the passage outside, was Colonel Hein.

He cut an extremely imposing figure, taller than I had expected and very muscular, though he didn’t possess the barrel-chested, bull-necked frame of a circus strongman; it was more like the lithe, graceful muscularity of a male lion. His golden hair had been cropped extremely close, but he wore a full, thick beard like that of a Viking. He seemed to radiate power, the flickering firelight dancing about his ice blue eyes as he held us in an ardent gaze. In that instant, I fully believed the man to be the descendent of a mighty dragon-slayer of yore—given all I’d experienced thus far, had he brandished a blood-soaked battle-axe and tossed the severed head of some great and terrible lizard into our midst, thick, black smoke still trickling from its lifeless nostrils, I would not have been in the least bit surprised.

Seizing the opportunity, I answered, breaking the silence that hung over the scene.

“I can play, sir. My grandfather taught me when I was seven. It’s been one of our favorite pastimes ever since.”

“Are you any good?” he asked.

“I . . . don’t normally lose,” I said. “If that means anything . . .”

He regarded me carefully for a moment. There was something unnerving about it. I felt as though I were being studied by a tensed, crouching predator, one about to pounce and tear out my throat with a glistening set of razor sharp fangs. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention.

“We shall see,” he replied. “Come with me.”

I sat across a small table from Hein in his candlelit library, studying the chessboard carefully. The Colonel was a deft adversary—I had expected nothing less—and as the contest progressed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was toying with me—holding back to some degree in order to prolong my inevitable defeat.

Then, midway through the game and much to my surprise, Hein initiated a conversation.

“You’re one of the men who had the encounter with the Beast out in the jungle, yes?” he asked casually, never lifting his eyes from the checkered surface of the board. “Did you see it, or merely hear its call?”

The question struck like a stiff jab.

“No . . . I . . . I mean, yes, I was one of the men, sir. But I didn’t . . . I couldn’t see anything,” I answered. “I only heard it . . . a terrible roar . . . and then the devastation it caused as it thrashed about. It seemed enormous. Monstrous.”

The time had come.

“Do you . . . do you know what it is?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied, still studying the board. “It is this outpost’s first line of defense.”

“First line of defense against what, sir?” I said. “King Kong?”

He laughed, looking up from the board.

“A wonderful motion picture,” he said. “I saw it three times when it opened in Berlin.”

For a moment he was quiet. And then:

“Have you interacted at all with the natives since your arrival?” he asked. “Have you heard the tales of the Ghost Who Walks?”

“The Jungle Devil,” I answered. “Yes. But surely you can’t . . . you don’t think that’s real, do you?”

There was a heavy silence as he regarded me thoughtfully, leaning back into his chair after making his move.

“One can find many curious things in Africa, my friend. As you have already discovered. Did you know, for example, that here, in this day and age, one can still find primitive tribes that practice, as a matter of ritual, the act of cannibalism? For them this is not something to be feared and abhorred, it is merely a way of life, and one that is perceived to have great benefits at that. For instance, when a village shaman dies, the other wise men might consume his brain in the hope of digesting his vast reservoir of knowledge. This is not at all unlike the more common belief that one can absorb the unique gifts of a particular animal by feeding on its carcass. Now, although these practices might seem foolish to you or I, these people have been behaving in such a manner for centuries. So I would ask you to consider this—if these practices had never been seen to work in any tangible way, don’t you think the indigenous people might have given them up long ago?”

“I’m not quite sure I understand,” I said. “You believe these things to be true?”

“I did not say that,” he replied. “I simply said that there are many curious things to be found here, and my point is that one should consider these things very carefully before dismissing them outright. Oftentimes, one’s survival might very well depend on this kind of open-mindedness.”

He looked back down at the board, made another move.

“Let me give you another example,” he began again. “Several years ago I heard of a series of grisly murders in Sierra Leone. According to the stories, these gruesome crimes were perpetrated by a cult of shape-shifters—Leopard Men, to be precise—who gained preternatural powers by imbibing a magic potion called borfima, which was said to be brewed from their victims’ intestines.

“Naturally, I resolved to travel to the region in order to kill these were-leopards and discover the secrets of their abilities,” he continued. “It did not take me long to find and slay my quarry, but upon doing so I was disappointed to discover that my prized trophies were merely men in costumes—human savages dressed in the skins of real leopards and armed with jagged steel claws. As for their legendary borfima potion, I found that although the concoction was brewed from human intestines, the active ingredient was actually a wild fungus possessing potent psychotropic properties. The Leopard Men, it turns out, killed while lost in the throes of powerful and violent hallucinations, only believing themselves to have been transformed into some kind of half-man, half-animal.”

“I think I understand,” I said.

“Do you?” he asked, and there was a seemingly sinister light about his eyes that I found to be extremely unsettling.

“Shortly after I uncovered the truth about the Leopard Men, I was told of a series of similar crimes near the Ubangi River. This time the alleged murderer was said to be a were-lion.

“But the Demon Lion of the Ubangi was different,” he went on. “This murderer hunted alone, and he had been seriously wounded on several occasions. Yet, despite these mounting injuries, the bold nature of the slayings only increased over time, as if the Demon Lion were growing more and more powerful with each and every brutal kill.”

He paused, allowing me to take this in for a moment.

“Ultimately, of course, I discovered that—as with the Leopard Men of Sierra Leone—the Demon Lion was not some shape-shifting cat-person. He was, like them, a man under the influence of a powerfully hallucinogenic ‘magic’ potion, one made from the very same fungus that the Leopard Men used in their own borfima. But, although he was in no way capable of altering his physical form, the Demon Lion of the Ubangi River was no ordinary man. Indeed, he had proven to be a most worthy adversary.

“You see, while the psychotropic fungus used in the Demon Lion’s potion was identical to that consumed by the Leopard Men, the water used to prepare the solution was not. It came from an ancient well near the Demon Lion’s home village, and in that well there grew a rare kind of moss, one that bled its unique blend of organic chemicals into the water supply, where it was consumed by the locals on a daily basis. Under normal circumstances these chemicals pass harmlessly through the digestive system without leaving so much as a trace, but when combined with the chemicals found in the hallucinogenic fungus and consumed on a regular basis over a prolonged period of time, the results are a bit more . . . interesting.”

“What happens?” I asked.

“A dramatic increase in strength,” he replied, “beyond anything I thought physiologically possible for a human being. Heightened reflexes and agility, sharpened senses—including hyper-acute nocturnal vision—and accelerated recuperative and regenerative powers. In short, the Demon Lion of the Ubangi River had become a kind of super-man.”

“My God . . .” I murmured.

“Now you are beginning to understand,” he said.

His eyes were ablaze.

The air was clear on that fateful night, a myriad of stars shimmering brilliantly in the heavens above. Just as on the night I’d arrived, the moon hung full and low in the sky, its large, luminous face bathing the landscape below in a cool, blue light. I was on patrol, walking the castle’s eastern parapets, carefully scanning the brush for movement, my Maschinenpistole 40 submachine gun held at the ready.

Although I was focused intently on the forest below, my mind was lost in thought, adrift on an ocean of mystery as I attempted in vein to navigate the countless riddles of this ominous place—quandaries that my encounter with Colonel Hein three nights earlier had only served to intensify. Any of the nebulous answers I’d gleaned from our discomposing conversation had each raised new questions, every one more frightening than the last.

Now, one thing you must understand about the jungle at night is that it is alive with sound, a kind of rhythmic buzzing, like a pulse. Much to my surprise, I had grown to find this natural white noise remarkably comforting. As I made my rounds, it was the sudden absence of this organic hum that first alerted me to danger, for I knew that the abrupt onset of true silence in such a setting most always portends tumult and tragedy.

I froze, stiff as aboard, listening intently, watching the forest through narrowed eyes as I tried to better focus my vision in the moonlight.

Suddenly, a sound pierced the heavy veil of silence like a stiletto penetrating straight to the core of my immortal soul. It was a sound I’d heard before, a sound that haunted me, echoing in my memories as I lay awake at night, my mind racing as I stared into the darkness.

It was the roar of the Beast.

Again and again came the monstrous call, a series of thunderous sounds that assailed my eardrums and rattled my bones. I had spent enough time around wild animals to know that the circumstances were unmistakable. Somewhere out there, deep in that ancient forest, the Beast was attacking something.

I looked around to see all the other sentries lining the parapets staring off in the direction of the disturbance, locked in rapt attention. By now they had all heard of the incident involving Krieger and myself, and several other men had told us that they, too, had heard the Beast’s cry on occasion, far off in the distance and often late at night. But this was different. This was a battle.

“It is this outpost’s first line of defense,” Hein had said.

The sound rose to a deafening crescendo as the mightiest roar of all reverberated through the night and sent a tremor through the foundation of the castle itself.

Then, all at once, the sound ceased.

It was at that moment that I noticed Colonel Hein walking coolly along the southern parapets and looking off into the jungle in the direction of this nightmare cacophony. As I watched him, he turned his head in my direction for an instant and his eyes met mine, as if he’d somehow sensed my gaze. Then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, he vanished through a doorway and into the fortress interior.

That was when the klaxon sounded.

We were under attack.

Soldiers began pouring out onto the parapets and flooding the huge courtyard below. Along the base of the castle’s exterior walls, entrenched sentries trained belt-fed machine guns on the brush, ready to cut down anything that might emerge from the shadowy thicket. We scanned the jungle in every direction, not knowing from where the attack might come, or even what form it might take.

As images of vengeful forest demons stalked menacingly before my mind’s eye, I saw a large, dark cloud rise from the forest in the distance and blot out the light of the moon. It was like a plume of thick, black smoke, totally amorphous, constantly changing shape as it seemed to grow larger. Or perhaps it was getting closer. It was then that I began to detect a new sound on the breeze—a rhythmic, throbbing sound—not unlike the gentle, rapid beating of a tom-tom drum. As the cloud grew larger still, the volume of the noise increased, until finally I was able to identify it.

It was the flapping of many thousand leathern wings.

The cloud was not a cloud at all. It was bats.

The sky was filled with them as they began to swoop and dive, sending the men into a panic. I crouched low and covered my head, trying to retain my composure as several terrified guards began firing into the air in an effort to make the animals disperse.

That’s when I heard the heavy machine guns at the base of the outer walls begin to fire. I leaned over the edge of the parapet and looked down to see the sentries tearing into the jungle, their high caliber weapons spitting red hot lead in every direction as wave after wave of maniacally squealing wild pigs came tearing through the foliage, charging the machine-gunners without a hint of fear and forcing them to expend round after precious round of ammunition.

It was utter pandemonium.

THOOM!

There came a new sound, this one from the opposite side of the fortress, across the courtyard.

THOOM!

Each time, the entire structure seemed to shudder.

THOOM!

I turned, looking down into the courtyard, and saw a soldier armed with a flamethrower cut loose, the weapon spraying a stream of liquid lire into the living cloud above and setting countless bats ablaze. This only served to make the situation worse, as the now flaming animals set fire to the uniforms of dozens of men as they suicide-bombed them in their final act of bestial aggression. The soldiers hit the ground, rolling to extinguish the flames as their fellow guards scattered throughout the courtyard seeking cover.

THOOM!

The sound was coming from the enormous front gate. Something inconceivably powerful was ramming it from the outside.

THOOM!

With every hit I could now distinctly hear the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. The gate could not withstand much more.

THOOM!

Hell, it seemed, was literally about to break loose.

THOOM!

As I stared down at the embattled gate, I caught something in my peripheral vision several meters along the parapet from where I was standing—saw a dark, twisted shape leap up over the edge and onto the back of another soldier. At first I thought it was a human child, as the size and proportions seemed correct, but as I turned to get a good look through the frenzied swarm of bats I quickly realized the truth. It was an ape.

There were apes scaling the outer walls.

THOOM!

The animal buried its lethal fangs in the man’s throat, sending a hot geyser of crimson blood into the air as the guard issued a terrible sound, a kind of screaming gargle, that sent a chill straight up my spine.

I opened fire, riddling the ape with bullets.

THOOM!

At that moment the front gate gave way, exploding inward as three bull elephants came bounding full bore into the courtyard.

The soldiers on the ground began shooting, which only further enraged the already furious stampeding beasts. They charged the men, stomping at them, crushing them underfoot like one might crush a household bug. The soldier with the flamethrower trained his weapon on one and blasted the elephant as it moved toward him, but the fire did not stop the animal. It kept coming, its sizzling flesh blistering away, as the man screamed and tried to retreat. The dying elephant surged forward, goring the man on one of its huge tusks. The thick ivory spear pierced straight through the guard’s torso, puncturing the fuel tank strapped to his back and creating a terrific explosion that engulfed everything in the immediate vicinity in a deadly fireball.

Just then a screaming ape came hurtling over the edge of the parapet directly behind me. I spun and fired several rounds, striking the beast in its chest and head, instantly killing the vicious animal as I bolted for an open doorway several meters away. I knew my only chance of survival might be found inside.

As I ran through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors, I passed a closed door through which I could hear a terrible commotion. The undeniable sounds of a violent struggle issued from within, and a man’s voice rang out, shouting something panicked and unintelligible. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I recognized the voice instantly—it was Krieger’s.

I shouldered open the door and burst into the room, surveying the scene in a flash. A large, wild-eyed ape stood howling and frothing at the mouth over the lifeless body of an unknown soldier lying in a pool of fresh blood against one wall, mercilessly pummeling the corpse with powerful closed-fist blows. The dead guard’s face had literally been beaten to a bloody pulp. It most closely resembled a plate of raw ground chuck. With every hammering punch the ape landed, droplets of blood were sent careening through the air, spattering the wall and drenching the kill-crazy animal’s thick black hair.

Krieger was on his feet, flailing wildly about as a second ape clung to his back. The beast was biting into his scalp, peeling a huge chunk of flesh away from the now exposed skull with its formidable teeth.

In the wall opposite the door was a shattered window leading out into the night. The animals had leapt through the glass, taking the men by surprise.

“Krieger, turn around!” I screamed.

I don’t know if he heard and understood, or simply happened to make the appropriate move by chance, but no sooner had I uttered the final syllable than Krieger wheeled around, giving me a clean shot at the savage brute clinging to his back. I fired several rounds into the ape’s torso, and one, by accident, into Krieger’s left arm, though I don’t think he was even aware of it. The animal dropped lifeless to the floor, and Krieger collapsed against a wall.

The first ape screamed and curled back its foam-flecked lips, baring its thick, yellow fangs. I shot it point blank in its hideous face as it rushed me with outstretched arms.

I crouched at Krieger’s side, examining his wounds. They were serious, but they would not be fatal if they were treated soon.

“I need to get you some medical supplies,” I said. “Stay here.”

“They came out of nowhere . . . we didn’t . . . we couldn’t even . . .” he muttered, trailing off at the end as he stared blankly through glassy eyes at the grim tableau before him.

“Take this,” I continued, handing him the MP 40 and two extra clips.

“Bolt the door after me, and once I’m gone put your back to the corner and cover the window. There’s more of these things outside.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, reaching down to draw my dagger from its sheath on my right boot. “I’ve killed with this before; I won’t hesitate to do it now.”

I rushed through the door and out into the passage beyond; I needed to make my way to the infirmary, which was clear on the other side of the castle. I ran down the corridor, rounding a corner and coming face to face with a raging inferno. The passage was thick with suffocating smoke—there was no way through. My path cut off, I ran back in the direction from whence I’d come in search of an alternate route. My legs pumped against the stone floor as I rounded one corner after another, moving from corridor to corridor at full speed, all surging adrenaline and raw testosterone.

I came sprinting around one final corner, rushing blindly into the intersecting passageway, and that’s when I saw him.

At first it was just two tiny points of ghostly white light hovering in the vespertine darkness at the unlit end of the narrow, ancient corridor. But then the source of the lights moved closer, and as I stood there frozen—paralyzed with terror—the Ghost Who Walks emerged from the shadows.

The Jungle Devil was huge, bigger than nearly any man I’d ever seen, perhaps bigger even than Hein, and the hulking apparition was drenched from head to toe in thick, dark blood—the blood, no doubt, of the slain Beast.

I have often heard, as I’m sure you have as well, that a man’s eyes are the windows into his soul. But the Ghost Who Walks had no eyes. Instead, there were only two icy pools of pale, swirling smoke that glimmered in the ethereal light of the silver moon.

Of one thing I am certain: I will carry the memory of that image with me to the grave.

It took every ounce of will I possessed to regain control of my immobile limbs and retreat down the corridor, running for my life and praying that the Guardian of the Eastern Dark would not follow.

I ran through a narrow portal and back out onto the parapets. The scene in the courtyard below had descended into madness. The two remaining elephants were destroying all the vehicles, one rearing up on its hind legs and bringing its front feet smashing down on the hood of a jeep, crushing the engine within; the other barreling head first into the side of a truck, caving in the vehicle’s body and overturning it with ease.

As I ran along the top of the wall, I saw a half-dozen men pile on something big, stabbing at it with their bayonets and beating it with the butts of their guns. Then, suddenly, the men were hurled violently through the air as the thing exploded upward to its full height.

It was the Ghost Who Walks.

The Jungle Devil possessed the strength of ten men, and as I watched him effortlessly maul the guards with savage, supernatural ferocity, I had the sense that I was watching a grown man fight a gang of small children, so overmatched were these trained, combat-ready soldiers against this seemingly unstoppable force of nature. He threw a punch at one man’s face that landed so hard I thought the soldier’s head might spin all the way around. As two men clung to the Jungle Devil’s arms, attempting to restrain him with all the success they might have had trying to pin down a rampaging bull, the Guardian of the Eastern Dark kicked another soldier full in the chest, sending him careening backwards and rolling limply through the dirt, where a huge black leopard pounced from the shadows, ripping into the man with its razor-sharp claws and tearing his flesh with its savage fangs.

Several guards tried to flee, and another leopard leapt from the darkness and chased them down, tackling one to the ground and clinching the man’s face in its powerful jaws.

I ran back into the interior of the castle, racing down a dusky passage toward the infirmary door. I crashed through with reckless abandon, and found myself staring into the hungry eyes of a huge, snarling wolf.

As I brought my knife to bear, the beast leapt through the air, striking me in the chest and sending me tumbling backwards into the hall. I crashed into the wall opposite the door and fell to the floor, my lupine adversary landing on top of me. The knife slipped from my grasp, and I heard it clang along the floor and out of reach as the wolf sank its fangs deep into my left forearm. I bludgeoned its head and body with my right fist and struggled to my feet, picking the two hundred pound beast up off the ground and hurling it with all my strength through the open infirmary door and into an operating table within. The animal was momentarily stunned, giving me a split second to slam the door shut, safely trapping the beast inside.

As I turned to search for the missing knife I was hoisted high up into the air, my body slamming hard against the ceiling of the corridor before I was thrown like a rag doll through the infirmary door. The wood shattered into a dozen pieces from the impact, and one jagged piece of shrapnel embedded itself in my right quadriceps, severing the muscle completely and rendering the leg totally useless.

The growling, drooling wolf loomed over me as the Jungle Devil entered the room. The Ghost Who Walks squeezed my throat in his cold, vice-like grip, and I felt myself lifted easily off the ground once more as he brought my sweat-drenched face to within centimeters of his own spectral countenance.

He studied me carefully and then hurled me across the room and into a glass cabinet filled with supplies. He was upon me again in the blink of an eye, punching me hard in the left side of my face with a thunderous right. The impact caused something to snap in my perception, and I suddenly had the feeling that I was no longer in that particular time and place, but instead was somehow detached from the reality of it all; watching events unfold in front of me on a movie screen, the entire film played in slow motion.

As I struggled to keep from slipping over the precipice and into unconsciousness, the Ghost Who Walks departed the room, the huge, gray wolf following close behind.

Though I cannot tell you why, I found myself crawling after them, dragging my battered body along the cold, unforgiving stone of the corridor’s floor.

I followed them into a part of the castle I had not yet seen, and I knew immediately that these were more of Hein’s private chambers. The Guardian of the Eastern Dark passed through a doorway ahead of me with the wolf at his heels. As I neared the portal I slid myself up against the wall, peering around the frame of the door and into the cavernous room beyond.

It was Hein’s laboratory, and what I saw within I will not describe to you in full, as I have no desire to visit upon you the same torturous nightmares that were to plague me on a nightly basis for years to come. What I will say is this—there, in that ghastly chamber, lit by the pale moonlight cascading down through a large skylight in the ceiling high above, I caught my first true glimpse of Hell.

Colonel Hein stood in the center of the room, across from the Ghost Who Walks and the avenging spirit’s snarling animal companion. Hein had removed his shirt, and his powerful frame was streaked with glistening blood from the bodies of two black leopards that lay dead at his feet in rapidly spreading scarlet pools. His face, too, was slick with blood, particularly the beard around his mouth, and he appeared to be chewing something. In his right hand he gripped a huge, bloody knife, and in his left was something else, a chunk of flesh perhaps, dripping fresh blood onto the floor beneath. I saw that the leopards had both been gutted, and it was at that moment I realized, to my horror, what Hein was holding in his left hand. It was the heart of one of the dead animals.

Hein was eating the heart.

He swallowed hard and then called out, his voice a raspy, guttural roar, as he issued his primal challenge:

“Come to me, He Who Cannot Die! Let us put your immortality to the test!”

He took another big bite of the leopard’s heart and then cast the organ aside as he leapt for the Jungle Devil, a terrifying, inhuman savagery raging behind his eyes: eyes that shone in the moonlight like those of a wild beast.

It was at that very moment that consciousness finally slipped from my grasp, and I descended into the darkness of sleep.

I never learned what became of Colonel Hein. Some of the other survivors of the attack claimed to have seen him dragged off into the jungle by the Ghost Who Walks, while others swear that Hein was victorious, having vanquished the Guardian of the Eastern Dark and fled into the night. Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that, to the best of my knowledge, Colonel Baron Helmut Maximilian Hein was never heard from again.

Those of us left alive were transferred back to Europe, and I, for one, was none too sad to bid the Dark Continent farewell.

Kriegcr and I remained friends for the duration of the war, though we lost touch soon after Germany fell. We were stationed together for a brief time on the front, and on occasion, as we gathered to sit around the fire with our fellow soldiers on a cold winter’s eve, Krieger would tell the tale of the night we saw the Jungle Devil emerge from the hellish, primordial forest covered in the blood of an antediluvian African god. And he would whisper, in hushed tones, the name that none dare speak too loud.

There are some who will tell you that all you must do to conquer your fear is to face it, but I have met my fear, and it haunts me always through the terrible mark I bear, both on my face and in my soul.

There is a word, you see—a dreaded word—that perfectly defines my primal panic when the lights go out and darkness envelops me . . . the chilling sense that if I were to suddenly strike a match and illuminate the blackness all around, I would find myself no longer alone. It is what I call the wave of crippling anxiety that washes over me when I think I feel someone standing behind me, in that instant before I dig deep down inside and find the courage to turn, only to discover there is no one there. It is a powerful word, a word I have never spoken and only now write in the hope of finally, mercifully exorcising this monstrous specter that defines my terror.

“Phantom.”

The End

AARON M. SHAPS is extremely cool. He is also quite handsome. His writing, described by the late Edgar Rice Burroughs as “just like mine, only not as good,” has been known to give women the vapors. A native of Indiana, cultural epicenter of the universe, Aaron is a beer connoisseur, jiu-jitsu enthusiast, and creator of the most awesome comic book character in history, General Jack Cosmo. His story in this volume is dedicated to his friend Gibson (1998-2007).

The Devil’s Kettle

By Will Murray

Far south of the waterfall that curtains the entrance to the Deep Woods, lies the great broken expanse of shattered stone crust known to the Bandar and the Rope People alike as the Devil’s Kettle. No one knows what the Kettle is. Some say a fireball came down from the sky and created it. Others that it was all that remains of a shattered volcano. Still others call it the Lid of Hell, and claim that it is ajar. All know that the Devil’s Kettle is impossibly ancient.

Few have entered that dreaded zone of mystery. Those who dared rarely returned alive. Of those who survived, strange stories were told of bewitched men speaking in demonic voices not their own.

Long ago, the Fourth Phantom erected signs warning in many languages that death and perhaps worse lay in wait for any who trespassed upon the Devil’s Kettle. Since that time the Bandar shunned it like a crystallized curse.

Until the day late in 1937 when word came to the 21st Phantom of strange beings seen crawling over the Kettle, miraculously unharmed.

Old Guran the pygmy brought the tale to the Skull Cave.

“Phantom! Spider men have come down from the sky and are digging in the Devil’s Kettle! They will unleash the demons who dwell below!”

The Phantom stood up from the Skull Throne, laying his hands on the automatics holstered on his hips. His grim eyes narrowed in their mask holes.

“Saddle Hero,” he instructed. “Devil, with me.”

The mountain wolf who was the loyal pet of the Ghost Who Walks, roused his sleek gray form from beside the ancient throne.

Minutes later the rippling purple figure of the Phantom was riding through the protecting waterfall and into the jungles south of the Deep Woods. Half a day’s ride brought him to the safe area beyond the deadly zone called the Devil’s Kettle. The Phantom pulled up and dismounted his white stallion.

Leading Hero, Devil trotting at his side, the Phantom moved closer. Jungle trees obscured the view. He passed one of the signs planted by his long-dead ancestor, and kept up by all Phantoms who followed in his ancient boots. A snapping gunshot rang out! Another!

The Phantom released the reins, and up jumped his twin automatics. Bullets picked through foliage. The Phantom listened carefully with his jungle-trained ears.

Zeroing in one the barking pistols, he circled around to come up on his assailants, unheard and unseen—in practice a Ghost Who Walks.

At length, he came upon a lean-to shelter where men in sand-colored uniforms with no insignia of rank or nation lay in ambush. Their nationality was obscure, but the Phantom recognized the spiked-nosed pistols they brandished.

Those were his targets. The Phantom laid his sights on one jutting automatic. He shot it out of the stung hands of one soldier. The others jumped about. Their pistols came up and they searched for the source of that reverberating shot.

Another Phantom automatic barked—and another spike-nosed pistol was blasted out of a startled fist.

Stepping into view, purple against the umber and emerald of the jungle, the Phantom allowed his attackers to behold him.

The sight of the lithe apparition in purple, his masked face with its high cheekbones resembling a death’s head, caused them to shrink back in dread.

“Der Geistmann!” one cried out.

“Surrender!” The Phantom called back in their own language.

Instead, they began shooting wildly.

Melting into the all-concealing foliage, The Phantom evaded their concentrated shots with the magic of his ancestral craft. Crouching, he unshipped his other automatic and fired away while they futilely peppered the spot where he had knelt before.

They were good, but the Phantom was the lord of his leafy realm. Carefully placed lead bullets sent them running from their flimsy shelter.

Holstering both automatics, The Phantom regained his steed and with Devil at heel, rode on.

Next, he encountered a machine-gun nest—a light military machine gun mounted on a bipod support. Two soldiers manned it. One at the trigger and other ready to feed the linked ammunition belt into the deadly rapid-firer’s breech.

A whispered command impelled Devil forward, to stealthily stalk the nest. The men heard his low growl of warning. Sweat pooled on their hard features. “Vas—?” one breathed.

When Devil leaped, he went for wrists and hands.

He became a snapping snarling whirlwind. And both men deserted their post, not a single round released.

“Good boy, Devil,” encouraged the Phantom, as he removed the ammo belt and flung it into a brackish pool of water.

Together, they slipped closer to the Devil’s Kettle.

Further along, The Phantom came upon the first of what Guran had called the spider men. This one wore a sandy summer uniform of military cut. But instead of a helmet or uniform cap, his head was enveloped in a canvas and rubber hood. Round lenses concealed his eyes. And out of the lower part of the hood coiled a sinuous gray thing like an elephant’s trunk. But it was no trunk. Just a hose that fed out from a canister slung along his back.

A gas mask! Beyond him something fat and gray and silent floated above the tree line . . . a dozen lines and cables holding it in place like a spider in a web. A blimp! And on its tail fins, black within a stark white circle against a blood-red flag, the twisted cross of Nazi Germany.

What were Hitler’s legions doing in Bangalla, wondered the Phantom. He continued to advance.

As he drew closer to the Devil’s Kettle, Wolf began to whine. Instantly, The Phantom froze in place. For the familiar voice of his pet wolf had taken on a strange tone difficult to describe, but this was not Devil’s warning wolf’s growl. Yet was not quite a whine. It sounded elongated, drawn out, as if the sound was being pulled from Devil’s throat by some unearthly agency. Crouching, The Phantom captured Devil by the scruff of his neck.

“What is it, boy?” he hissed.

The sound that escaped Devil’s bared teeth was weird—unwolflike.

Quickly, the Phantom pulled his loyal pet back from the edge of Devil’s Kettle. No sense plunging blindly into the unknown . . . Retreating toward the spot where he had left Hero tied to a stand of green bamboo, the Phantom became aware of odors that did not belong to the jungle. Human sweat. Oil. Gun grease. Devil emitted an eerie growl of warning that trailed off into a thin gasp, as if the wolf recognized that something strange had come over his voice.

Things were moving through the foliage. White things. The Phantom spotted one, but it melted away. Tall as a man. Pale as a ghost. Silent as a tiger.

Soon, he was surrounded. The things advanced, encircling him in an ever-tightening circle. Hands on his holstered automatics, The Phantom tensed. There was no place into which to retreat. He could leap into the trees, lose himself in the interlacing jungle canopy, but what of Devil? He could not abandon his faithful wolf. Abruptly, they crashed into view! Men in white coverall garments, heads hooded in all-enveloping gas masks. Carbine rifles and Lugers were pointed at him.

“Disarm!” a muffled voice warned.

“I am the Phantom,” explained the Ghost Who Walks, holding his fire. “These are my woods . . .”

But the sound of his own deep voice rang strange in his ears. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Schnell!”

Having no choice, he dropped his pistols.

The apparitions drew closer.

One, a leader, put questions to him in rough accented English.

“You are der ghost man?”

“The Phantom,” he replied. But his normally-deep voice sounded squeaky and strange. The white-suited men laughed with guttural humor.

“You claim these woods, nein?”

“They belong to the Bandar. The Jungle Patrol oversees them. It is not wise to cross either.”

“We know of none of these things,” said the leader, regarding the Phantom through glassy goggled eyes.

“What is your business in the Deep Woods?” the Phantom demanded.

He noticed that his voice was slowly returning to its normal timbre. “Here in this uncivilized backwater,” came the reply, “is to be found something very precious to the fatherland. Something found in only a very few places on Earth. And since this jungle belongs to no one, we have claimed it for Germany.”

“On the contrary,” retorted the Phantom. “These are the woods of my ancestors.”

“Are your ancestors masked bandits like you?” demanded the other.

More laughter. Then, without warning, the leader rapped out a sharp command in German.

He had ordered the Phantom’s execution!

Seized at gunpoint, he was pressed against a sturdy tree. No blindfold was offered. The Phantom regarded these interlopers with unreadable eyes. A firing squad was quickly formed. Four men. They stripped off their gas-proof suits to reveal short-sleeved uniforms. “You are making a grave mistake,” the Phantom said coolly.

“Ach. I am Captain Erik Schoener of the Third Reich. I do not make mistakes.” The rifle’s bolt actions were checked, and found to be in good working order. Facing death with a face as impassive as a skull’s, The Phantom attempted to whistle. It came out speeded-up and high in register. He experimented.

“Look, he whistles at death,” one remarked as the firing squad lined up, their weapons held at the ready.

Captain Schoener gave a command in German. “Prepare!”

The Phantom stiffened. A low-key whistle emerged from his barely-parted lips.

“Aim!”

Down snapped four rifles.

They were on the verge of executing their orders when the Phantom found the proper pitch.

Exploding out of the woods, Devil tore into the firing squad, howling like a maddened werewolf. Four rifles muzzles swept toward the savage sound. Simultaneously, the Phantom gave a springy leap. Not out, but up, up into the trees. He vanished in a twinkling.

Racing along overlapping branches, The Phantom found momentary shelter. Then he raced away, the savage snarls of Devil the wolf ringing in his ears.

Bullets began snapping at his heels. He leaped here. Reversing himself, he doubled back. The Germans were scattering, seeking him. The unmistakable snarling and snapping sounds of Devil worrying a foe’s fang-captured arm told that the wolf was as yet unharmed. Dropping to the ground, the Phantom reclaimed his fallen weapons.

Then he raced toward the spot where ferocious wolf growls mixed with men crying out of fear and terror.

As he expected to, the Phantom came upon Devil tearing the rough canvas sleeve off one of the interlopers. Both were struggling on the ground, kicking up dirt and greenery in the age-old fury of man against beast.

A second man—one of the scattered firing squad stood off to one side and was shouting for his stricken comrade to settle down so he could pick a clean shot at the relentless wolf. The fallen man was too busy fighting off the wolf to obey.

Aiming carefully, the Phantom hurled a single shot of blunt lead.

It fractured the breech of the aiming rifle. The rifle bent in the man hands like a branch that had snapped.

“Devil, to me!” The Phantom called. His voice was itself again.

Releasing his trophy, Devil leaped his master’s side.

“Get help! Fetch Guran!”

With a growl of understanding, Devil vanished into the foliage.

Striding toward the soldier with the bent rifle, the Phantom delivered a quick uppercut to the jaw. The single punch was enough. The soldier fell, the mark of the Phantom impressed into the inert flesh when his skull ring had made definite contact. That left the other one. Holding his injured arm, he was trying to find his feet. The Phantom reached down with a helpful hand.

“Let me help you,” he invited, a cool smile touching his chiseled lips. A mixture of hesitation and fear warped the Teutonic face. But finally he accepted with a curt “Danke.”

Once the soldier was again on his feet, the Phantom drove him into instant unconsciousness with a devastating right cross. Again the skull mark burned on a bruised jaw.

The Phantom then retook to the trees. His jungle-sensitive ears told him that his pursuers were still crashing along the false trail he had tricked them into following.

The way to the blimp was without gap or obstruction, moving among the crowns of branches and leafage as he did.

When he reached it, the Phantom saw that the bobbing gray airship was moored to the trees via grappling hooks snagged to branches and boles. Grabbing one taut line, he shinnied up to it, found the small gondola, and entered through the sliding external door.

The blimp appeared to be unmanned. In one corner, he discovered a crate heaped with spare gas masks. The gondola was outfitted with numerous ports as well as the forward windscreen. From these varying vantage points, The Phantom observed the grounds below. As the red Bangallan sun began to set, the Devil’s Kettle was thrown into lurid relief. It looked like the dark side of the moon might look—a cracked expanse of upflung and sunken ground. It resembled a shallow crater.

Impossible to tell if it had been created by meteor strike or earthquake—or both. Some kind of excavation was under way. An uptilted shelf of some porous stone was the focus of the activity. Men of white protective suits were digging with pick axes and shovels. As the Phantom watched, one dragged the bones of a man long-dead from under the earth—one of the Kettle’s unfortunate victims, no doubt.

Were they digging for gold? Jewels? he wondered.

After long and careful consideration, he decided not. This was a military expedition. No doubt among the group were numbered scientists and specialists, but its primary purpose was military in nature.

Rubbing his square jaw, the Phantom whispered to himself, “Uranium? Radium?” But careful observation failed to produce an answer.

When the jungle night arrived, it was as the lid of a box had clamped down. An utter darkness, black as ink, overtook Bangalla.

Camp fires were lit. All work ceased.

By this time, the men who had been pursuing him had returned to their camp. Angry voices reached his ears, but between the distance and the foreign language of these men, it was almost impossible to pick out any meaning.

Unseen and unsuspected, the Ghost Who Walks surveyed the situation. He had the undisputed high ground. But what to do with it?

A plan dawned in his active mind. Why not take full advantage of his position?

Sliding open the gondola door with silent care, the Phantom began picking out targets in the fitful light of the scattered campfires. Leaping flames were reflected in the lenses of the gas masks that had been taken off and put aside for later use. With one automatic, The Phantom began shattering those easy targets. Pandemonium broke out among the Germans. Rifles were taken up.

Orders shouted.

After a pause, the Phantom split the left lens of a gas mask beside the man who appeared to be in charge. He jumped like a barked jackrabbit. His Lugar sidearm leaped into his hand.

“Der Geistmann!” he shouted. “Find him! Kill him!”

His uniform cap showed the bars of a captain. Schoener. The Phantom laid a blazing bullet along the cap’s prominent peak, sweeping it off the officer’s head.

Schoener spun, started to run. A second unerring bullet broke the heel of his black boot. The firelight made it possible. Someone threw water on it, dousing the blaze. Darkness returned.

A watchful soldier had spotted the muzzle flashes coming from the gondola.

Rifles started cracking. One clipped a mooring line, and the blimp gave a twisting leap as it bucked in response.

Orders rippled out in boisterous German. Strange orders. An angry warning: “Nein! Nein! Dumkopfs!”

The firing subsided. Silence followed. Jungle birds, startled from their midnight roosts, gradually ceased squawking and found new branches.

A puzzled frown touched the Phantom’s features. Captain Schoener called out to him. “Geistmann!”

“Speak.”

“You understand the danger of your perch?”

The Phantom’s eyes brightened. “Hydrogen!” he called down. “The gas that brought down the Hindenburg.”

“Precisely. Do not fire again. A single spark would mean your ruin.”

“Yours as well. Otherwise how would you and your men return home?”

The uneasy silence that floated back over the jungle night told the Phantom that he had scored an important point. He now had the psychological, as well as strategic, high ground.

“Talk!” the Phantom ordered. “Why are you here? What is so important about the Devil’s Kettle?”

Captain Schoener held his tongue. He was a loyal soldier of the Reich.

No doubt he was on a secret mission, under sealed instructions. To reveal those orders was to risk a court martial.

When the silence proved to the Phantom that no answer was forthcoming, he leaned far out of the gondola and shot a second mooring rope in two. It frayed, parted, snapped with a dry punky sound. The blimp jumped like a stung pig, began straining for the night sky.

Schoener shrieked, “Nein! I will tell! It can be expressed in one word.”

“Say the word,” the Phantom ordered.

“Helium! Der Fatherland requires helium for its Zeppelins. Most of the world’s reserves are to be found in America. But the verdamnt Americans refuse to sell it to us. We have been scouring the globe for unknown helium wells. This place contains one of the largest pockets ever known.” Hearing that, the Phantom laughed. Unlike flammable hydrogen, helium is a lighter-than-air gas perfect for airships. It possessed superior lifting qualities as well as being non-flammable.

It also explained the gas masks. In concentrated doses, it affected the vocal cords, producing strange effects like high squeaky tones and speeded-up speech.

No wonder natives going back centuries had shunned Devil’s Kettle! To their superstitious minds, the odorless and colorless escaping gases had affected them in ways so bizarre only a witchdoctor’s curse or the work of the devil could explain it. And in large concentrated quantities, helium would asphyxiate a man.

“I seek terms,” the Nazi captain called up.

“Shed your weapons!” the Phantom called back.

“Allow me to confer with my men,” Schoener returned.

The soldiers of Germany went into a huddle. Their low voices did not carry with any distinctness.

Finally, Captain Schoener called up, “We have all agreed to this. I have so ordered it.”

“Good. Make a pile of your weapons. Then form a line over by that clearing. Waste no time.”

The Nazi soldiers showed their discipline. Their faces twisted by the fear of what might come, they lined up and stacked their weapons with the same solemn ceremony shown by a defeated army surrendering its colors alter a decisive battle.

The Phantom watched them carefully. He spied no signs of trickery, but that did not mean no trickery was being organized under cover of night . . .

When the Nazis soldiers had formed a line, standing at attention to await further orders, the Phantom took hold of a mooring line and slipped down it as silently as spider.

His black boots touched the earth with barely a sound.

Striding confidently, he approached the waiting Nazi officer.

The eyes of Captain Schoener were a hard blue, like cold gemstones. The Phantom watched them carefully. He had crossed half the distance between them when one of the captain’s hands at his side twitched. A ring was displayed. A grisly ring. It showed the sign of a death’s head—a symbol of a certain elite element of the German army, the Shield Squadron which answered directly to the Führer. The secretive Totenkopfverbande.

It seemed to be a signal.

It was. Abruptly, three soldiers dropped from formation, throwing themselves on the ground.

From behind them two others, hitherto hidden by camouflage netting, brought to bear a light machine gun. The machine gun the Phantom had encountered before, an MG 34.

The Phantom ducked the first sizzling stream of lead. It went wide anyway. The soldiers had counted on the ferociousness of their weapon to compensate for the difficulty aiming in the dark.

There was time to return fire. But the Phantom did not. Instead, he whirled and snapped off one solitary round high into the treeline behind him.

One shot was all that was needed.

Hanging there in the night, the blimp had almost been forgotten. A single slug pierced one Diesel engine, striking a lone spark. It ricocheted into the gasbag, puncturing it.

The spark ignited the hydrogen in the fat gasbag—and the entire world seemed to explode in a violent bloom of fire.

Panic overtook the Nazi expeditionary force. The sight of their only means of transportation going up in flames took the fight out of most of them.

Enraged, Captain Schoener ordered the machine gun to cut the Ghost Who Walks in two.

But like the ghost he was rumored to be, The Phantom had already slipped away in the blazing confusion.

Collapsing, the blimp draped its burning body along the crowns of two trees and gave up its twisting life in a burgeoning pall of smoke and flame. The crackling if its death throes resounded in the night.

When it was all over, the Germans simply stood about, struck numb and speechless by their predicament. They were thousands of miles away from home, far from the nearest friendly port, in a country they had invaded. A country with whom they had no treaty, no embassy, and no friends. Captain Schoener tried to get them organized.

“We will march for the coast,” he snapped.

At that, a mocking laugh floated through the jungle to tingle their spines. It came from above. The Phantom had again taken to the tree-tops.

“March?” asked the Phantom’s cool confident voice. “March through mile after mile of tiger- and snake-infested jungle? March through the land of the Pygmy poison people?”

“We have modern weapons!” Schoener retorted.

Again the Phantom laughed. “The Bandar will slip up quietly and extinguish you all in your sleep. They can see in the dark. They know the Deep Woods. You have no chance, no chance at all.”

“We do not surrender,” spat Schoener. “Not to bandits. Not to inferior primitive people.”

“They will be happy to hear that,” said the Phantom. “Their cooking pots have been empty a very long time.”

At that, the Phantom made loud smacking noises with his lips.

There was no response to that. And so, heads hanging low, the beleaguered force began to march.

The Phantom allowed them to do this. They reclaimed their weapons. It did not matter. What good were their firearms now?

Quietly, stealthily, the Phantom followed them. It was like following a herd of rhinoceros. They knew no jungle craft. Thus they left the broadest trail possible.

Devil soon showed up, trotting at the Phantom’s side so suddenly that even he did not detect the wolf’s presence.

“Good boy!” he encouraged. “Did you bring Guran?”

From behind a tree, out popped a familiar wrinkled old face.

The Phantom smiled broadly. “Guran! Where are your people?”

The leader of the poison people spread his hands in an impish gesture and whispered, “Everywhere, O Guardian of the Eastern Dark!”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

With that, old Guran disappeared.

Strange warning calls went forth. They sounded like night birds stirring and cawing to one another. But the Phantom knew different.

The pygmy poison people were dispersed all about. No doubt they had surrounded the Nazis, were walking with them, stalking them unseen, their long blowguns in their hands, small hands clutching sheaves of lethal darts.

Soon, whisper sounds flitted through the night. Men began falling. Others, seeing their fellow soldiers drop in silence, grew panicky.

Yells. Curses. Then screams. Pandemonium overtook the survivors.

Some tried to run, others to hide. None escaped the poison-tipped darts of the Bandar warriors. And not a shot was fired. No soldier had time to shoot. And their elusive foes were virtually invisible in the clotted thickness of the jungle night. All told, it took less than 15 minutes. But the Nazi expeditionary force soon sprawled vanquished. Most lay splayed on the ground like dead insects. Some were draped over thorn bushes when they succumbed. They breathed no more. All were dead. It was jungle justice.

Grimly, The Phantom moved among them like a purple Caesar surveying a battlefield. He discovered Captain Schoener, his arms and legs miraculously free of the tiny but deadly darts. The Nazi officer was attempting to flee. The Phantom stepped silently into his path. Unwitting, Schoener blundered into a thick skull ring backed by a blurred granite fist. His jaw crunched loudly. He never saw the fist that laid him low.

When the captain finally awoke, the Phantom was kneeling beside him.

Dawn had come. Light was streaming through the jungle canopy. Animals prowled and insects hummed. The Deep Woods were coming to life.

And Captain Schoener found himself looking into a confidently smiling face that reminded him of the death’s-head emblem on his ring—except that it was in a curious way not at all sinister. It was a face like a primitive jungle god, above and beyond all human emotions. The Phantom spoke. “Since Fate has seen fit to spare you, we will escort you to a port from which you can catch a freighter back to your homeland. You might want to tell your Leader that the Deep Woods are inviolate, now and forever.”

“This is all the punishment that will befall me?” Schoener stuttered blankly. “I will not be shot?”

“Haven’t you had enough for one night?” asked the Phantom, smiling more cryptically than ever—smiling like a jungle conqueror.

“There is an old jungle saying,” intoned Guran proudly. “When the Phantom is rough, he is very rough.”

Captain Schoener swallowed with difficulty. “Mein Gott! Who are you?” he finally croaked.

The purple apparition stood up. He seemed to tower like a giant idol come to life. The silver skull on his belt buckle was staring holes into the captain’s own. Schoener noticed the skull ring, and felt his own aching jaw. There was a mark etched there . . .

“Allow me to formally introduce myself,” the Phantom said. “I am sometimes called Mr. Walker.”

“Valker?”

“Yes, for the Ghost Who Walks.”

The captain’s eyes grew very round. “You, you are kaput—dead?”

The Phantom’s smile touched his masked eyes. He shook his head.

“Some say I cannot die.”

A twinkle glimmered in Guran’s wise old eyes. “Phantom has lived 400 years,” he said sagely. “Feared by evil men everywhere.”

Captain Schoener started, then winced in pain. Only then did he notice the many thorns feathering the seat of his bedraggled uniform pants. He had been knocked onto a particularly thorny bush. One by one, he began plucking them out of his bruised and battered flesh, knowing that but for the fortunes of war, he might be bequilled with far deadlier thorns . . .

And a ripple of laughter emerged from the mouths of the watching bandar warriors. They too had conquered. The Deep Woods once again belonged to its people.

The End

WILL MURRAY has written Doc Savage in novels and on radio, The Destroyer for novels and Marvel comic books, as well as a host of culturally-significant characters ranging from Superman, Spider-Man, Batman, Wonder Woman, the Hulk, Iron Man, Batman, the Green Hornet, the Spider, the Phantom, The Avenger, Sky Captain, Cthulhu, Honey West and the unbeatable Squirrel Girl, whom he created with Steve Ditko. As a trained Remote Viewer, he possesses powers none of the above-mentioned can touch. He currently consults for Sanctum Books on reprints of Doc Savage, The Shadow, The Avenger and other heroes of the pulp era.

The Phantom of Cobtree Manor

By Matthew Baugh

The wineglass in Emily’s hand exploded inches from her lips. She cried out as shards of crystal and drops of claret filled the air around her. The voices of her dinner guests added to the confusion of the moment.

“My God!”

“What happened?”

“Miss Cobtree, are you alright?”

Dr. Delacourt took her arm, his sardonic expression momentarily replaced by concern.

He’s really quite handsome when he’s not being supercilious, she thought. She dismissed the idea as rather silly, coming as it did on the heels of a small explosion. The doctor reached up to touch her face and she felt a stinging pain.

“It’s just a sliver of glass that lodged in your cheek,” he said. He withdrew the shard and used his handkerchief to staunch the small wound.

“I’m fine,” Emily said and smiled to make her words more convincing.

“Never seen a wineglass do that before,” Mr. Nesbitt said. The white haired attorney had returned his glass to the table where he watched it warily.

“Don’t be foolish, Cecil,” Mrs. Nesbitt said. “They’re not all going to do that.”

“Don’t know how you can say that,” he replied. “Don’t know why the first one exploded, do we?”

“I think your wife is right,” Mr. Walker said. The tall, bearded man seemed remarkably calm, Emily thought. He raised his glass and took a sip from it.

“You see? Whatever it was, it won’t repeat.”

“Twas the ghost that done it,” the maid said, her eyes wide.

“What ghost?” Emily asked.

“The ghost of Clegg, mum,” the small woman answered. “He—”

“Teresa!” Carstairs interrupted. “Go and get something to clean this up.”

As Teresa left Emily turned to the butler.

“I would have liked to hear her answer,” she said.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” he replied. “But Teresa is a simple country girl. I didn’t want her to bother you with her superstitions.”

“I can tell you about Clegg,” Walker said.

All eyes turned toward this man who was as new to the county as Emily herself. He’d shown up in the nearby town of Dymchurch the previous day, she remembered, and a letter of reference from no less than the Duke of Denver had earned him an invitation to dinner. She had the vague idea that he was a scholar of some sort on a hiking tour, but he wasn’t very forthcoming.

“Captain Clegg was one of the most successful pirates of the eighteenth century,” he said. “He preyed on the Atlantic shipping lanes for a dozen years and had quite a bounty on his head. A number of pirate hunters chased him but he was too crafty.”

“That’s not right,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “The chap was hanged over in Rye. Buried him at the crossroads.”

“That’s the popular story,” Walker said, “but there’s another version, that another man was hanged in Clegg’s place.”

“That’s quite the story,” Dr. Delacourt said. “I didn’t hear any mention of a ghost, though.”

Walker shrugged his massive shoulders. “I hadn’t heard that part either, but there is a ghost in his story. They say one of the pirate hunters was a ghost himself—a Phantom sworn to avenge himself on all pirates.”

The maid had returned with a cloth but, hearing the story, she stood in the doorway, stock still.

“Teresa, what can you tell us of the pirate’s ghost?” Emily said.

The dark haired girl glanced anxiously at Carstairs, but the butler was silent. At a smile from Emily, she began to speak.

“They say that Clegg had a treasure, miss. They say as he hid it somewhere on the Romney Marsh and that his spirit guards it from discovery.”

“But that doesn’t explain the wineglass,” Emily said. “Why should this ghost wish to do that?”

Delacourt laughed—a sardonic sound—and the maid lowered her eyes.

“I don’t know, miss,” she said. “I just know that any sort of devilment like that has got to be the ghost of Clegg.”

Emily woke with a start. A noise—her mind was still too blurred with sleep to identify what—had come from somewhere above her. She brushed auburn locks from her face and willed her heart to beat more slowly.

Come on my girl, she thought. You’re not one to let a bad dream in a new place rattle you.

She heard it again, something moving over her head, she couldn’t tell if it came from the attic or from the roof outside the window. It didn’t sound like a rat-noise to her, it was too big and slow. Not really a cat sound either, even Carstairs’ tabby, Mr. Pincus—who weighed a full stone and a half—wouldn’t make a noise like that.

“Is that you, Captain Clegg?” she murmured. Giving voice to the thought made it absurd and she smiled in the darkness.

The sound came again, this time more faintly and from higher up. Emily’s room sat on the second floor but there was an attic. She rose, opened the bedroom window and leaned out. Looking up the steep slope of the roof she saw nothing that could have caused the noise. The moon shone dimly through wispy clouds offering the only light.

Except it wasn’t the only light. As Emily started to close the window she saw something out on the marsh, a light where she knew there was no cottage or road.

As she watched, it vanished, only to reappear a short distance away. It was joined by a second and the two of them continued their slow dance, slipping in and out of sight like fairies playing hide and seek.

She stared at them for some time, wishing she could see them more clearly; then remembered her father’s telescope. Throwing on a robe and lighting a candle she found her way to the stairs, and up to the attic. The space was crowded with covered furniture but seemed surprisingly dust free. She moved to a spiral staircase and ascended to the special observatory her father had built on the peak of the roof. She lifted the hatch and stuck her head through, only to be plunged into darkness as a draft of cool air extinguished her light.

Letting her eyes adjust to the moonlight that shone through the French windows, she clambered into the little room that held the old telescope. She felt the draft again and realized that one of the windows was open. She started to close it, and froze.

Outside the window the roof dropped away sharply but there was something—someone moving across that sheer expanse. In the dim light the figure was little more than a shadow, moving swiftly and almost silently. It reached the edge of the roof and slipped over, but not before she had the sense of its shape. It looked like a man, tall and strong, with something hanging from his belt, like holstered pistols.

“My God,” she whispered. “Captain Clegg, are you real?”

Emily gazed at the green flatness of the Romney Marsh, broken here and there by the occasional hillock or cluster of trees. As a little girl she’d thought it the most boring landscape on earth but, after nine years away, she had discovered a stark beauty to it.

She had come out with the first light to see if she could find the place where the fairy lights had appeared. As she neared the stand she felt more and more confident. She remembered this place from her childhood, a little grove dominated by a giant tree her father had called ‘Scarecrow’s Oak.’

Something cut through the air by her head with a piercing whine and her cheek burned with pain. She touched the spot and her fingers came away bloody.

What was that?

Along with the thought came the impulse to throw herself flat. She’d known enough young men who had come home wounded in the War to have heard stories of snipers.

But the War ended four years ago, she thought. There can’t be Nazi snipers on the Romney Marsh, and I didn’t even hear a shot.

Nonetheless, she continued to hug the ground, straining her hearing and sight to the utmost for any signal of danger. After several moments she heard a sound, hoof-beats approaching from her right. She rose as Dr. Delacourt rode up on a black gelding. He glowered at her for a moment before climbing down.

“What have you gotten into?”

“I think someone shot at me,” Emily said. She took some pleasure in the fact that her voice didn’t shake.

“Nonsense,” Delacourt said, cupping her chin to look at her face. “You’ve fallen and reopened last night’s wound, which has made it much worse. I’m taking you back to the manor to patch it up.”

“But—”

“Your guardian warned me that you suffered from hysterical fantasies,” Delacourt interrupted. “I’m sorry to see he was right.”

The ride to the coastal village of Dymchurch was pretty, despite a constant drizzling rain, but Emily was too upset to enjoy it. Mr. Nesbitt hadn’t reacted well when she wakened him with her story of shadowy prowlers and strange lights, and the incident near Scarecrow’s Oak had cemented his opinion. He insisted that Carstairs drive her, and keep an eye on her, when she announced she was going into town.

She fumed as she ran through the list of people she knew here. There was no talking about these strange events with Mr. Nesbitt or his wife, and now the handsome young doctor shared their dubious opinion of her. She didn’t hold out much hope for the sullen butler, or Teresa either, and Mr. Walker was too mysterious to inspire confidence.

“Carstairs,” she said, “Rev. Uxbridge was a great friend of dad’s wasn’t he?”

“Aye, miss.”

“Take me to the vicarage. I’d like to talk to him.”

“Rev. Uxbridge has been dead and buried these three years, miss.” It seemed to her there was a note of satisfaction in the servant’s voice at her disappointment.

“Surely there’s a new vicar,” she said.

“Aye. that would be Rev. Dunwoody.”

“Then I’ll see him.”

“Ghosts?” Michael Dunwoody asked. The Vicar was a big man of about thirty with a plain, friendly face and a slightly distracted manner. She had seen a similar expression in other clergymen and wondered if they had to learn it in divinity school.

“Not real ghosts, Vicar. I don’t believe in such things.”

“I’m not so big on them myself,” he said, smiling. “Though I’ll admit it’s easier to disbelieve on a sunny morning in Dymchurch than out on the marsh at night.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like my phantom lights?”

“There are plenty of will o’the wisp stories here,” he said. “If you listened to all of them you’d think the marsh was overpopulated with ghosts and fairies. Then too, the smugglers back in the eighteenth century painted themselves with foxfire so anyone seeing them would think they were ghosts.”

“Back in Captain Clegg’s time,” she said. “Are there still smugglers?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Rev. Dunwoody said. “They thrived back when the import duties were high and it was relatively easy to slip a shipload of rum, or cloth, or farm tools across the channel. But those days are long gone. A few years ago I’d have suspected your phantom lights were trying to signal a German submarine—though Cobtree Manor is a bit far inland for that.

“Still, as eerie as the lights are, I’m more concerned about a prowler outside your bedroom window, and your injury. Do you really think it was a bullet?”

She pulled up a corner of the bandage, revealing a bruised furrow over an inch long. Dunwoody whistled softly.

“I’m no doctor, but it looks like a bullet graze to me.”

“But that’s not what Delacourt says,” she replied.

“Just the same, why didn’t Nesbitt call over to Folkestone for the constable?”

“He did,” Emily said with a wry smile. “But only to let them know that I was a hysterical girl full of wild stories, and not to listen to me.”

A puzzled scowl crossed the vicar’s face.

“That seems a bit foolish,” he said. “There could be a real danger.”

“Those two will never believe that,” she replied. “Mr. Nesbitt has got that grim butler hovering around me like a watchdog.”

“Carstairs isn’t a bad sort,” Dunwoody said. “His son was killed in the War and it soured him on life. The poor lad was only twenty and went into London on an errand. He got caught in the blitz.”

Emily nodded, remembering the pain she had felt at the news of her father’s death.

It must be even worse to lose a child.

“Would you mind coming to dinner tonight, Vicar?” she asked. “I’d appreciate the chance to talk more.”

Emily spent some time in Dymchurch browsing the shops and wandering along the sea-wall. Carstairs hung close behind her, his surly presence matching the bleak weather. As the morning passed she noticed a second man, Mr. Walker. He didn’t seem to be following her, but always managed to turn up in the same places.

She ate lunch at The Ship Inn in town, relieved that neither of her shadows had followed her inside. So far her return home had been . . . well, interesting certainly, but not exactly welcoming. Dad had sent her to Canada when she was only nine. That was just after the Nazis started bombing London and everyone was talking about an invasion. He has been a pilot with the RAF and was shot down over the North Sea in ’44. Emily had remained abroad until she finished university. Nearly half her life had been spent across the Atlantic, but the urge to return home had grown too strong to ignore.

She finished her ploughman’s and found Carstairs waiting outside with the car; there was no sign of Walker. She returned to the vicarage to find Rev. Dunwoody tending an unconscious man on the sofa; his housekeeper talking on the telephone.

“What happened?” Emily asked.

“I don’t know,” Dunwoody said. “I think someone hit this fellow hard enough to give him a concussion, but I can’t say who or why.” He pointed to a nasty bruise on the man’s face; an indentation that framed the outline of a miniature human skull.

“I’m not able to reach Dr. Delacourt,” the housekeeper said.

“I’ll take him to hospital, then,” the vicar replied. He smiled ruefully at Emily. “I will be there tonight, but no promises as to when, I’m afraid.”

Emily noted with some satisfaction a total absence of shattering wineglasses at dinner. Unfortunately, the quiet that surrounded the little group was anything but peaceful. The Vicar hadn’t made it and, with Walker also absent, Emily felt herself lacking even a neutral presence, let alone an ally.

“The Vicar was looking for you,” she said to Delacourt.

“Really?”

“Yes. An injured man was left on his doorstep.”

“He’s in very capable hands, I’m sure,” he replied with a thin smile.

“He thought my wound was from a bullet too.”

“Ah,” Delacourt said. “Well, with such a consensus of medical minds, what does my opinion matter?”

“See here,” Nesbitt said, “Delacourt’s my guest. Don’t want to see him insulted. Don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense, either.”

Emily glared at him wishing she had the nerve to throw the contents of her wineglass in his face.

“I turn twenty-one in December,” she said. “You won’t have anything to say about it then.”

“Be careful, young lady,” he replied. “Keep telling people ghost stories and you may be locked up before that. For your own good, you know.”

By midnight Emily was certain that everyone must be asleep. She slipped out of bed and moved to the window. The fairy lights had returned in the distance.

She slipped off her nightgown and donned black riding slacks and a black pullover, then took out the powerful electric torch she’d bought in Dymchurch.

It pays to be prepared, she thought. No more wandering about with a nightgown and candle like the heroine of some novel.

She slipped into the hall and up to the attic in darkness. Only when she was sure she was alone did she turn on her light and climb to the observatory.

It was a simple matter to open the French windows and align the telescope with the mysterious lights. Under its magnification they resolved into a group of men—she counted four—carrying lanterns and moving through the thicket by Scarecrow’s Oak. Mysterious, to be sure, but hardly supernatural.

She heard a noise and turned to see a man rising from the floor hatch. He was a stranger to her; a big man, young but with the wear on his face that comes with years in the boxing ring.

“Stay where you are,” she said, shining the light in his eyes. “I have a gun.”

The man froze for a moment, and then his battered features relaxed into a smile.

“I’d advise you to shoot, miss.” His accent was that of a Londoner. “That is if you really have a gun.”

“Don’t think I won’t!” she replied, doing her best to hide the tremor in her voice.

The smile faded and the man began to move toward her, cautiously but steadily. Emily swung at his head but he blocked the attack, knocking the light from her hands. It blinked off when it hit the floor, leaving them to struggle in the dark.

She hit him in the stomach, but his muscles seemed as hard as oak. He caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her. His free hand clapped over her mouth before she could scream. She struggled, but his strength was too much for her.

“If it makes any difference, I don’t care much for this,” the man said. “Killing young ladies ain’t my preferred line of work, but a bloke’s got to make do. It’s a shame you had to be so nosy; now you’re going to have to have an ‘accident’.”

Emily struggled frantically as he maneuvered her toward the open window. She twisted, kicked and tried to bite the muffling hand but to no effect.

Then the portal opened wide as a tall figure pressed in from outside. The thug muttered a curse and pushed Emily at the newcomer, who caught her and spun her to one side. Then he launched himself at her assailant. She couldn’t see the newcomer clearly in the darkness but thought that he must be the tall figure from the previous night.

Captain Clegg! He’s come to rescue me. Even as the thought occurred to her she decided against it. The arms that had caught her were warm and strong, not the limbs of a ghost.

Whoever the newcomer was, he was doing well. She saw him fend off a flurry of punches and reply with a left that sank deep into the boxer’s hard abdomen. He followed that with an overhand right that resounded off the man’s chin. He went down and Emily, without seeing it, knew that he wore a skull-shaped bruise.

“Miss Cobtree, are you hurt?” The stranger’s voice was deep, and bore the traces of an exotic accent she could not place.

“Yes, I think so—” Emily’s words ended in a cry as the boxer surged back to his feet and bull-rushed her rescuer. The two slammed together and fell through the window into the night.

“Oh, God!” Emily said. She leaned out, straining to spot them. They weren’t on the roof, she was sure of that, but it was too dark for her to see the ground beneath.

She recovered her torch, whispering a word of thanks when she found it was still working, and headed downstairs. A noise from the dining room stopped her when she reached the first floor. She turned her light off and moved to the doorway to look.

She saw a man examining the back wall with his own light. In its glow she could make out the handsome features of Dr. Delacourt. She knew it wasn’t the sensible thing to do, but stepped through the doorway and trained her light on him.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“What the devil?” he said. “Emily, is that you? Get that bloody light out of my eyes.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing here,” she replied. “I warn you, I’ve got a gun.”

He turned his light on her.

“No you don’t,” he said. “And what are you doing prowling around dressed like bloody Raffles?”

“First tell me what you’re doing prowling around my home,” she said. “I’m not the trespasser here.”

“I’m sorry. Look, I’ve been giving it some thought and I’m starting to believe your story. I came back here because I had an idea about the exploding wineglass I wanted to check out.”

She felt a surge of relief hearing his words.

“That can wait,” she said. “Right now, two men have fallen from the roof; they’ll need your services.”

They hurried outside but found nothing on the lawn beneath the observatory.

“I don’t understand,” Emily said as a sick feeling rose in her stomach. “They have to be here.”

“They were,” Delacourt said, pointing at a bed of chrysanthemums, many of which had been crushed. “Someone fell here, though where he may be now, I can’t say.”

“We should find them.”

“I don’t think we can,” he replied. “Not until morning. You say there were two?”

“Yes, one was going to throw me out the window but the other showed up and protected me.”

“That fits with my idea,” he said. “Come, I’ll show you.”

He led her back into the dining room and showed her a small hole in the woodwork.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Delacourt produced a small knife and dug in the hole for several moments until he dislodged a leaden lump.

“A bullet?”

“Indeed,” he said. “It was this that exploded your glass, not some ghost.”

“But wouldn’t we have heard it?”

“Not if the gun was silenced. Now, if the bullet struck here, and you were sitting there,” he gestured to her chair, “then the shot must have come from—”

“From Mr. Walker’s chair,” Emily finished. “But who is he, and why would he want to shoot me?”

“I can’t answer the first part,” Delacourt said. “As to the second, I don’t think he was shooting at you. I believe that he is the man who protected you tonight, and who dealt with the sniper who tried to kill you yesterday.”

Emily’s hand went to her bandaged cheek.

“You knew?”

“I’m not a simpleton,” he said. “I saw enough bullet grazes in the War to know you’d been shot at. I lied because I knew you were in danger. I hoped you’d go to London, out of harm’s way.”

“Thank you,” she said and her smile was grateful. “But why would he shoot my wineglass?”

“Why indeed?”

“Poison?” Somehow the thought bothered her more than the idea of bullets.

“I believe that our Mr. Nesbitt has some plans involving this manor. Plans that were upset when you returned home. He’s been hoping to drive you away, or to kill you.”

The sick feeling in Emily’s stomached deepened yet she found that a rising anger kept it in check.

“Why?” she said. “What plans can he have?”

“Your little maid had the sense of it.”

She struggled to remember what Teresa had said at dinner.

“Clegg’s treasure? Is this really about a pirate’s buried gold?”

“I think it is,” Delacourt replied. “You know about the Romany Marsh smugglers and their hidden tunnels, don’t you?”

Emily nodded. “They used them to hide loot. Dad told me that there were tunnels all through Dymchurch. There’s one under the Ship Inn, and even one that leads to the Vicarage.”

“And one in your home as well. Your father told me of a passage that runs from this house to the Scarecrow’s Oak.”

“The men with the lanterns,” she gasped.

“He told me where the entrance is,” Delacourt said. “What say you and I go find this treasure and put an end to this mystery?”

The entrance was concealed by a section of wall with a wine-rack built into it. A set of stone stairs brought them to a deep passage shored up with ancient timbers like a mine-shaft. They walked for what seemed like hours, the tall doctor often having to stoop. Finally the tunnel widened into a chamber.

Emily saw Mr. Nesbitt sitting in a wooden chair, a big revolver on the table in front of him. Across the room, Rev. Dunwoody sat against the earth wall, his hands bound.

She started to back away from the scene when she felt Delacourt’s hand settle between her shoulder blades and give her a rough shove. As she stumbled into the room Nesbitt gave a start and seized his pistol.

“Emi . . . Miss Cobtree!” the Vicar cried. “They have you too?”

“Hah! Good show, Doctor.” Nesbitt pointed his gun at Emily. “Now you sit over there by the good Reverend, young miss.”

“What’s he doing here?” Delacourt asked.

“Heading to the manor and must have seen the lights,” Nesbitt answered. “Blundered right into us.”

“No matter,” Delacourt said. “I think the two of them will be the answer to our little problem.”

“Walker, or whoever you are,” Nesbitt shouted. “We know that you’re watching. Come out or we kill the girl and the Vicar.”

In addition to the lawyer and the doctor, three rough-looking men stood near the base of the giant oak. The two leaders held pistols, and the others, shotguns. Emily sat against the tree, her hands bound in front of her. Rev. Dunwoody, similarly tied, sat next to her.

“I’m sorry about this,” he whispered. “I meant to help you out and I’m afraid that didn’t go as planned.”

“Never mind that,” Emily replied.

“I think I know who this Walker chap must be,” he said.

“Who?”

“I served in Africa during the War. Some of the chaps I met there spoke of a ‘Phantom,’ a mysterious type who hunts fellows like these.”

“Phantom?” Emily said, thinking that description was a good fit for her mysterious savior.

“Technically, I think his African name translates as The-Ghost-Who-Walks,” Dunwoody continued. “They can’t seem to agree whether he’s a ghost or a human but they claim he’s been around for four-hundred years and that he’s chased pirates, including Clegg, all that time.”

“Walker!” Nesbit shouted. “We know you’ve got the gold.”

“We’re going to shoot the Vicar,” Delacourt added. “Once you’ve seen we mean business you’ll have five minutes to save Miss Cobtree’s life.”

“Oh God,” Emily whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t give up,” Dunwoody whispered back. “You’ll make it out of this, I have faith.”

There was a loud thrashing as something heavy fell through the branches of the Scarecrow’s Oak. A metal box struck the ground and broke open disgorging a shower of golden coins.

“Must be in the tree!” Nesbitt shouted. He fired his pistol blindly into the foliage and the shotgun wielders followed suit. Only Delacourt refrained, keeping his pistol at the ready.

“Must have got him,” Nesbitt said, pausing to reload.

“No,” said a voice from the darkness. As Emily watched, a tall figure stepped into the lantern light. He wore a costume of deep purple, including a tight hood and mask that gave his rugged face a vaguely skull-like appearance. He held two big automatic pistols on the men.

“Not going to take my gold!” Nesbitt snarled, snapping his revolver shut and aiming at the Phantom. The masked man responded with a shot that struck sparks from the lawyer’s gun and drove it from his injured hand.

The three toughs surged forward, waving their shotguns like clubs. To Emily’s surprise, the Phantom didn’t shoot them down, but used his handguns to parry their blows and to strike one of them down.

Delacourt made no move to enter the mêlée. He raised his pistol and sighted carefully on the man’s broad back.

“No,” Dunwoody cried, surging to his feet. He slammed into the doctor, using his greater size to bowl him off of his feet. Emily followed close behind, looking for an opening. She didn’t think of herself as a fighter, but she wasn’t going to see her friends fall without doing anything.

Delacourt raised his gun hand and clubbed the Vicar across the back. His arm rose for a second blow, but Emily grabbed it with her bound hands and sank her teeth into his wrist. He screamed and dropped the weapon.

She and the Vicar tried to pin Delacourt, but their bonds hampered them too much. The doctor managed to kick free and scramble to his feet. But as he reached for his fallen pistol a purple-clad arm intercepted him, locking his wrist in an unbreakable grip. As Emily watched the Phantom’s right hand shoot out in a devastating punch. His ring stamped the skull mark into Delacourt’s face even as it consigned him to oblivion.

“Thank you,” Emily said again as the Phantom finished binding the unconscious men. “I hate to think how many times I would have died if not for you.”

“I wasn’t the only one helping you,” he replied.

“The most effective one, though,” Dunwoody said. “Say, I was looking at these coins. They look awfully modern to be pirate treasure.”

“They’re not,” the Phantom said. “Nesbitt was secretly one of Mosley’s Blackshirts.”

“Our own homegrown fascists,” Emily said.

“Yes, and the Nazis supplied him with the gold to finance a campaign of sabotage and espionage through the country.”

“What happened?” she asked. “Why didn’t it work?”

“Nesbitt’s partner had a change of heart. He hid the gold in the old smuggler’s tunnel and was killed before he could tell anyone about it.”

“You’re talking about Carstairs’ son, aren’t you?” Dunwoody said.

The masked head nodded. “Nesbitt and Delacourt only discovered the tunnel a few days ago. Fortunately, I found it before they did and removed the treasure.”

“But what about Captain Clegg?” Emily said. “There wasn’t ever a ghost, or a pirate treasure?”

“I’ll leave you to solve that mystery yourselves,” the Phantom replied as he stepped back into the darkness. “I stopped hunting him a long time ago.”

The End

MATTHEW BAUGH lives in a Skull Shaped cave hidden in the South suburbs of Chicago with his two crime-fighting cats. When not working for the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice, in all their forms he is the pastor of a local church. Some of his previous stories have appeared in ARKHAM TALES, HIGH SEAS CTHULHU, TALES OF THE SHADOWMEN, and THE AVENGER CHRONICLES.

A Grim Certitude

By Nathan Meyer

Africa, 1978

In darkness there is danger.

From the shadows the Phantom watched, eyes tracking every movement of the rooftop sentry like the targeting system of a surface-to-air missile. As the guard strolled along the edge of the warehouse with bored, automatic diligence, the Phantom slid in closer, step by step.

The Asian gunslinger, a triggerman for the Cairo set of the Singh Brotherhood, moved around his area of operation with a bored, distracted, diligence—hands on the pistol grip of his submachine gun.

The Egyptian set had carved out a niche serving as underworld enforcers for hire, providing security to drug and weapons shipments, as well as providing shooters for acts of criminality by other gangs throughout the region. Their primary income came from kidnapping and trafficking of girls to fill the prison-brothels of India. They were the predators of innocence and slavers, and the Phantom had come for them.

He cat danced out of deep shadow. The guard stood with his back unguarded, facing out over the lip of the roof toward the lights of the city across the bay. His hands were filled and busy as he worked a lighter to a cigarette, leaving the submachine gun dangling loose.

The Phantom slipped smoothly in a choreographed ballet of violence. His hands came up and encircled the gangster’s neck, his arm locking around the man’s throat like an iron bar, shutting down the flow of blood to the thug’s brain, depriving it of oxygen. His grip slipped like a noose over the man’s head and held like a Boa constrictor.

The man gagged as his larynx was bruised. The blunt hammer of the Phantom’s knee connected hard with the man’s kidney and he folded like a lawn chair, dropping to his knees. As the man went down, the shadow that was the Ghost Who Walks, jerked sharply back on his hold until the man blacked out.

The sentry’s arms fell limply and the Phantom put the knobby tread of his boot against his back and pushed, letting the body slump over. He was purpled obsidian in the faint moonlight as his toe found the man’s cigarette and it snuffed out with a slight hiss.

Drawing a sturdy bladed knife from his boot, the Phantom crossed the roof to where a skylight broke the surface in rectangle panes of filthy glass. He knelt down and began working, expert as any cat burglar.

Two men stood in the room. One of them stood almost naked, and both of them looked at Sister Karen Rasmussen with a vulture’s appetite. She sat tied to a straight backed chair by white hemp rope in intricate and stylized knotting and patterns of bonding, clothed in only her underwear.

She was unaware of it, but she was bound according to ancient Hojôjutsu techniques. The binding was considered an erotic art form in Japan and when this episode was done, this was where Philippine national Abdullah Sungkar hoped to unload at least a hundred thousand dollars, American, worth of the 8mm film.

The young woman, a nun in the order of the Sisters of Eternal Mercy for only two years, looked at him with terror in her eyes as Abdullah looked to his film camera, insuring it worked. The look of terror was worth cash when the underground word-of-mouth network began their critiques and reviews. His tongue, pink and small, quickly darted out to moisten his lips.

Behind him the actor named Sulu zipped his leather mask into place. Sister Karen had been the only relief agency worker in Bangalla when the terrorists of the Singh Brotherhood had made their raid. Sungkar, a field captain in the Brotherhood, was paid by representatives of Chinese syndicates to kidnap victims for their network of white slavery extending into the secret harems and brothels of the Middle East.

Behind the Singh captain his man Sulu stepped into the reel camera’s picture, his breathing fast and shallow. The sight of the man caused the girl to try and scream through her white cloth gag. Spittle flew. Sungkar felt his heart race.

Sister Karen threw herself against her restraints, but the Brotherhood captain had learned his Hojôjutsu techniques from a pencak silat martial arts instructor, making escape impossible. Giggling like a little girl himself from behind his black leather mask, Sulu stalked toward the girl, making a great show of himself for the camera.

The Ghost Who Walks unfolded from the skylight like a hunting spider. He hung for a moment, poised as the twisted scene below him played out. Dressed head to toe in the deep purple of his suit, he remained a deeper shadow within the shadows. In his left hand he clutched his knife loosely while dangling easily from his right hand.

The drop was a distance of ten feet, maybe eleven. He laid the blade flat against his leg and let go. He fell, silent as a stone falling down a well, hitting the floorboards of the warehouse’s second story and rolling along his right side like a paratrooper on an airborne assault. He came smoothly to his feet out of the shadow cast by the harsh, commercial-production film lights used to illuminate the sickening scene.

The mask wearing freak stood undressed now, revealing swirling, full-body tattoos and he screamed out loud, trying to swing a clumsy overhand blow at the intruding shadow. The Phantom came up out of his roll inside the man’s reach and the heavy handled knife flashed in the wattage of the film-lamps. Turning the blade over in his grip the Phantom struck three times like a clinch-fighting boxer, using the heavy steel pommel of the hilt.

The first strike punched into Sulu’s solar plexus and bruised his diaphragm, stealing the white slaver’s air before he could draw breath for another scream. The second blow took him just over the ribcage and hammered a concussive strike into the thudding drum of the man’s pounding heart. The third snapped into the man’s temple and knocked his lights out into a blissful sleep.

The Phantom stepped free as Sulu’s unconscious body tumbled backward like an animal in a slaughterhouse kill-chute. He sprang forward after Sunkgar who managed to raise a half-shout as he scrambled for a silver .45 caliber automatic lying under his folded jacket on an extra chair.

The Phantom spun and cocked his arm back like a man popping a heavy whip, as Sungkar threw back his jacket to dig for the weapon, not bothering to scream, knowing his bodyguards would never reach him in time.

The slaver’s fingers found the cold, comforting weight of the handgun and wrapped around the handle.

The Phantom snapped his arm.

Sungkar straightened as if electrocuted, as the hilt of the Phantom’s knife struck him exactly where spine meets the skull. His body shuddered with the impact and he arched backwards at an unnatural angle not unlike a reverse comma. The man stumbled forward and struck the floor, gave a sigh and fell into a deep stupor. The stink of fear sweat filled the air with hellish incense.

The Phantom rose from his crouch.

Sister Karen looked over at the long table next to the rolling camera. Among the clutter there was a Nikita power drill, dental instruments and some blood stained carpentry tools. In the middle of implements a black candle burned next to a bottle of the strong licorice tasting European liquor, Uzo. Abdullah had told her in loving detail as the one named Sulu had giggled, exactly what he was going to do with each and every single item, speaking slowly so that each word was captured in perfect clarity by the continuously running 8mm camera.

Now the avenging shadow moved toward her, big guns in holsters on his hips and steel knife in hand. A ring on the man’s thick finger caught the light and she saw a skull wink at her. She recoiled in terror from the dark purple apparition. Seeing her reaction the Phantom stopped and knelt down beside her.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’m here to get you out, Sister.”

He cut her hands free just as he heard the first thundering of footsteps on the stairs outside the door. He pulled the blade toward him in one smooth motion and sliced the bonds binding her wrists then pressed the knife hilt into her shaking grip.

“Cut yourself free,” he ordered.

She took the knife automatically, but when she looked up the costumed fighter was gone, swallowed by shadows. The door to the room exploded inward, the frame splintering along one hinge and a handful of ugly men armed with utilitarian machine pistols burst into the room. They wore dirty jeans and expensive shirts with gold gleaming in the form of watches and bracelets on their wrists, in their teeth, at their ears and across their knuckles. They looked every bit the part of modern age pirates.

The leader’s eyes sprang wide in surprise on seeing the slack bodies of his brethren, his jaw dropped to his chest in a reaction so exaggerated it appeared comical. His head jerked left then right as he tried to peer into the thick shadows filling the edges of the long room. He saw the knife in the nun’s hands but saw also how she remained bound to the chair at the neck, waist, knees and ankles.

She looked back at him, expression stupid and confused in her fear. Behind him the rest of the crew tried to press forward.

The man, a lieutenant named Kis, barked something in his own language and waved the stubby barrel of his machine pistol. Sister Karen looked at him. He switched to a broken English.

“What happened?” he demanded. “You kill boss?”

The girl tried to shake her head, her mouth locked part way open by her gag. She could barely turn her head against the stylized wrappings of the Hojôjutsu knots. But she held a long-bladed knife in her tiny, feminine hand.

Cursing, Kis moved forward.

Growling, the crew of Singh Brotherhood marauders surged after him. A heavy thunk sounded on the old floorboards as something metal struck the 8mm reel camera and knocked it over. Every head swung in that direction. Kis blinked as what appeared to be a pale green can of soda pop rolled across the floor toward them.

“Gre—!” A killer behind him managed.

White light like a sun going nova flashed followed by a sharp, overwhelming bang that filled his ears with disorientating pain. From behind the milling, confused gang of thugs and kidnappers, a purple-black figure detached from shadow and moved among them.

Fists and feet, knees and elbows, struck flesh and uncomprehending faces like sledge hammers, as bodies started hitting the floor.

In her chair Sister Karen watched the Phantom work.

He moved like some supra-natural force, coldly dispatching the slavers from the very middle of their milling cluster. He spun and twisted, his limbs pointed and lifted, pressing and working again and again. The human weapon slid, kicked backward, spilling blood, as noses were smashed, lips split and the great Death’s Head ring indented flesh.

Her own head whirled and spun from the flash-bang grenade concussion and her vision wavered, obstructed by blurred spots. She blinked, catching disjointed images like still pictures clipped from a movie reel. She blinked again, seeing Brotherhood shells tumbling with surrealistic clarity from barking guns, but still saw the faces of those falling men only as blurs.

She blinked again and her vision snapped into focus, and there stood now only the night fighter, fists raised, in the middle of a pile of broken, unconscious bodies.

The figure turned toward her and she could see gun smoke curling around him in dark gray ribbons. The stench of cordite cut through her nostrils, burning like smelling salts and snapping her back into the sharp reality of the moment.

“There are more of them downstairs,” the Phantom said. “Hurry! Cut yourself free and be ready to move. Get under the table and watch the entrance.”

He turned and vanished through the door of the second story warehouse room and impromptu Brotherhood film studio. Sister Karen began cutting herself free, hands shaking.

Chin Ho Medina stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up, a Kalashnikov assault rifle in his sweating hands. He called again, confused by the initial commotion, and then the sudden lack of commotion, as the first team of bodyguards had rushed up the stairs that ran like scaffolding to the second story office space. How much trouble could a nun be? Then a purple-black apparition appeared quickly in the doorway and Medina barked out a warning before opening fire.

Seeing the costume clad, domino-mask covered man he screamed: “The Ghost Who Walks!” in stark terror.

The pirate’s assault rifle blazed in his hands and behind him the rest of the criminal cell, already poised and on edge, exploded into violent action. The Phantom pulled back from the edge of the doorway as he saw the man named Medina level his weapon. The slaver began blasting away, the muzzle flash obscuring the gunman’s own vision as the Asian thug poured lead wildly into the shadows above him.

He didn’t see the deadly black sphere as it floated down toward him.

It arched in a gentle lob over his head and struck the hard, oil-stained cement of the floor. The concussion grenade immediately exploded, leaving no time for reaction before the blunt force sent him tumbling like a rag doll over the safety railing of the stairs, his weapon spinning off.

Behind the unconscious Medina more killers screamed as they were thrown or swept aside by the concussive force. Drool ran in streams across the filthy floor as the battered brethren were scythed to the ground.

The Phantom sprang out of the doorway and rushed down the staircase, one of his own .45 caliber pistols up and ready. He caught a flash of motion and pivoted smoothly at the waist. He put a single round into one stumbling kidnapper’s weapon then a second into that of another fighting to stand up. Both men screamed in shock as the heavy rounds spared flesh but mangled their firearms.

He saw a shrieking man staggering, clutching at a broken, useless arm and deemed the gangster no threat. He turned away, ran down four more steps and saw a slaver crawling along the ground, gasping for breath. The man reached for the smooth grip of a machine pistol and the Phantom used a .45 caliber slug to send the weapon spinning off into the darkness.

He thundered down another half-flight of stairs and saw movement out beyond the edge of the blast radius. He vaulted the smoking railing on the stair as heavy caliber slugs chewed into the wood steps where he’d been standing. He landed amidst a pile of terrorist thugs incapacitated by his stun grenade. He tried to spin and drop but his toe came down in a pooled smear of saliva and he slipped.

He went down hard and felt blood from broken noses soak through the side of his costume. The gunner who’d fired on him rushed out from behind a line of 55-gallon industrial barrels, weapon blazing. The Phantom shot his submachine gun with a double tap to the fore stock and the man staggered, firing a second burst into the ground, causing ricochets to whistle and whine madly around the room.

Riding out the recoil of the last burst the Phantom pushed himself up. His ribs felt bruised from the tumble but adrenaline ran through him in currents of electricity.

He sensed movement and turned his head, the muzzle of his smoking pistol shifting in tandem and steel-steady in his grip. His finger lay welded on the smooth metal curve of the trigger taking up any slack. He saw a shape crouched under an old metal office desk and his arm straightened, his finger tightening on the trigger.

The little girl’s eyes were a deep, very dark brown, looking big as saucers rimmed with shimmering tears. Her lips quivered with fear and her thin cheeks were smeared with dirt. Her lower lip was split and swollen so that a trickle of blood ran down her chin and dried like a string of chocolate syrup.

Narrowing his eyes the Phantom lowered his pistol.

He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. Off to his left on the edge of a pile of unconscious bodies strung out like toys by the stun grenade blast, a gang member pushed himself up and staggered away. The Phantom shifted, seeing only the motion at first.

His eyes went to the hands where the shuffling pirate grasped one of the ugly, little machine pistols. The handgun in the Phantom’s fist seemed to cycle on its own accord, intrinsically. The soft nosed bullets burrowed into the gunman’s weapon, cracking the wing-shaped shoulder stock like a hammer on a plate.

The man spasmed, arching his back just the way Sungkar had upstairs and the machine pistol clattered and bounced off the cement. The pirate staggered forward toward a line of grimy oil barrels. He screamed once in pain, his trigger hand busted like fine China dishes and staggered, close to going down. His arm came out and the Phantom figured it for a last, desperate attempt to stop his fall before he struck the ground.

The hand came down and too late the Ghost Who Walks saw the boxy apparatus attached to the industrial barrels by twisted lines of thick coaxial cable.

There came a sharp, dry metallic click and suddenly glowing red LEDS numerals blinked on in the swatch of gloom as the Phantom fired once, knocking a heavy lantern from a nail in a beam and striking the pirate on the head. The man spilled out like a sack of loose meat on the floor.

The numbers glowed dark red and stood out starkly against the gloom:

00:30

The Phantom leapt forward. The demolition charges a group like this seemed capable of wouldn’t be that complex, and he could diffuse most simple trigger-explosives easily enough.

He almost reached the charges, the number display reading, 00:28, his gaze fairly dancing across the apparatus; taking in the details of the construction, hunting for connection points or trailing wires.

Then the little girl shot him in the back.

He grunted hard at the impact and spun even as the echo of the burst still bounced through the cavernous warehouse. He felt a sting like a razor slice along his left arm and the edge of his back felt like he’d been blindsided with a meat cleaver.

He didn’t have time to question why it had happened. Would have doubted something like Stockholm Syndrome anyway. He was a man with a gun and men with guns didn’t often solve problems in modern Africa. The only men with guns the little girl had seen, he understood intuitively, had been the ones intent on using her up and throwing her away.

He spun, dropped and fired quickly.

His bullets found the floor in front of her, leaving a risk of ricochet but he—like all who had worn the mask before him—was unholy good with his weapons and there was no choice but to take the risk.

Cement chips sprang up, slapping the little girl with granite shards and she screamed but held stubbornly to the machine pistol.

The Phantom shifted his muzzle and drilled a slug through the frame of the desk beside her head, already starting to surge forward. The rounds flattened out as they punched through the cheap metal and the girl gasped.

“Drop the weapon!” he gritted in Bangallan, but the girl seemed hysterical with terror and the bomb kept counting down.

From the top of the stairs Sister Karen answered that first scream with one of her own.

The Phantom felt relief like a punch in the gut as the little girl finally panicked enough to drop the machine pistol. He leapt forward and kicked the weapon across the room until it skidded away across the floor. He bent, snatching her up under one stick thin arm.

“I am the Ghost Who Walks!” he said.

The girl looked at him and more tears came, but he could feel her tense in his grip as her fear and confusion overtook her. It seemed obvious she didn’t understand his words and he had a moment to wonder from just how far this hostage had come. Then she clung tightly to him for a moment and he felt hope.

She let out a sudden, sharp piercing scream and her little fists began to windmill as she fought him with desperate energy. He looked to the digital timer.

00:00:23

He wanted to yank the girl free as the clock slid to

00:00:22

but she was glued to him like a wildcat, scratching and clawing and trying to bite. He forced himself to hold on despite the hurt in his back where the anti-ballistic material of his suit had slowed the slug. He yelled for Sister Karen to run and turned away, scanning the big room for the way out he’d identified on his initial reconnaissance.

He saw members of the Singh Brotherhood pulling themselves to their feet, heard them jabbering in terror as they realized their last ditch defense was counting down to their mutual doom. The slavers scrambled for windows along the back wall where outside the river flowed thick and slow and murky. That way held no refuge for the Phantom, he knew.

Then he saw the door with the padlock hanging off a logging chain from the inside handles. He’d shot the machine pistol from the hand of the pirate charged with manning the entry post on his own way down the stairs, and saw that unconscious body sprawled on the floor, outflung hand inches from an assault rifle.

00:00:21

“Sister!” he barked for a second time.

“I’m coming!” The young nun answered and he heard her running down the staircase.

He tucked the wildly flailing little girl under his arm and moved toward the door. He brought his handgun up as he did so, approaching the lock at an angle. He was stunned by the ferocity with which the Singh clique had been prepared to defend its base of operations.

He saw more clusters of 55-gallon drums connected by television cables designed to carry electronic impulses, realizing the pirate set had cobbled together a devastating mixture of low and hi-tech. What it lacked in complexity the Phantom felt sure it would make for in raw, explosive power.

00:00:20

Squeezing the girl tightly he lifted the pistol and fired into the big “Master” brand padlock holding the thick links of chain together. The heavy hunk of metal jumped up at the impact like a fish on the end of a line and split apart. He stepped forward and struck out with the tread of his boot, catching the cracked mechanism and ripping it down.

Behind him Sister Karen ran up as the chain clattered to the floor. The little girl squirmed, almost epileptic in her struggle now as she kept shrieking a single word over and over again. It was the same syllable in screaming repetition, but the Phantom didn’t know the word, didn’t think he even recognized the language. He stuffed his pistol into its holster to better control the twisting girl and reached out to yank the warehouse door open.

00:00:19

The frantic nun threw herself against the handle and heaved her weight against the door. It came open easily and she stumbled through. The Phantom rushed out after her, running hard, the little girl bucking in his arms.

He heard a vehicle door open and saw the flash of a dome light out of his left eye even as he turned. He saw a Brethren gunman in a leather coat with a long, greasy ponytail hopping out of a blocky green Citroën truck, one of the click’s ubiquitous machine pistols coming up.

The Phantom dropped the twisting little girl as he brought his handgun up in a smooth fast-draw. Sister Karen was screaming her voice raw now, hands up around her face and standing directly in his way. He struck her with a heel-of-the-palm blow to her shoulder blade as the gunmen lifted his machine pistol and she spun away from him.

He leveled his handgun, just catching a sense of the little girl darting away from him. His finger found the trigger a split second before the other man’s and a single .45 caliber slug struck the machine pistol center mass.

The man staggered under the impact and came up against the edge of the car. The Phantom pulled down and stroked his trigger again. The round blasted glass from the truck window caused the man to cringe with instinctive fear. The Phantom used the moment to throw a second stun grenade at the man, its pin still secured, like a Big League pitcher burning a fastball through a batter’s strike zone. The grenade struck the terror merchant directly between the eyes and he fell hard as a trip-hammered steer in a Chicago stockyard.

Frantic now the Phantom turned, reaching out for the scrambling little girl but just missed her as she darted back into the building. His finger tips grazed her, coming close enough to feel the feather brush of her hair as he grasped nothing and she slipped past him.

“Sister!” Sister Karen suddenly shouted. “I just remembered the word—she’s Pakistani! I was too scared to translate before!” The young nun shrieked. “Her sister’s in there.”

But The Phantom was already running.

He hit the doors of the warehouse three steps behind the frenzied girl. His eyes found the LEDS display and what he saw flooded his system with fresh jolts of adrenaline.

00:00:09

He sprang forward, growling with the exertion and caught the girl as she dived toward the hiding spot he’d first pulled her from. She twisted like a ferret and sank her teeth into his palm.

00:00:08

He swore and let go as blood pooled up out of the cuts like water from an Artesian well. The girl slid under the desk and with incredulity he realized that her “sister” was a little rag doll as filthy as its owner with bright black button eyes. He reached out with his unwounded hand and caught the girl by her shirt. Doll firmly in her grip, she came away easy now and he drew her tightly to him.

00:00:05

He saw the readout and knew he couldn’t make it.

His feet hit the ground as he drove with his legs against the concrete like a running back breaking for open field after a handoff. He cut around an overturned barrel and cursed the half second it caused him.

The girl babbled at him in some dialect he was too keyed up to catch but she was also hugging tightly to him. He saw the door standing open and he put on the last burst of speed left in his body. His heart thumped hard in his chest, banging against his ribs with the exertion, his breath coming fast and hard.

00:00:02

He hit the door at a dead sprint just as he felt the air around him suddenly drawn backwards in a vacuum rush that stung his eyeballs. He covered the girl up tight against him as he felt the flash of sudden heat come rolling up behind him like a fast running locomotive.

Cowering on the pavement Sister Karen watched the Phantom dive through the doorway. He seemed to hang for a moment in the air and she could see the ball of fire rushing up behind like a film image on fast forward.

The Phantom hurtled through the air, twisting as he flew to catch the angle out of the doorway and the orange freight train of a fireball rushed past him as the explosive force sent the doors flying off their hinges like tumbling dice.

She couldn’t stop screaming as she watched and the Phantom twisted as he fell to protect the girl, landing hard along one arm and shoulder. He grunted with the impact and recoiled slightly off the pavement before sprawling wide to cover as much of the little girl’s flesh with his own body as he could.

Behind them jets of flame shot out windows and air vents, punching holes through the roof. Black smoke appeared instantly and debris began raining down like parade confetti. Sister Karen felt her throat choke up with sudden, sharp pain and she realized she was still screaming but that the blast had deafened her.

She stopped, coughing and then looked up at the savage bonfire lighting up the dockside neighborhood. Feeling the heat of the burning warehouse rolling into her like surf, she blinked against the glare. Dimly she heard the frantic shouts and outboard motors of the fleeing Singh raiders.

She saw the little girl holding her doll tightly to her chest and instinctively went to her, finding her unharmed. The girl folded easily into the comfort of her arms and in the distance she heard the sirens of approaching United Nations Peacekeepers.

Of the Ghost Who Walks there was no sign and she realized with a grim certitude that those fleeing pirates would find no peace. Indeed, she realized, there would be no peace for any of their ilk as long as the Phantom haunted his jungle.

The End

NATHAN MEYER is a 39 year old father of four. He’s written 15 novels across three action/adventure series; ‘The Executioner’, ‘Mack Bolan’ and ‘Stony Man’ His first novel in a young adult fantasy series (“Aldwyns Academy”) is being released in September of 2010 from publisher Wizards of the Coast and he has an appearance in an upcoming Berkley anthology.

A fan of the The Phantom since he was a kid, he considers the ability to write the character a big honor.

The Sky Warriors

By Mark Justice

The Phantom hated terrorists, perhaps almost as much as he loathed pirates.

But The Ghost Who Walks didn’t have a lot of time for introspection. He had to stop a criminal lowlife who supplied weapons of mass destruction to legions of psychopaths.

The Phantom climbed the mountain trail as quickly as he could. The man he pursued was a distant speck far above him.

Part of his difficulty was that the rough path was a “trail” in name only. The mountainside was nothing but rock, often sharp and perilous. He was forced to leave Hero behind, unwilling to risk the steed’s legs on the dangerous surface. Devil could have led the chase, but The Phantom had commanded the mountain wolf to remain at The Skull Cave to guard his children. Diana was in the United States, and The Phantom had many enemies.

As he climbed, The Phantom’s masked eyes never left the remote silhouette of the terrorist. Or the device on his back.

He was known as Hajid. According to The Phantom’s sources, he had been operating in the northern mountains of Bangalla for a little more than a month. Hajid’s base was a staging area for the distribution of chemical and biological weapons to various terrorist groups around the globe. Hajid assumed the remoteness of his mountain headquarters could ensure a great deal of both privacy and freedom for his operation.

He had been wrong. As soon as word spread to the Jungle Patrol of a camp near the base of the mountains, surveillance began. Under orders from The Phantom, secret commander of the Jungle Patrol, a young agent infiltrated Hajid’s group. Before he was murdered by the arms dealer, the agent was able to pass along a horrifying message.

Hajid had obtained a small quantity of an experimental nerve gas charmingly called “Nightmare.” In tests, Nightmare had induced psychotic visions in its victims. The Phantom knew that if a sufficient quantity of the gas was introduced into a city or on a battlefield, the resulting fear and chaos would mean victory for the terrorists.

Hajid and his Nightmare had to be stopped.

The Phantom ordered a pre-dawn raid on Hajid’s camp. The Jungle Patrol successfully rounded up Hajid’s men, but the arms dealer managed to slip away. Fortunately, The Ghost Who Walks prepared for the possibility and was waiting astride Hero some distance from the camp. The Phantom witnessed Hajid’s escape on horseback.

Trusting the Jungle Patrol to transfer their prisoners back to the Bangalla detention facility, The Phantom set out after his prey.

The Phantom was gifted with phenomenal eyesight, but the man he pursued had a head start of at least half a mile. So The Ghost Who Walks could be forgiven for not noticing right away what was on Hajid’s back.

It wasn’t until the sun had fully risen that a glimmer provided The Phantom a warning. He squinted in the morning light.

The terrorist wore something on his back.

It was a metal canister.

The chase led The Phantom to the very outskirts of Bangalla, an area he barely remembered from childhood explorations. The jungle was long behind him. Here, the sight of vegetation was scarce, and the soft earth was replaced by stone.

Once Hajid abandoned his own horse and began to climb the rough mountainside, The Phantom wasted valuable moments trying to find a path that Hero could use. When he realized the impossibility of his task, he quickly dismounted and continued the pursuit on foot.

Around noon a brief rain fell. Though a respite from the brutal heat, the moisture slickened the rocks and made finding a secure foothold difficult. More than once, The Phantom slid down the surface of a sharp stone as he battled to regain his footing. He was consoled by the grunts and scrabbling sounds Hajid made above him.

The muscles of The Phantom’s arms and legs burned from exertion. The tips of his fingers left a trail of blood from dozens of tiny cuts, but The Ghost Who Walks would not slow down.

He was gaining on the arms dealer. He was close enough to hear Hajid’s breathless gasps.

The terrorist scrambled past a stone overhang and disappeared from The Phantom’s view.

Pausing for a moment in the shade of the stone shelf, The Phantom took in several deep breaths then listened carefully.

He heard nothing.

He squatted near a pile of stones. Several of them were the size of softballs. The Phantom chose one. Then he withdrew one of the twin M1911 pistols he kept holstered at his side. With his left hand, he raised the handgun just above the rim of the stone shelf.

As he expected, a large rock hurtled past his hand. Hajid must not have had time to grab a firearm when the raid began. Otherwise he would have used it by now.

The Phantom threw his own stone past the edge of the overhang. He heard it land with a soft thump and a satisfying groan. He quickly climbed over the edge of the rock.

The shelf turned out to be a level area that extended several hundred yards before the mountain rose again.

Hajid was already on his feet and running away.

The Phantom drew one of his pistols, sighting carefully between the terrorist’s shoulder blades.

No good.

He couldn’t risk hitting the canister of what he presumed was Nightmare. No one else was around—and The Phantom was willing to sacrifice his own life if it meant stopping the danger the gas posed—but he had no knowledge of the weapon’s yield. Perhaps it would be contained here on this mountainside.

But if it spread . . .

The Phantom thought of the many villages on both sides of the Bangalla border.

He couldn’t risk it.

The Phantom holstered his gun. He resumed the chase.

Hajid was younger than The Phantom had expected. And more fit.

On the flat surface The Ghost Who Walks ran full out and only managed to keep pace with the arms dealer. A stitch in his side threatened to slow him down, but The Phantom ground his teeth together and pushed on.

Hajid had nearly reached the base of the next incline. Good. The Phantom was certain he could close the distance once they were climbing again. He’d spent his youth clambering through the trees and hillsides of this country.

But as Hajid approached the rocky mountainside, something remarkable happened.

The terrorist disappeared.

The Phantom stopped to survey the scene.

Hajid was gone.

The arms dealer had reached the base of the next incline. Instead of beginning his climb, Hajid had simply vanished.

The Phantom moved again, at a jog this time, carefully watching for any sign of the man he pursued.

When he got close to the spot where he last saw Hajid, The Phantom slowed. There were no footprints on the rocky surface, no sign of the passage of the arms dealer. The Phantom stepped around a large boulder.

And he found it.

The large rock had hidden an opening in the stone floor. Nearly three feet in diameter, the hole was black as night. The Phantom kneeled near the ragged oval. He saw a tunnel beyond the opening, and that it canted at a slight angle.

So it wouldn’t be a straight drop.

The Phantom recalled the story of Dorothy and the rabbit hole, he smiled grimly.

Then he slid his legs into the hole and pushed off.

The tunnel narrowed a few feet in and he had to keep his arms crossed over his chest. Occasional rocky protuberances tore at his back and his legs, but he ignored the pain. The darkness was total.

The trip seemed endless, even though he knew it had only been a minute or more. The tunnel angled again, and The Phantom felt his progress slow.

Suddenly he was dumped onto a rough stone floor. The breath was forced from his lungs.

As he struggled to his feet, The Phantom realized there was light here. It was faint, to be sure, but it was enough for him to see Hajid perhaps a hundred yards ahead of him, limping away.

The Phantom ran after him, his aches forgotten. The sound of his boots slapping on the stone echoed through the cavern. Hajid looked back, his eyes wide with fear.

“No!” he screamed “Stay away.”

“You’re kidding, right?” The Phantom said. He closed the gap between them.

The arms dealer tried to run faster, but he must have injured a foot or ankle in the fall. The next time he peered over his shoulder to stare with bulging eyes at his masked pursuer, Hajid lost his footing and tumbled head over heels. He landed on his back with a metallic clang.

On his back.

The terrorist moaned in pain. But it wasn’t the only sound to reach The Phantom’s ears.

Something hissed.

Hajid screamed.

The canister of nerve gas was leaking.

The Phantom was less than twenty feet from the downed terrorist. He closed that gap in no time. Kneeling next to the man, The Phantom tried to roll Hajid onto his stomach. The arms dealer struggled like a drowning man, flailing his arms and legs wildly.

The Phantom drove a fist into his chin. Hajid went limp. The imprint of the Skull Ring was visible even in the dim light of the cavern.

Now The Phantom easily rolled the man over.

When he first heard the hissing The Phantom had hoped a valve had merely loosened. The reality was much worse. A jagged stone had punctured the silver canister. The gas called Nightmare was escaping into the cavern.

At least we’re underground, The Phantom thought. Hopefully he and Hajid would be the only victims.

For a moment, he thought of trying to close the hole with another stone, perhaps, or a piece of his uniform. Then he realized too much of the nerve gas had already leaked from the container.

The Phantom slumped to the cavern’s floor, the strength gone from his limbs.

He tried to push himself up, only to discover he was paralyzed.

Before he lapsed into unconsciousness, The Ghost Who Walks thought he heard voices echoing from the walls of the stone tunnel. One of the voices sounded very much like his father.

To his surprise, The Phantom awoke face down on the cold floor of the tunnel. He pushed himself to a sitting position. He realized he felt pretty good for a man who should be dead. He looked around in the faint light.

Hajid was gone.

The Phantom stood up. He was dizzy, but the feeling quickly passed. He headed for the source of the light.

After no more than a hundred yards, the tunnel curved, and The Phantom saw daylight. The opening at the end of the tunnel was large enough to admit a truck. Beyond it was sunshine so bright he had to shade his eyes. The Phantom paused at the entrance. Outside was lush jungle as thick and beautiful as that of Bangalla.

Yet he knew it wasn’t his home. Beyond the tops of the tree a tower stood in the distance.

A tower made of glass.

Even at this remove, The Phantom could make out tiny figures scurrying about on the tower’s top level. He had never witnessed anything like this, nor had he encountered any such descriptions in the chronicles of his ancestors.

What was this amazing place?

The Phantom stepped out of the cave.

The air smelled fresh and clean, particularly after his time in the tunnel.

The Phantom had to find Hajid. He’d imagined the terrorist would have been drawn to the sight of that massive tower of glass, so The Phantom set out in that direction.

Before he could enter the jungle, a sound from above drew his attention. Rising from beyond the trees, a number of shapes were silhouetted against the sun.

Large shapes with wings.

The first of the creatures dived at The Phantom. He threw himself to the ground. He caught a glimpse of something that looked—incredibly—like a pterodactyl. And on the creature’s back was a man.

Before he could absorb this unbelievable information, another flying monstrosity dived at The Phantom. He rolled away from razor-sharp talons.

The Phantom jumped to his feet and saw that the first flying creature was circling around for another attack. The man on its back was dressed in some sort of armor and carried a staff in one hand. The other hand gripped a set of reins. The man was riding the pterodactyl like it was a horse.

The Phantom was halfway between the cave and the edge of the jungle. He decided he would have a better chance of hiding and fighting back in the thick vegetation.

Before he could reach the tree line, the second flying monster swooped down from the sky. The Phantom reached for his pistol, but realized his holsters were empty. The creature’s rider pointed his staff at The Ghost Who Walks. Brightness flared from the tip of the rod, followed by a deep hum that The Phantom could feel in his bones.

Incredible agony lanced though his body, as if he’d been struck by lightning. For a moment his vision was filled with a crackling blue light. Then everything went dark.

The second time The Phantom awoke, he knew he wasn’t alone.

He heard someone—a man, it sounded like—snoring very near him.

The Phantom was on the floor of some sort of cell, he presumed. There was a small window set very high into one of the walls. A stout-looking wooden door was on the opposite side of the room.

He stood up and moved around. Nothing seemed to be broken, although his uniform was covered with dozens of tiny burn marks.

“Be thankful that was the low setting, mate,” a voice said.

The Phantom whirled.

A man reclined on the floor. He was huge, with a shock of orange hair and arms as thick as tree limbs. He was dressed in a torn and dirty t-shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better days.

“If they turn one of those joysticks to high then, crikey, it’s all over.”

The man stood up. In his bare feet he towered over The Phantom by six inches.

He stuck out a beefy hand. “The name’s Red Taylor.”

The Phantom shook his hand. “Walker,” he said.

Red Taylor studied his new cell mate. “Where’s the costume party?”

“You’re Australian,” the Phantom said.

“That’s right. I’m a jackeroo. A ranch hand. At least I was, until I ended up here.”

“Where is this place?” The Phantom said.

Taylor shrugged. “Your guess is a good as mine, mate. I fell down a hole chasin’ stray cattle. Maybe we’re in the center of the earth, like a Jules Verne story. Or maybe this is another dimension. Or another planet.”

The Phantom looked at him.

“Hey, I read a lot. Not much else to do where I live.”

The Phantom studied the door.

“I wouldn’t try it,” Taylor warned. “I busted a couple of knuckles on it when I was first thrown in here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“By my best reckoning, a week or so. Enough time for me and the Tar’Dnar to learn we can’t stand each other.”

“Who?”

“The ruler of this lovely town. Lives in a big glass tower. Maybe you seen it.”

“I did,” The Phantom said. “Does this place have a name?”

“Bek Su Lah,” Taylor said. “It means ‘sacred home’ or some such. At least that’s what I gather from the bit of their talk I picked up. They ought to call it ‘the place we keep the stuff we stole’.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean these guys live to steal from every little village around them. They’re like pirates of the jungle.”

The Phantom smiled.

“Did I say somethin’ funny, mate?”

“Not at all,” The Phantom said. “What else can you tell me about this place?”

“Not much. When I got here the men on the flying dinosaurs zapped me and dragged me before the high and mighty Tar’Dnar. From what little of his gibberish I was able to understand, along with his gestures, I gathered he was wantin’ to know if I could build weapons for him.”

“Weapons?” The Phantom clearly remembered the blast from the flying soldier’s staff.

“That’s right,” Taylor said. “Best I can tell, these people stole everything they have, includin’ this town and its fancy glass tower. The problem is, things are wearin’ out and they don’t know how to fix ’em.”

“After your talk, they put you in here?”

“Yeah. There was some old guy in here with me. He was a prisoner from one of the other villages down the river. He told me most of what I just told you.”

“Where is he now?” The Phantom said.

Red Taylor looked at the floor. “They executed him a couple of days back. See, mate, we’re in the condemned cell. This is where they keep their prisoners before they kill ’em.”

But The Phantom wasn’t listening. The leader of this place wanted someone who could make weapons.

“Hajid,” The Phantom said.

“What’s that?”

The Phantom smiled again. “Red, how would you like to get out of here?”

Surprise was their best weapon.

After further discussions with Red Taylor, The Phantom learned that the soldiers of Bek Su Lah encountered very little resistance when they raided other villages. Their winged mounts and fearsome staffs had quickly become the stuff of legend.

Taylor said the prisoners were fed once a day, in the evening. Two soldiers always came: one to slide the food across the floor and another to make sure the prisoners behaved.

Shortly after nightfall, the big door squeaked open. The Phantom and Red Taylor sat in the middle of the floor, the picture of hopelessness and defeat.

The first man carried a bowl filled halfway with a thin, grey gruel and a wooden bucket with water. His armor was rusted in places and didn’t fit him well. The soldier behind him was wearing less armor, but he carried one of the staffs. It emitted a faint buzzing.

When the first man bent over to drop the containers on the floor, The Phantom sprang upward like a striking cobra. He drove his shoulder into the body of the first man, knocking him back into the armed soldier. While the second man tried to free the staff that was now pinned by his companion’s body, Red Taylor grabbed the wooden bucket, and, bellowing a fierce roar, slammed it into the second man’s unprotected skull. The soldier dropped to the floor.

With one blow to the first man’s face, The Phantom ensured he wouldn’t wake for a long time.

“Walker, you’ve got a mean right hook,” Taylor said.

The Phantom and Taylor stepped over the two soldiers. The Ghost Who Walks picked up the staff. There was a depression on the handle of the weapon that perfectly fit his thumb. There was an adjustable band just under the depression. The Phantom turned the band. There was a click, followed by an increase in the weapon’s buzzing.

“We need to get to the tower,” he said to Taylor.

“That I can do.”

The big man led The Phantom through a stone hallway. Two doors stood at the passage’s end.

Taylor pointed at the door on the right. “That one leads out. But this one . . .”

He opened the door on the left, to reveal a staircase and a corridor lit by torches.

“This way to His Worship,” Taylor said.

They descended into the corridor. The air was cooler and smelled like mildew.

“This is the way they brought me after I had the pleasure of meetin’ Tar’Dnar,” Taylor whispered.

After that, they walked in silence for several minutes.

Until they both heard the sound of footsteps and the murmur of conversation from beyond a curve in the corridor. The passageway had no other doors or alcoves. Nowhere to hide.

The Phantom stepped past Taylor.

“Get behind me,” he said. He raised the staff and thumbed the adjustable dial up one click. The staff vibrated in his hand.

It was only seconds before two soldiers strolled into view. Both carried staffs, but were too shocked by the appearance of the prisoners to react.

The Phantom fired his staff. Both soldiers were enveloped in a cloud of sizzling blue energy. The Phantom let go of the trigger and the men collapsed soundlessly to the floor.

Taylor gathered up the two staffs. “Come on.”

The Phantom stopped to check the pulses of both men. They lived.

“What are you doin’, mate? They would have cooked you in an instant.”

The Phantom stood. “Let’s get moving.”

The remainder of the journey was uneventful. At the end of the corridor they climbed a flight of stairs and paused before a door.

“There’s likely to be a few of those soldiers on the other side of that door, Walker.”

The Phantom nodded. He opened the door.

Four of the armored men stood talking in a loose circle. Only one bothered to look around when the door opened. He squeaked out a warning.

The Phantom fired his weapon. The blue cloud surrounded the two soldiers closest to The Ghost Who Walks. The other two men raised their staffs.

Red Taylor fired one of the staffs he carried. The other two soldiers shook and trembled for a few seconds before falling to the ground. The Phantom’s foes were also down.

The Phantom noted the four staff’s that lay on the floor, he took a few seconds to study his location on the ground floor of the glass tower. Through the walls he could see jungle all around the structure. He looked up. The view of the upper levels was distorted by the layers of glass, or glass-like substance. He could see movement far above them.

“Tar’Dnar is up top,” Taylor said.

“Let’s gather up those extra staffs,” The Phantom said. “I’ve got an idea.”

The Phantom climbed the glass staircase all the way to the top. He encountered no resistance.

Just below the top floor he paused to look up. Two figures stood over a table. Neither seemed to have noticed him.

The Phantom climbed the last few steps. He stood on the top level of the tower. The view was magnificent. Several of the flying creatures circled the tower.

One of the men in the room was tall and wide, almost as large as Red Taylor. He wore a red tunic and many chains of gold around his neck.

The other man was Hajid. Shoved into the waistband of his pants were The Phantom’s two pistols.

The terrorist touched a lighted match to a powdery substance which ignited with a flash.

The bigger man—Tar’Dnar—jumped back, startled.

Hajid smiled proudly.

“Show’s over,” The Phantom said.

Both men looked up.

“You!” Hajid’s eyes bulged. “You’re dead.”

“Not yet.”

Hajid reached for one of the handguns. The Phantom raised the staff and pressed the trigger. The weapon buzzed weakly but did not discharge the blast of energy. It was dead.

Tar’Dnar pushed Hajid out of the way. He screamed some words The Phantom didn’t understand and charged.

The Phantom swung the staff at Tar’Dnar’s head. The larger man caught the staff in his hand and jerked it from The Phantom’s grasp. The Phantom threw a punch into the ruler’s stomach, but Tar’Dnar didn’t seem to feel it. Tar’Dnar grabbed The Phantom by the throat, shoving him against the glass wall. The ruler squeezed and The Phantom saw dark spot swim into his vision.

He braced his back against the wall and kicked as hard as he could. Tar’Dnar staggered and lost his grip on The Phantom’s throat.

Before The Phantom could catch his breath, Hajid started firing both guns. The Phantom dropped to the floor behind the massive body of Tar’Dnar. The terrorist continued firing until both guns were empty. The Phantom stood.

But so did Tar’Dnar. He bellowed an oath and rushed The Phantom. The Ghost Who Walks grabbed the pirate king’s red tunic and dropped to the floor. He planted his feet in Tar’Dnar’s mid-section, hurling the ruler against the glass wall.

The wall that had been hit with almost every bullet in The Phantom’s guns.

The wall shattered. Tar’Dnar fell screaming to the jungle floor.

The Phantom climbed to his feet.

“No,” Hajid said. His lower lip trembled.

The Phantom dragged the terrorist to the lower level of the tower, where Red Taylor waited.

“Now?” Taylor said.

The Phantom nodded. The three of them moved to the tower’s entrance. Against the opposite wall, Taylor had stacked the extra staffs. He lifted the remaining staff and fired.

The wall disintegrated. The tower began to shake.

“Run!” Taylor screamed.

They sprinted through the jungle. For a short time no one paid attention to them. The tower began to fall with a sound like a thousand icicles falling in a forest.

They cleared the jungle before any of the flying soldiers noticed their presence.

The cave was only a hundred yards or so away. Three of the airborne reptiles headed for them.

Taylor used the staff to shoot one of them down. The creature and its rider screamed all the way to the ground. The other two peeled away.

“Go,” Taylor said. “I’ll cover you.”

“You’re coming with me,” The Phantom said.

“Naw. I figure you got important stuff to tend to. And you need somebody to cover your back if you’re gonna have a chance of makin’ it to that cave. Besides, if this old jackeroo is meant to find his way home he will.”

“Thank you,” The Phantom said.

“No time for that. Company’s comin’.”

The two remaining flying creatures had circled around.

The Phantom ran for the cave, pulling Hajid behind him.

Behind them, Red Taylor whooped and hollered as he fired the crackling energy weapon at the beasts.

A few yards from the cave, The Phantom risked a look back. One of the creatures was closing on them. Its rider fired a shot. The blast went wide.

Just as the soldier fired again, The Phantom and his prisoner reached the cave. They dove inside.

The soldier’s next blast must have been high. The rock above the cave entrance crumbled to the ground, blocking the entrance and creating a wall of black dust. The Phantom dragged Hajid as far into the cave as he could before both men were overwhelmed by the dark cloud and the lack of oxygen.

When The Phantom could open his eyes, he was sitting against the wall of the cavern. There was barely any light, but he could make out the still form of the terrorist. On the cavern floor was the empty canister that once held the gas called Nightmare.

The Phantom shook Hajid until he was awake. The two men walked back to the entrance of the tunnel that had led them here.

“Climb,” The Phantom said.

It took a long time, but both men eventually surfaced on the rocky shelf on the outer reaches of Bangalla.

As the Phantom led the terrorist to the edge of the shelf, Hajid said, “Was it real? That place and the tower of glass?”

The Phantom didn’t answer.

Had they really found a hidden world? Or had some mistake in the formulation of a nerve gas caused both men to share a hallucination?

The Phantom didn’t know.

The only thing he could be sure of was that he would one day return to this place to see if he could once again find his way to Bek Su Lah and discover the fate of a friend named Red Taylor.

The End

MARK JUSTICE is the author of Deadneck Hootenanny, and his short fiction has appeared in Damned Nation, In Laymon’s Terms, Legends of the Mountain State 1,2 & 3, The Horror Library Vol. 2 & 3, The Avenger Chronicles, Dark Discoveries and many other anthologies and magazines. He co-edited Appalachian Winter Hauntings. His first collection, Looking at the World with Broken Glass in My Eye, will appear from Graveside Tales in 2010. He edits Story Station, an online Young Adult fiction magazine, and produces and hosts the popular genre podcast Pod of Horror. He lives in Kentucky with his wile and cats.

The Leopard’s Eye

By Jeff Mariotte

November 17, 1947

The radiator under my office window knocked like a desperate salesman and stank like an oil spill. Outside, fog worked its way silently up and down the hills. Another San Francisco night, just like the last. And, no doubt, just like the next. No wonder some private eyes turned to booze, broads, or bookies to get them through. Not that the daytimes were any better, I just wasn’t as well acquainted with them. When the sun came up over Oakland, I would be hitting the sack. When it went down in the middle of the Pacific, I’d be reading the Chronicle and having breakfast at a diner on Van Ness.

I’m not saying it was the ideal life, but it was the one I had fallen into since the war ended. The war changed everything, and most of us had to make up our lives all over again when it was done.

The ringing of the phone on my desk saved me from getting too philosophical for my own good. I lifted the receiver. “Phil Cleveland.”

“Thank God you’re there, Phil!”

“What is it, Juliet?” I could tell from the tremor in her voice that something was wrong. Juliet Hagen was a night waitress at the Cable Car Café on Powell, just up from the cable car turnaround at Market. A couple of weeks earlier, the city’s voters had chosen to save the Powell Street cable car line, which Larry, the Café’s owner, had campaigned hard for since he didn’t think anybody would want to eat at a place called the Bus Café. Especially if the buses couldn’t make it up the steep hill in front of his place.

“It’s Wally,” she said.

“What’s he mixed up in now?” Wally was Juliet’s brother. I guess simple-minded would be the nicest way to describe him. He had a knack for running around with mugs who took advantage of his trusting nature, and I’d had to fish him out of trouble a few times.

“I don’t know, Phil. You know he always likes to walk me home from my late shifts.”

I glanced at the clock on my wall. Eleven-thirty. She got off at midnight. “Yeah,” I said.

“He’s not here yet. He always comes early and has a soda or a malt while he waits for me. But he hasn’t shown up. If he can’t make it, he calls, but he hasn’t done that either. I phoned his apartment house, but no one there has seen him.”

“He probably just forgot to watch the time,” I said. “He went to a movie or something.”

“This is not just a habit with him,” Juliet argued. “It’s more like . . . I don’t know. His life. He wouldn’t just forget.”

I wouldn’t have called Juliet my girlfriend. I wouldn’t have minded calling her that, it just wouldn’t have been entirely accurate. I had daydreams about settling down with her, getting a house in one of the neighborhoods, starting a family. Just daydreams. Point is, we went out sometimes and we liked each other. She wasn’t just some occasional client. “Okay,” I said. “Stay there until I come for you. I’ll see if I can turn anything up on the way over.”

From my office at O’Farrell and Polk it was only a few blocks to Market and Powell. I could be there in fifteen or twenty minutes, less if I caught a cab. If I’d known I would see Juliet tonight I would have worn nicer clothes and maybe combed my hair. I locked my door and hustled down the stairs and when I hit the cold air outside I buttoned up my coat.

On a balmy summer evening there would have been cabs all over the place. But this was November. I hoofed it.

At the corner of O’Farrell and Market I saw Teddy O’Malley, as Irish a cop as ever walked a beat in Boston or New York. His hair was so red, when he wanted to stop traffic he just took off his cap. “Any cheatin’ husbands out tonight, Phil?” he asked. “I were you, I’d leave ’em be. A man’s got to keep his blood stirrin’ on a night like this.”

“It’s not one of those, Teddy,” I said. “I’m looking for Wally Hagen, Juliet’s kid brother.”

Teddy’s broad face darkened. “What is it?” I asked. “What have you heard?”

He hesitated, looking out toward a streetcar rumbling past. “Nothin’ about Wally,” he said after a while. “But that moke he pals around with sometimes? Nuttin Nelson?”

They called him Nuttin because that was his answer whenever a flat-foot asked him a question. What are you doing here, Nelson? Nuttin. What were you doing last night at 10:30? Nuttin. “What about him?”

“Well, there was a gunfight earlier tonight. At the beach, down by Sunset.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “A gunfight? What happened?”

“I wasn’t there, Phil, I only heard about it. Someone reported shots. They went down there and found Nuttin’s body and a bunch of shell casings scattered around it.”

“That’s all? Just Nuttin and the spent rounds?”

“All I heard about.”

I peered up Market and saw a cab coming my way with its roof light illuminated. “You sure there’s nothing else?”

“Nuttin,” Teddy said. “I mean, nothing. Nothing I’ve heard about, anyhow.”

“Thanks,” I said. I flapped my arms like a seagull trying to get up off a garbage scow, and the cab pulled up beside me.

If it was cold downtown, beside the ocean it was positively frigid. There were still a handful of cops standing around, clapping their hands and stamping their feet and swearing. But Nuttin’s body was gone and the shell casings had been picked up, and no one knew precisely what had transpired.

I had wasted a trip, when I could have been at the Cable Car Café drinking warm coffee and staring at Juliet.

I was trudging up off the beach to the Great Highway when I spotted the guy. He stood off in the distance, just watching, like maybe he lived in one of the nearby homes and had come out to see what the fuss was. He was a big guy with shoulders like football star Connie Mack Berry’s, and a spine as straight as one of the towers on the Bay Bridge. He wore a trench coat and had a fedora pulled low over his eyes. The strange thing was, it looked like he was wearing dark glasses. At night.

When I got to the street, my cab was gone. It was a long hike back, and I had a feeling I would be wearing out plenty of shoe leather before the night was through.

A block from Balboa, I realized I was being tailed. I felt stupid. By the time I heard the scuff of a shoe on pavement and spun around, there was a mug almost right behind me. I caught the glint of a knife in his right hand, and I threw up my arms to block his attack.

His blade ripped through my right coat sleeve, but I landed a left in his solar plexus. He folded around it and gave an “Ooof!” I tried to throw a haymaker with my right, only to have him block it and jab the knife toward my gut. He was taller than me, and strong, with a squared-off face and short blond hair and neck muscles like steel cables. I grabbed his wrists, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with a leaky bucket. With his teeth gritted and veins popping out on his forehead, he drove the knife toward my heart, and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it.

And then the man I had seen earlier emerged from the fog and crowded into my field of view, his trench coat flapping around him like a cloak. I figured they were allies and I had just bought the farm. Instead, the newcomer tore into the guy with the knife, tugging him off me and throwing him to the sidewalk. The other guy landed hard then scrambled to his feet. He looked at me, looked at the tall man in the fedora (he definitely wore dark glasses, I could see moonlight glinting off them), and staggered a couple of steps back. The man in the fedora started toward him. A look of panic flashed across the mug’s face. He stepped backward again, then took the knife in both hands and drove its blade deep into the side of his own throat. His knees buckled, but he muscled the weapon across his throat before he fell onto his face.

A pool of dark blood spread around him. “We won’t get anything from him,” the man in the fedora said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, still shaking from the whole encounter. “Any ideas how?”

The man waved an arm and a taxi I hadn’t even seen braked to a squealing stop. “I was thinking cab,” he said.

On the way downtown, after I thanked him for saving my skin, he told me an incredible story. He leaned close to me in the back seat, speaking in low tones so the cabbie (who had—encouraged by a double sawbuck—turned a blind eye to the body on the sidewalk) couldn’t hear him. His voice was deep and steady, his gaze—behind those dark glasses—clear, his jaw matinée idol-square. I had never been in the presence of such a commanding figure. And although his tale was unbelievable, I didn’t doubt him for a second.

“The Germans gave up their North African campaign in 1943,” he began. I nodded, not wanting to interrupt. “A Nazi colonel named Heinrich Schumann fled south with some of his most trusted men, instead of surrendering to Allied forces or returning home. They worked their way through Africa, living by terror, theft and murder.

“I heard about them after they visited friends of mine in Bangalla, where I live. The Wambesi are a peaceful people, at home in the jungle but not in the modern world. Not that they haven’t had their share of encounters—they have one of the world’s richest spessartite deposits on their land, so they’ve had scientists and researchers around, as well as people trying to buy, beg or steal mining rights. So far, they’ve held everyone at bay. But sooner or later, I feared, the modern world would force itself on them.”

“You live there? In Africa?”

“In Bangalla, yes.”

“What do you do there?”

“I . . . consider myself kind of a protector of the land and its people. You can call me Walker. Kit Walker.”

“Well, I’m Phil Cleveland. I’m a P.I. here in the city, but I’m not sure how good I am at protecting anyone.”

“I’m sure you do what you can.”

“I’m interrupting, sorry. About these guys, the Wa—”

“The Wambesi. Yes. One of their most sacred objects is a jewel known as the Leopard’s Eye. It rests in the socket of a giant statue of a jungle cat, crouched and ready to spring, that adorns their temple. It—and the rest of the spessartite, which they have sometimes bartered for necessary goods and services—are considered to be gifts of the gods.

“But Heinrich Schumann and his Nazi thugs heard rumors of its existence. They went into the Wambesi temple and demanded the Eye. The Wambesi, of course, refused. The Nazis opened fire, killing several priests and worshippers. Wambesi warriors responded, but their arrows and spears were no match for German guns. Some of the Nazis died, but six Wambesi warriors gave their lives, and in the end Schumann and his men escaped with the Eye.

“The jungle was alive with drums that night, pounding out the story of this outrage. I mounted up and rode out in search of the perpetrators. They had rushed to the coast and engaged a steamer. By the time I reached the docks, they were long gone.

“I caught the next ship out. The Nazis landed in New York, then made their way across your country to San Francisco. I followed their bloody trail, and I intend to reclaim the Leopard’s Eye on behalf of the Wambesi and bring those who stole it to justice. I’m convinced that they have a buyer for the Eye here, and that the shootout earlier this evening has some connection to that transaction. The man who tried to kill you was one of the Nazis, a thug named Hoffer. I don’t know why he made the attempt, and obviously we couldn’t ask him. But my guess would be that he recognized you from somewhere, and when you showed up at the murder scene, he guessed that you were about to become a problem.”

“I didn’t know him from Adam.”

“But he knew you.” The stranger—Kit Walker—spoke with absolute, steely conviction.

“I did know the victim on the beach,” I said. “Nuttin Nelson. He’s a punk, one of those guys trouble seems to find. He chums around with a guy named Wally Hagen, the brother of this . . . friend of mine. Wally didn’t show up when he should have tonight, and she’s worried about him, so I wanted to find out if he was involved in whatever got Nuttin dead.”

“If Wally Hagen is mixed up with Schumann and his men, then he could be in grave danger,” Walker said. “You didn’t see him at the beach?”

“I didn’t see anyone but you and those cops,” I said. “And even if I knew what his shoeprints might have looked like, the cops had walked all over everything.”

“Unfortunate,” Walker said. “And this Wally is the brother of your mate?”

“We aren’t married or anything. I’ve been thinking about asking her, but the time never seems just right.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life,” Walker told me, “it’s that you must seize the moment and make it right.”

I was going to say something else, but just then the cab pulled up at the corner of Market and Powell. I handed the cabbie a fin, got some change back, and joined Walker on the sidewalk. His coat had come open in the fight, but I hadn’t seen what he wore under it until we were on the street in front of Owl Drugs.

It was a get-up like I had never seen before. Close-fitting purple fabric hugged his muscular chest. His stomach was flat and rippled. He had on a wide gunbelt, with a revolver hanging on each hip, and at its center was an inverted triangle with a skull design inside it. Below that were trunks with black and purple stripes, then tights encasing his powerful legs. Sturdy black leather boots and a couple of silver rings, one on each hand, completed the outfit.

I poked my thumb at the outfit. “What’s with that?”

“It suits my needs,” Walker said.

“You’re not just some guy.” I might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but I catch on eventually.

“At home I am called the Phantom, or the Ghost Who Walks. My life is dedicated to the battle against injustice, greed, and cruelty. I find that, in addition to allowing me a certain freedom of movement, the costume helps strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

“I can see where it might.” Made me a little uneasy, too. But I had already decided I needed to throw in with him, since he obviously knew more about what was going on than I did.

“Where do we find Hagen’s sister?” he asked, buttoning his coat.

I tilted my head toward the Cable Car Café. Juliet sat in a window booth, watching us cross the street. I could see that she had been crying. She was slender, with blond hair that scraped her shoulders, big blue eyes ringed now with black, a cute button nose red from being blown and rubbed. I had never known a more beautiful woman. Seeing her now, I just wanted to envelop her in my arms and protect her from all the horrors the world could dish up. “That’s her.” I said.

I expected Walker to make some comment. Most guys did, when they saw her. But he just stood on the corner looking at the café. I followed his gaze and saw what he was eyeing, and it wasn’t Juliet.

The place was crawling with cops. A couple of ambulance attendants in blood-spattered white outfits were hauling a corpse out of the café on a stretcher.

I felt my heart skip a couple of beats and my stomach do a flip. My gaze snapped back over to Juliet in the window, as if to reassure myself that it wasn’t her on the stretcher. She stared at me, eyes wide and imploring. “Come on,” I said. I started across the street. Walker came with me, walking like he owned the city. As we approached, a plainclothes dick named Kovacs squeezed in next to her in the booth, puffing on a stogie the size of a baseball bat.

A uniformed cop stopped us at the door. “That’s my girl Kovacs is talking to,” I said. “Juliet.”

“Kovacs will let her know when she can leave, Romeo,” the cop said.

“Can you believe this?” I said. But when I turned to look, Walker was gone.

Ghost who walks? He hadn’t been kidding about that moniker.

I cooled my heels out on the sidewalk for the next twenty minutes, picking up bits and pieces of the story from the other cops. Apparently someone had tried to hold up the café. I didn’t know if Larry had a gun behind the counter or if she had taken it from the hold-up man, but somehow Juliet got her hands on a weapon and gave the guy a new eye socket, right between his first two.

When the cops gave the all clear, Juliet rushed outside and into my arms. She buried her face against my chest. “Everything okay, doll?” I asked. She smelled like Kovacs’ cigar.

“It was awful, Phil. I can’t even tell you.”

“You pegged him, right? Between the eyes?”

“Phil, don’t make me think about it. I can’t believe I did it, but he was going to shoot me. I just knew he was.”

“You did the right thing, sugar,” I said. “I know it’s hard now, but in a couple of weeks, you’ll hardly remember it.”

“It never gets easier.” That was Walker’s voice, deep and certain. He stepped from shadows somewhere, suddenly right beside us. “Trust me. Sometimes it has to be done. Perhaps this was one of those times.”

“W-who . . . ?”

“This is Kit Walker,” I said. “He’s kind of helping out on this case.”

“Have you found Wally?”

I was surprised it took her so long to ask. The shock from the holdup and shooting, I figured. “I’m still working on that, Juliet. Don’t worry about him.”

“Can you take me home?” she asked. She sniffled back more tears. I thought she was being incredibly brave, considering all she had been through.

“Of course,” I said. “You in, Walker?”

“I’m here,” he said. It wasn’t much, but somehow it was comforting just the same.

After we dropped her at her apartment, Walker suggested we stay close. We ducked into a recessed doorway and waited in the shadows. He didn’t have to say anything to make me feel more confident in our success—there was just something about him that was solid and comforting.

And he was right. Ten minutes later, Juliet came out dressed in a different coat, a red muffler around her neck, carrying a small paper bag. She looked around but didn’t spot us in the shadows. With a determined, scissor-like stride, she hurried over to Stockton and hailed a cab.

Another one came just seconds behind. Walker made a gesture I barely noticed, and the car screeched to a halt. “Follow that cab,” I said. I had always wanted to say that and mean it.

The cabbie peeled out and bulled his way past a few other cars. When we had a clear view of Juliet’s cab, he slowed and kept a steady distance. Only an expert would know we were tailing it. I counted on Juliet not being an expert.

Her cab dropped her at Fulton and Fourth. Ours held back until hers had moved on, then stopped at the same place. Juliet had darted into Golden Gate Park as soon as she got out of the car, so I moved to follow her. Walker stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Shh,” he said. He cocked an ear toward the park, then remained absolutely motionless. A statue. After a moment, he said, “Come.”

I went.

Walker moved through the nighttime park as if he’d been born there, never taking a false step or a wrong turn. Within minutes, we had approached the North Windmill, hidden by trees and darkness, observing Juliet. A shadow parted from the others and went toward her.

Wally.

No wonder she hadn’t seemed worried about him anymore—she must have heard from him while I was about a mile away from here at the shootout scene.

She gave him a big hug, then handed him the paper bag. “I made you sandwiches,” she said. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a wad of cash and shoved it into his free hand. “And here’s all the money I have. You should get on a train out of the city. Tonight.”

“But . . . I don’t wanna go away,” Wally whined. “I don’t wanna go anyplace without you.”

“You must,” she said. “Don’t you see?”

Walker touched my arm, and we both emerged from the trees. “Stay put, Wally,” I said. “What gives?”

Juliet spun on me, eyes flashing in the moonlight. “Stay away from him!” she said. “From both of us, Phil!”

“Juliet . . . what the hell is going on?”

“You don’t have to talk to him, Wally,” she said. “Just go.”

“Stay where you are,” Walker said. Somehow, his pistols had wound up in his hands.

“I’m scared, Juliet,” Wally said. His eyes were moist. Any second he would start to cry. I had always kind of liked Wally, but he wasn’t cut out for this sort of deal.

“It’ll be okay, Wally,” I said. “We just need some answers.”

“If you don’t leave now, Phil,” Juliet warned, “I’ll never speak to you again.”

I already had a hunch we were headed that way. Something stank about her shooting a guy at the café the same night her brother’s best friend was killed in a shootout. The two couldn’t be unrelated. Too many people had died, and I wanted to bring it to an end. I ignored her and addressed Wally again. “We can help you, Wally, but only if you help us. What happened at the beach? Who shot Nuttin?”

Wally looked at Juliet. Her face was grim, her lips clamped so tightly they almost disappeared. Then he looked at me through big, wet eyes. He made a point of not looking at Walker, whose guns were put away, but not forgotten. “Sometimes I work for Edwin Rutherford,” he said. “Mow his lawn, pull weeds, like that.”

“The arms magnate?”

“I guess. He has a big house. Sometimes when I’m working he kind of forgets I’m there.”

“Wally, don’t,” Juliet pleaded.

“It’s okay, Juliet,” he said. “I don’t mind telling. Anyway, I heard him talking about buying an eye for four million bucks. That’s a lot of money. For an eye.”

“It sure is,” I said.

“That’s why I remembered it. I told Nuttin, and he told me to keep listening, so I could find out where the money would be. He told me we would take the money, and then we’d be rich guys like Mr. Rutherford.”

“Sounds like Nuttin,” I said.

“Only when we tried to take the money, they shot Nuttin. I got away by hiding out in the park. Then I called Juliet to help me.” He waved the paper bag at me. “She brought sandwiches.”

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a swell sister, isn’t she?”

Edwin Rutherford lived up the coast from the old Cliff House location, in a mansion perched on rocky cliffs overlooking the ocean. His grounds were huge, mostly forested acreage but with a wide swath of lawn, and beds close to the house that would be full of flowers in spring. There was plenty of work to keep Wally occupied, if only he hadn’t listened to Nuttin and gotten mixed up in trouble.

Before we left them at the windmill, Walker had put his left fist against Wally’s cheek. When he moved it, a mark remained, impressed visibly into the flesh there. It was kind of a cross mark, one that might have been made up of four sword hilts, or maybe four Ps, all joined in the middle. Walker said it was his “good mark” and indicated that his protection was upon Wally. He eyed Juliet, but she glared at him and he didn’t give her the mark after all.

Now we were inside the tall fence around the Rutherford estate. I had driven us there in my car, parking about a mile from the house so we wouldn’t be spotted. Walker had dumped the coat, hat, and shades, and pulled a purple cowl up over his head. A black mask covered his eyes. On someone else, it might have looked funny, but on him it just looked right. And a little terrifying.

The grounds were like a private jungle, but Walker stepped through it with swift, silent grace. I tried to follow in his footsteps, but was afraid I sounded like an elephant herd.

“Knowing the buyer, we’ll find the seller,” Walker had said on the way over. “Schumann won’t want to pass up four million dollars. He wants to get to safety in South America, and that would finance a pleasant retirement there.”

“So all we have to do is stick close to Rutherford, and . . .”

“Correct. He’ll lead us to Schumann. And the Eye.”

After hiking through the jungle for fifteen minutes, we reached the edge of a grassy swath stretching to the main house. There were a couple of outbuildings nearby—a barn and a smaller house that might have been servants’ quarters. If we were going to be seen, it would be here, crossing the open space.

But before we moved, the front door opened. Rutherford came out with a couple of gunnies. I’d seen his picture in the Chronicle plenty of times—short, stocky, with slicked back hair and no chin—and the gunsels looked like any other punks with itchy trigger fingers. They climbed into a waiting limo. One of the gunnies got in behind the wheel and started it up.

“He’s leaving,” I whispered. “What do we do? My car’s a mile away.”

Walker didn’t hesitate. “The barn,” he said. “I smell horses.”

“I don’t know how to ride a horse!”

“How fast can you run?”

I didn’t have a good answer to that. We raced to the barn. A guard spotted us and started to raise the alarm, but Walker put him down with one solid punch to the jaw. When I passed the guy, he was slumped against a pile of hay with a mark on his jaw that looked like a skull. I was glad Walker was on my side.

By the time I caught up, Walker was mounted on the back of a huge brown mare. He didn’t have a saddle, just gripped the horse’s sides with his powerful legs. They ran toward me, and Walker leaned over, scooped me up with one strong arm, and deposited me behind him on the animal. I hung on for dear life.

A couple gunnies shot at us as we burst from the barn, but their slugs went wild. We galloped down the driveway into a cool night wind. Before the gate, we cut a hard right, running alongside the fence. Guards chased us on foot, already far behind. When we reached the spot where we had come over, Walker helped me down, then dismounted and gave the horse a swat, sending it back toward home. We went over the fence, got into my car, and I floored it toward town. We had Rutherford’s limo in sight in no time, and trailed it into the Mission district, to a block filled with nothing. Vacant warehouses, empty storefronts, and one of the richest guys in the state. Interesting combination.

We parked a few blocks away and walked back, taking dark alleys and sticking to the shadows. Walker was a natural at that, even in the city.

When we got there, another car had joined the first. Rutherford and a tall, leathery man with slicked back blond hair were talking. That had to be Schumann. Rutherford carried an expensive alligator briefcase, Schumann a bulky duffel bag. A few yards back, half a dozen men surrounded them, each with his hand in a pocket. Each no doubt holding onto a rod, ready for the other side to try something.

Something happened, but they didn’t start it. Shots came from a smashed-out window in one of those empty storefronts. The muzzle flashes were blinding in the night and the stink of cordite wafted over us. One of Rutherford’s men fell, then Rutherford himself cried out and collapsed against the tall man. The tall man let him drop, but not before grabbing Rutherford’s briefcase. He made it three steps before one of Rutherford’s men put one in his back, and he threw up his hands, both bags going flying.

Rutherford’s gunnies, and Schumann’s, drew their weapons and started firing at the empty storefront and at each other.

Beside me, Walker pulled his guns. He started firing, too, but I quickly saw that he aimed to disarm, not to kill. Each shot flew true, and men dropped guns, their hands smashed but their lives still their own. I had drawn my own pistol, but didn’t trust my aim at this range.

As Walker fired, he walked across the street toward them. If he felt fear, he didn’t show it. I waited in the shadows until all the thugs were disarmed, then I crossed, gun in hand.

The smoke was thick there, biting at my nostrils and stinging my eyes. The men who were still alive sat on the ground, nursing their hands, eyeing Walker bitterly but not complaining. A couple of others, including Schumann, writhed in pain.

Then a figure came from the empty storefront, showing two hands with no visible weapons. Juliet! She ran across the street, dropped to her knees beside Schumann. There were tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Father!” she cried. “You’re hurt!”

“I am . . . I am killed, my dear Greta,” he said. He gripped her hand. They were both speaking German, but I had learned enough during the war to keep up.

“Greta?” I echoed.

Juliet—or Greta—glared at me. “This is my father,” she said. “He sent Walter and me to America years ago, well before the war, because he knew we would be safe here. Europe would be far too dangerous, he claimed.”

“And he contacted you when he reached New York,” Walker said. He had to be guessing, but as usual, he spoke with absolute certainty. “You suggested Rutherford as a buyer, because you knew he was a major gem collector and he didn’t always pay much attention to the provenance of his treasures. You got your brother a job at his estate, to keep tabs on Rutherford. Once the meet was set, you were afraid Rutherford would try to keep the money and the Eye—or you wanted your father to have both. Either way, Wally and Nuttin failed you, so you took matters into your own hands.”

She sniffled, but she didn’t argue with his version of events.

I picked up the briefcase and the duffel bag, straining under its weight. “You were lying to me all along,” I said.

“I did care for you,” she replied. “Truly. When Wally didn’t show up tonight, I was so worried, and I knew I could count on you to find out if he had been hurt trying to get the money. But when your friend here got involved, I knew I had to deal with it myself.”

“Which you did when one of Rutherford’s guys went to the café looking for you. Nuttin must have told them who else was involved, before he died, or they had already checked out Wally and found out about you. Maybe you could claim self defense, if you weren’t so wrapped up in all this.”

I handed Walker the lighter case. The duffel bag had to have the cash in it. “I’m gonna have to call the cops,” I said. “You know that, right? Your father, if he lives, will go to jail. You probably will too. Maybe even Wally.”

She shrugged. Tears traced her cheeks. She sat on the ground, holding her father’s hand, waiting for whatever came.

“You got what you need?” I asked Walker.

He didn’t answer. I turned around. The briefcase was on the ground, open and empty. I still had the heavy duffel in my left hand.

The Ghost Who Walks?

He was gone.

And so was the Leopard’s Eye. On its way back to Bangalla, no doubt. To the Wambesi.

I heard sirens, approaching fast. He had stopped somewhere close by to make a phone call, and none of us had even heard him.

No wonder they called him The Phantom.

The End

JEFF MARIOTTE has written more than forty novels, including original supernatural thrillers Cold Black Hearts, River Runs Red and Missing White Girl, horror epic The Slab, and Stoker Award nominated teen horror series Witch Season, as well as books set in popular existing universes such as CSI, Supernatural, Spider-Man, Conan, and more. Two of his novels have won the Scribe Award for Best Original Novel, presented by the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He is also the author of many comic books, including Desperadoes, Fade to Black, Garrison, Presidential Material: Barack Obama, original graphic novel Zombie Cop. Look for Cold Black Hearts, on sale now from Jove!

I of the Storm

By Mike Bullock

From the Chronicles of the Thirteenth Phantom

As I place quill to parchment so that I might record the third leg of our voyage from New Orleans to Bangalla, I must advise you that portions of this are transcribed from the journal of a Buccaneer named Gregor, first mate ’pon a pirate vessel of the most vile nature. I include the excerpts, re-written by mine own hand, in order to allow you, the heirs to the mask, a glimpse inside the mind of our enemies. What follows is a harrowing tale I wish not to remember, but shall never forget.

Lightning ripped across the sky. The cacophony of thunder masked the sound of the ship’s hull violently impaling itself on the rocky outcropping. That we were now the newest inhabitants of this mysterious, fog-covered island was a fact I could not ignore. As the wind buffeted my face, the stinging blast of rain mixed with the surf crashing into the jetty was nearly enough to send a man scurrying to safety. However, I am not the scurrying type. After surveying the damage, it was even more certain we would never again sail the seas aboard the valiant Camarillo, which had bourn us far across the Atlantic Ocean before ending our journey so unceremoniously.

I surmised that we might have been able to steer clear of this jetty, had the mysterious pirate ship not disabled our rudder and killed our helmsman mere moments after our compass had gone haywire. The fact that he was the only crewman who had survived the violent storm prior to the attack saddened me deeply.

In my many years of wearing this mask, never had I seen a ship so ghostly as that one. It appeared from the storm as if raised from the very depths of hell, with ragged sails of the most ghastly white pulling her grayish hull along, seemingly unaffected by the swirling winds of the storm. The devil ship fired upon on us with uncanny accuracy, and then vanished into the black clouds that gripped the rough waters, as if it had been nothing more than a nightmare.

These events intruded upon our otherwise uneventful sojourn in a rather rapid manner. Just this morning we had enjoyed clear skies and smooth sailing as my lovely wife, Jeanette and the three members of the Llongo tribe we’d saved from the slavers helped me push the majestic Camarillo on the last leg of our voyage. Come noon, we were enshrouded by the sudden surge of the storm front and our peaceful journey was no more. A mere hour later we entered the eye of the storm briefly, just as the pirate ship that seemed more of an otherworldly apparition than a vessel constructed by human hands, appeared as if out of nowhere, firing upon us with surgical precision. It only got worse from there.

Rudderless, crewless and solely at the mercy of the storm, we didn’t even see the island until the instant before the Camarillo’s prow ran full into the jetty. The fact that this storm shrouded island should not exist was not lost on me. It seemed our travels had taken a very strange turn.

Could it be that we were the first to ever set foot upon these storm battered shores? According to our charts, the nearest land was two hundred miles east, my home, Bangalla, the shores of which my beloved Jeanette had never seen.

An eerie cry from the jungle, roughly three hundred paces from whence the Camarillo was laid to rest, pierced the winds and pulled me from the depths of my thoughts. Mine ears had never heard such a sound, and the hackles of my neck stood at attention the second time the cry arose. It was as if a wolf were crossed with a monkey, then put to the rack in some hideous torture designed to elicit the most soul-rending scream the animal could possibly muster.

At once, I turned to Jeanette and told her to stay aboard the ship, whilst I performed a more proper examination of our new resting place. We had already paid our final respects to the members of the Llongo tribe, who were lost overboard during the storm and subsequent attack from the ghost ship. I’d have felt much belter leaving my love on the ship if there were even one of those brave warriors there to offer her assistance, should she need it.

Once upon the beach, I heard the cry a third time, and ascertained it was coming from a section of jungle directly inland from the jetty that impaled our vessel.

Without hesitation, I was across the white sand beach and into the jungle. Although I’d never been here before, the flora of this island at once made me feel at home. I’d not realized how much I’d missed the Deep Woods ere now, but this feeling convinced me of it.

Once again, the cry pulled me from my reverie, this time it seemed only a few dozen paces from me. The sound brought gooseflesh to my skin. I have no doubt, if I were a man given over to superstitions and fear, I’d have run panic stricken from this place, never to return.

However, I have always been one to run towards that which other men would shy away from. I don’t think this makes me “brave” as many have said, but more foolhardy.

When the sound issued a fifth time, I began to question my need to investigate, as it was the single most horrifying noise I think I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t so much the sound itself, but my close proximity to it, and its ear shattering volume that made me doubt my intent. It seemed to be mere inches from the top of my head.

I looked upward, expecting to see some demonic form preparing to tear me limb from limb, when I spied the source of the sound. That we were not the first to set foot on this island was readily apparent. My eyes landed upon some sort of hunting horn, similar to that which I’d seen in Europe years ago, strapped to the tree. Made of a rather exotic wood; it’s “pipe” wound in on itself several times before spreading outward into the shape of a bell found on a tuba or other instrument. The reed “mouthpiece” had some sort of thin metal splitting it thrice down the middle, which I’m certain altered the sound that came out the other end. From what I could discern, when the wind hit that reed just right, it would issue forth from the bell in the otherworldly howling that had been assaulting my ears.

The implications of my discovery brought a new thought, not only weren’t we the first to visit, but whomever had been here before us wanted no one else to follow in their footsteps. However, as the fate of the Camarillo was splintered upon the rocks behind me, I knew we had no choice but to seek out those who would not be sought.

I quickly returned to the ship and informed Jeanette of my discovery. Jeanette was always eager to embrace adventure, a quality that had drawn me to her more and more during our courtship. She was off the ship and heading for the jungle without hesitation. Knowing that self same desire for excitement might lead her straight into danger; I quickly grabbed some water and jerked beef before jumping ashore and running after her.

We knew not where to go, so simply headed inland in the hope of coming across another sign that might lead us to someone who could help us find passage to Bangalla. While I’d considered building a crude outrigger from materials readily available in the jungle, the thought of crossing two hundred miles of ocean with Jeanette in a vessel such as I could craft from vines and downed limbs was very unappealing.

We walked onward for what seemed close to an hour, guided only by the fragments of grayish light that penetrated the jungle canopy after first struggling to burn through the thunderheads above. Occasional flashes of lightning and peals of earth shaking thunder added an atmosphere to our hike unlike any I’d experienced before, nor ever wished to again. Both Jeanette and I soon found ourselves turning this way and that, unable to control our imaginations as the spectral shadows of the jungle toyed with our nerves.

Suddenly, another strange sound assailed our ears. This time, it was a rapid clicking and clacking, similar to the sound made by the giant spiders found in the Middle East. The very thought made my skin crawl, but I could not let Jeanette entertain the same thought, as she held an unnatural fear of spiders brought on by a terrible childhood experience.

I beckoned her to wait where we stopped until I could ascertain the origin of the sound. Sword drawn, I headed in the direction of the noise, half expecting to find another contrivance created by human hands, yet unable to stop envisioning a den of those ungodly arachnids. The noise was enough to shred your nerves, so acutely did it mesh with the eeriness of the storm-shrouded jungle.

I was thankful to come across a contraption that resembled wind chimes, but made of bamboo and other small pieces of wood. Knowing what source the sound came from did little to dull the nerve play created when it clicked and clacked upon itself.

Some men profess to an innate ability to know when they’re being watched. While I have no such illusions of supernatural abilities, I can say with a high degree of certainty that the hackles on my neck suddenly stood erect and the idea that someone was spying upon us at that very moment did invade my thoughts.

Knowing that a hunter will do his best to remain unnoticed by his prey, I gave no evidence, either physical or verbal that I was certain someone’s eyes were upon us. I slowly turned to Jeannette, as if to speak, but let my eyes scour the trees, looking for our unseen watcher. While I did not sight anyone, my eyes did land on the branch of a small tree, which was swaying in a manner that set it apart from the wind-buffeted foliage around it.

I held one finger up to my love before dashing off in the direction of the swaying branch. I should have known it would take more than a gesture to dissuade Jeanette from following me, as her footsteps sounded behind me while I raced towards the sign of unnatural movement in the trees.

Once there, I looked down to find two depressions in the ground, made by shoes of what appeared to be European origin. Further inspection revealed those shoes had turned towards the hill to my left and moved away, with a lengthy gait.

As my eyes followed the trail, I noticed a flash of brown at the top of the hill that didn’t come from the same palette my Lord had painted this jungle with millions of years before.

I was atop the hill within moments, looking down into a depression in the side of the mountain this island seemed to be made of, and my eyes widened while my nostrils involuntarily flared. Jeanette was soon by my side and caught her breath as she, too, spied what I had just focused on. Down within the small, valley like area, just before the landscape angled upward again on the far side, was a dwelling, obviously made by human hands. While it was covered with leaves, vines and other jungle flotsam, the right angles and small puff of smoke escaping a hole in the roof gave it away as something that did not belong here.

This time, I bid Jeanette to wait here, using my powers of persuasion that were far more effective than motioning at her with my index finger. She slid down behind a tree, where she could look upon the dwelling, but was obscured from view by anyone looking toward her.

Within moments, I was several feet from what appeared to be a door to the dwelling. As I contemplated how to enter the edifice unnoticed, I was startled to hear a voice issue forth.

“You may as well just come inside, young man.” The voice called out from within the crude building.

Never being one to err on the side of caution, I stood and walked directly towards the door. As my hand reached out for the handle, Jeanette appeared at my side.

“Did you really expect me to sit out here in the rain while you lolly-gagged about near a warm fire?” she teased.

A wry smile played across my lips as I remembered why I loved her so. “No, I guess not.”

Together we walked inside, as the smell of game cooking over an open fire assailed our nostrils. The sights inside this dwelling were like something out of one of those fantastical speculative fiction novels that were so trendy in Europe these days.

Various measuring devices hung from the ceiling rafters, over four tables that looked as if they belonged in the lab of the recent book, Frankenstein, penned by some unknown author. Various beakers, vials, cauldrons and cudgels lay about the tables, with many, small brass cups, about the size of the tip of my smallest finger, strewn about. What caught my eye was the black powder that filled one bowl, with another bowl of a white, glassy looking substance next to it. The fact that this was the same black powder used in munitions did not escape me.

“Well?” I’d almost failed to notice the strange fellow who was in the room with us. His brown coat, which I had spotted earlier in the jungle, hung from a hook just behind him. His weathered face spoke of a life of hardship, while his blue eyes, which squinted through a somewhat filthy pair of spectacles, burned with an intelligence I don’t often encounter in men who have spent their lives in physical pursuits.

“Are you going to ask me, or not?” he continued, apparently unfazed by our appearance, which included my uniform, as purple now as the day it was made.

Jeanette could not abide silence, a trait I’ve found most spirited women possess. “Ask you what?”

“What I’m doing here, all alone in the jungle, in the eye of a never ending storm, on an island your charts fail to acknowledge.” His reply belied a tone of a man who tolerated other humans, but felt no love for his own species. As if to accentuate that thought, an orange house cat jumped upon the table closest to Jeannette and began purring at the sight of her.

A sour look pursed his lips as he looked down at the cat. “Well, not entirely alone . . .”

Jeannette reached out and ran her hand lovingly down the back of the feline as she did her best to play coy. “What we’re really interested in, kind sir, is not how you got on this island, but how we can get off of it.”

“Harumph!” Her words obviously rubbed the old man’s fur the wrong way, while the cat loved every second of Jeanette’s attention. “What’s this world coming to, anyway? Everyone cares only for themselves and their wants.”

Fearing this verbal game of cat and mouse was taking us farther from our goal, I decided this was the time to insert myself into the conversation.

“I do find it rather peculiar that a man as distinguished as yourself would be inhabiting such a domicile, which appears to be readily stocked with the essentials for living,” I paused and traced my fingers across a table in front of a vessel full of black powder, “as well as other necessities.”

“And I find it ‘peculiar’ that a man would run around in the jungle in purple leotards . . .” replied the old man, tersely, “but that’s another matter entirely. They put me here so I couldn’t blow the blasted ship to kingdom come.”

“Who is ‘they’?” I responded, not allowing any sign of emotion to enter my voice. I’ve found that maintaining low, even tones when conversing with others, coupled with my uniform, often becomes intimidating enough to foster a need within them to proffer information I hadn’t directly asked for.

“Captain William Roberts and his bloody crew! Pirates and scoundrels, the lot of them.” The old man’s disdain erupted forth from his heart, as if he were referring to the devil himself. I exchanged a glance with Jeanette, whose eyebrows arced at the name of the pirate.

“They discovered this island, some years ago. LocaI legends say it’s haunted, what with the ever-present storm clouds. So, Roberts decided to use it as a base for his hit and run attacks on merchants and slavers. He placed several magnetic buoys about twenty feet below the surface of the waters at various points off shore, which render a ship’s compass useless. This often creates chaos on deck, which is when he strikes!”

I found his assertions interesting, especially as it solved the mystery of our own compass, but thought it best to guide his ramblings with more targeted questions. “But what does that have to do with you?”

“You don’t know much about operating a warship in perpetual rain, do you boy?” He leaned back at this, straightening his torso and puffing out his chest as if he were speaking to a complete dolt.

“The black powder you seem so interested in doesn’t take kindly to moisture,” he added. “As it turns out, Captain Roberts is relations with someone in Her Majesty’s Navy. That someone had commissioned me to find a way to allow her warships to reduce the powder lost to the moisture inherent in seafaring. And what better testing grounds than Robert’s ship?”

With a wrinkled hand, he grasped one of the small, brass cups from the table and held it up to me. “Percussion caps, my boy!” The pride in his voice led me to suspect this was his invention; one he hoped would bring him fortune and glory.

Just then, a faint horn blast filled the air, the sound of which erased the smug grin from the old man’s face and replaced it with a look of fear.

“Get out!” he bellowed, “Get out, get out, GET OUT!”

Before we could react, he was shuffling us toward the door, as if his very life depended on it.

“If he finds you here, he’ll kill us all!”

I grabbed Jeanette by the arm and escorted her from the edifice, after a knowing glance I’d shared with her silenced any protests that were forming behind her beautiful lips.

A moment later and we were once again out in the jungle as the door slammed shut behind us. I looked around quickly, before spotting a large downed tree maybe fifty yards from our current position. The top of the tree had landed on some rather thick undergrowth, creating a blind that would provide shelter for Jeanette, while I tended to my duty.

As we moved quickly toward the tree, Jeanette couldn’t help but ask, “You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

I smiled slyly as I responded, “I wouldn’t be the man you married if I didn’t, now would I?”

“What’re ye doin’,Tomas?” the buccaneer raised his hands in exasperation as he asked the question. His voice pegged him as Scottish, while his clothes were a mismatch of English, Spanish and several other uniforms, obviously pieced together from raids on vessels from various ports of call.

“I’m lookin’ fer thee rum Cap’n Robert’s stashed behind this buncha trees the last time we were here, Gregor!” Tomas, who’s mismatched clothing gave away his outlaw occupation in a similar manner, responded, with a hint of disdain in his voice. “Mind yer own duties, you highland fop!”

Gregor was staring back at the Camarillo, which was crawling with pirates who seemed hell-bent on discovering all they could about the ship by looting it. “And, why not look upon the dead men’s ship fer some new rum, you English tart?”

At first, Gregor assumed the silence from Tomas was simply because he had no sarcastic response ready to fire back. However, after a moment, it occurred to him that Tomas was never the type to remain silent simply because he had nothing worth saying.

Gregor turned to the stand of trees where Tomas just was, and jutting out from some undergrowth, he saw one foot, lying in such a way as to indicate the person it belonged to was lying prone on his stomach.

“Tomas! This be no time fer lying about and dawdlin’!”

As Gregor approached his comrade, his feeling of disdain was rapidly replaced with fear. Tomas was either dead or unconscious. The only evidence that might tell of what happened to him was a single imprint on his jaw in the shape of a death’s head. “Tomas! Get up! Tomas!”

A quick inspection of Tomas revealed that he was indeed still breathing, but his head was turned at such an angle that it would seem he hit the ground hard. Gregor pulled his friend from the jungle back into the sand, just as their captain came over.

“What be this, Gregor?” Captain Robert’s voice was one part crushed gravel and three parts wood rasp. “If Tomas is drunk again I’ll leave his worthless hide strung from a tree!”

Gregor looked up at his Captain with an expression Roberts had never before seen on his first mate’s face: fear. “No, Cap’n. Maybe those tales of demons on this island be true . . .”

With that, Gregor moved out of the way so Roberts could see the death’s head, embossed on his crewman’s jaw, as if it had always been there.

“Bloody hell—” Roberts wasn’t a man for awestruck silence. “What do you make of that? I’ve sailed from one end of this world to the other and never seen such a thing.”

“Aye, me either, Cap’n,” responded Gregor. “I do know every legend has a foothold in fact, so maybe there’s something to the legends of this place after all.”

Roberts looked back at the other crewmen, still tearing apart the Camarillo, then cast his gaze up and down the beach to make sure none other were in ear shot before speaking again.

“Take him back to the ship and lock him down in the hole ’til we’ve figured out what’s going on here. I don’t want the other men getting all superstitious on me.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Gregor bent down to hoist Tomas over his shoulder in order to carry him back to the ship. He hadn’t made it ten steps before his endeavor became moot.

“AIIIIII!”

Both Gregor and the Captain spun on their heels to see who issued the blood curdling scream. Not fifty paces down the beach, two of the crew were racing out of the jungle, as if pursued by hell itself.

Upon seeing their Captain, the men changed course in a flurry of flying sand and raced towards him. “Cap’n! Cap’n! It got Greeley and it’s comin’ after us now!”

Roberts reached out to grab the man by both shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Get yer wits about ye, laddie!”

Once the man stopped hyperventilating, Roberts rang an explanation from his lips. “Me, Shaw here and Greeley were in the jungle, hoping to catch some fresh meat for the cookie whens it rose up outta the jungle, straight up from the depths of hell itself, Cap’n!”

“What ‘rose up’, Culver? You’re not making sense, man!”

“Twas a demon, sir! It had no eyes! And when it struck Greeley, it left a death’s head burned into his flesh!” Culver was obviously losing his tenuous grip on sanity as he struggled to recall the nightmare he’d just endured.

“Greeley tried to shoot it, but the thing snatched his pistol from his hands as if he were moving through quicksand!” This came from Shaw, who was equally terrified by what they’d seen. “Poor Greeley never stood a chance!”

“Get everyone off that ship, Gregor,” not one to be shaken easily, the Captain had to make an extra effort to hide the nervous undercurrent in his words. “We’ll regroup, and then go demon hunting!”

“Aye, sir,” Gregor responded as he motioned to the other pirates. “You heard the man! Get the crew off that wreck and over here now!”

As the Captain and Gregor stood in the sand, waiting for the men to gather, Gregor cast a glance inland. “I swear I can feel its eyes ’pon us, Cap’n.”

“Don’t you go all yellow on me, too, Gregor,” retorted Roberts. However, he couldn’t help but follow Gregor’s gaze toward the jungle. He scanned the tree line for a moment and just as he was turning his head back around, he caught something out of the corner of his sight. “What was that?” he thought to himself. The image burned into his mind’s eye as the captain recalled what he’d just glimpsed. It was a face, high in the trees, staring out at them with eyes that were nothing more than white patches above his other facial features. The Captain did a double take and looked right where he’d just seen the thing staring at them; however, nothing but leaves met his gaze, swaying in the breeze from the coming storm.

When it appeared the men were gathered, a quick headcount revealed three were missing, leaving fifteen remaining.

“Where is Wilson?” Gregor called out to the assembled men. “Wasn’t he with Earl and Dyer?”

“They said they was goin’ to the spring fer water, Gregor. But that was nearly an hour ago, they shoulda been back long ere now,” responded one of the crew.

Captain Roberts shot a sharp stare at Gregor, as if to silence his first mate from exploring that subject any further and potentially adding more turbulence to their superstitious nature.

“Most likely they’re lying about drunk,” bellowed Roberts in an attempt to shift the focus back to reality. “Those lads never had a stomach for the sea anyway!”

After a quick meeting, Roberts told five to stand guard on the beach to protect the longboats, then bellowed to the rest that they were to stick together and head straight for the cabin, they turned inland and marched straight into the jungle. They’d gone no more than a quarter mile when the storm struck.

“This is one of the most severe storms we’ve had in months, Cap’n.” Gregor’s voice strained against the howling winds and roaring thunder, as lightning cast wild shadows all over the jungle, reflecting in the dilated pupils of more than a few terrified seamen. “Maybe we should head back to The Apparition and wait it out?”

“Nonsense!” the captain hollered in reply. “A little water never hurt anyone!”

“This is more than a little water, sir!”

A loud, eerie wail sliced through the wind as if to accentuate Gregor’s point. It seemed so close to the assembled men that some drew their swords and pistols, as if they were about to be attacked.

Roberts drew his cutlass and headed straight for the source of the noise, which seemed to be emanating from behind a large tree, a mere ten yards off to their right.

The men watched in silence as their Captain rounded the tree and went out of sight. What seemed like hours, but was merely seconds, passed as the men leaned forward in a physical mirroring of their subconscious apprehension. Finally, Gregor took a step towards the tree when they heard the Captain exclaim.

“Bloody hell! Gregor, get over here!”

The first mate ran deftly towards the sound of his captain’s voice, fearing what he would find. As he rounded the tree, his eyes fell upon Roberts, looking down at the source of the noise. At the foot of the tree was Wilson, one of the three missing crewmembers, who appeared to be dead. All color was missing from his face, as if something had literally scared him to death. In his hand was the modified hunting horn they’d hung from another tree several hundred yards off to their left. His arm was propped up in such a way as to suspend the horn into the wind and aim its shrill scream downhill towards the beach.

As they examined him further, just as with the others, they spied a death’s head, indelibly emblazoned upon his jaw. Had they not noticed the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, they’d have written him off for dead.

“This is madness!” The exclamation escaped Gregor’s lips before he even realized he’d had the thought. The Captain responded to his first mate’s comments by placing the edge of his blade up against Gregor’s throat menacingly.

“If you breathe another word of this, I’ll bleed you right here, friend or no!” hissed the Captain through clenched teeth. “We can’t have the men thinking there be some sort of demon running around out here or we’ll all be done for.”

Gregor and the Captain returned to the group and before anyone could ask, the Captain had them marching on. They continued up the hill toward the cabin and had gone about two hundred yards from the incident when a blood curdling scream ripped through the air, coming from behind them.

As one, the men turned around to see where the cry originated from, as if beset by the hosts of hell itself. What they spied was Wilson, clearly not dead, but frightened to the point of insanity. He raced out from behind the tree and headed down the path towards the waterfront, screaming every step of the way as if he were on fire, his skin so pale that the word “Ghost” escaped the lips of many a sailor.

It was at that moment that Roberts and Gregor exchanged a worried glance. In front of them stood not the ten men they’d left the beach with, but six. It took only a split second for another to notice.

“Steele, Anton and Rubio are missing!”

“And where’s Maxwell? He was right here only a minute ago!”

At the realization that several of their comrades had disappeared from right under their noses, four of the six remaining men broke into a stampede downhill towards the beach, ignoring their Captain’s demands to halt.

The two remaining looked at one another, then at Gregor and Roberts, obviously unnerved, but not nearly so that they would turn tail and run.

“This is the work of someone trying to jump our claim, boyos, nothing more!” Roberts was trying to sound convincing, but was finding himself at a loss for the events. However, he knew they had to make the cabin, where the old man would have ammunition enough to blow half the island up, if that’s what it took to root out their adversary.

“Come on, lads, it’s just up over the rise.”

“You can come inside, you know. I should be able to hide you away in a cabinet once that blasted Roberts arrives.”

The voice startled Jeanette, who had begun to wonder where her husband had gotten off to. Knowing the voice was the old man unsettled her a bit; however, she’d had about enough of kneeling in the rain under the cover of the downed tree.

“But, I thought you were afraid of the pirate captain discovering you’d had visitors?”

“From what I can tell, that strange man you arrived with has made sure Robert’s knows we’re no longer alone on this blasted rock.”

The two went back inside, where the old man offered Jeanette a cup of tea to warm her bones.

“Thank you for the hospitality, I’m sure I’ve caught my death of cold out there already, but this tea sure is a blessing.”

Jeanette caught something in the old man’s glance that gave her the distinct impression his intentions were more than simply to look out for her well-being. However, before she could ponder that thought, he turned to look out the window, then startled, and spun around as if he were possessed.

“Hide! You must hide now!” He blurted out as he forced her toward a large cabinet, just tall enough for her to squeeze into and remain standing. She set her teacup on the table and ducked inside, as the old man barely waited for to get entirely within before he slammed the door shut.

As they crested the ridge and stared down on the cabin through the pouring rain, Roberts turned to Gregor and told him to follow along, before telling the two remaining crewmembers to stand guard. Each man drew his sword and turned to face back the way they came.

“If anything, and I mean anything, comes up this trail, you kill it, understand lads?”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!”

Roberts and Gregor proceeded towards the cabin door and entered without knocking. Roberts quickly scanned the room, then turned to the old man, who was sitting behind one of the tables sipping his tea and looking over an old journal he had recently been scrawling in.

“Captain Roberts!” blurted out the old man, who tried to act surprised, but wasn’t quite as convincing as he should have been. “You’re early, my dear friend. What may I—”

“Shut up!” The Captain’s words cut off the old man like a guillotine.

“Where is she?” the Captain looked around the room, trying to discern the best place for someone to hide.

“ ‘She?’ She whom?” responded the old man, once again trying to feign puzzlement.

“Don’t toy with me, old man, or I’ll run you through and find another to take yer place.” Roberts hissed his words at the scientist through tightly clenched teeth. “I see you’ve two tea cups out, which means you have company. I smell something far more pleasing to the nose than the gunpowder and unwashed old man that normally permeates the air here, something that smells of the fairer sex. And knowing of yer lusts, which brought you afoul of Her Majesties temperaments, it’s no hard deduction to realize you have a woman in here.”

Roberts drew his sword and aimed the tip at the old man’s throat before lowering his voice and speaking his next thought. To further punctuate his intentions, Roberts drew his pistol with his other hand.

“Now, tell me where she is and I might not gut you right here and now.”

“I don’t know what yer on about, Captain.” The old man’s lips told a lie, but his eyes alighted on the cabinet for the briefest of instants, which was all the Captain needed.

“Come out, lass and I might not feed you to the boyos for dessert,” Roberts licked his lips in a rather lascivious manner as he pointed his pistol at the cabinet door.

Several seconds went by, with no sound or movement from the cabinet. Robert’s eyes narrowed to slits as a snarl crossed his lips.

“Well, then, lassie, you’ve left me no choice.”

The sound of gunfire broke the silence, as Roberts squeezed the trigger on his pistol. The shot ripped through the cabinet door, sending splinters flying. The round pierced the door at a height that ensured anyone standing behind the door was most certainly dead from a bullet to the brain.

When the smoke cleared, Roberts motioned one of his men to open the cabinet door, fully expecting to see a woman’s dead body inside. What met his eyes shocked Roberts into momentary silence.

“Bugger me!” Roberts finally got out after several seconds of speechlessness. Inside the cabinet, crouched down in a fetal position was a face he’d not seen in nearly a decade.

“Jeanette Lafitte . . .”

“Drag the wench out of there, Gregor!” Robert’s snarled, with a sinister look upon his face. “I know not what divine providence brought the sister of the vile Jean Lafitte into my grasp, but I’ll take any blessings, large or small . . .”

“You know her, Cap’n?”

“Her brother was once my Captain, ’til he betrayed me,” snarled Roberts. “Now, looks like I’ll get me some sweet revenge . . .” Roberts finished his sentence while unbuckling his belt with a lewd gleam in his eye.

“William Roberts,” Jeanette managed to look regal, even as Gregor’s rough hands yanked her from the cabinet. “My brother didn’t betray you; he caught you stealing from him. And if you’d not run off in the night like a stray dog, Jean would certainly have extracted his pound of flesh for your transgressions.”

A look of rage filled Roberts’ eyes and he took a step towards Jeanette, preparing to backhand her until he was interrupted.

The door to the cabin seemed to explode inward off its hinges, crashing into Gregor and knocking him down. Jeanette, full of a dexterity born on her brother’s ships, dodged the door as a smile lighted on her face.

Without saying a word, The Phantom bolted into the cabin and landed a right back-punch into Roberts jaw, sending him crashing over a table, knocking gunpowder and brass caps akimbo in his wake.

Without wasting any motion, The Phantom whirled, grabbed Jeanette’s arm, who in turn grabbed the old man, and they raced back outside as if they were never there.

Several minutes passed before Roberts came to his senses, and with a curse, he was back on his feet, pistol in hand aimed at the door. However, there was nothing to fire upon.

Roberts pulled his first mate up from the floor and the two raced out the doorway, in pursuit of the old man, Jeanette Lafitte and her masked savior.

As we cleared the top of the hill the cabin occupied, I changed our course and headed off to the north, where I had left one of the pirates I’d subdued earlier. Within moments, we were upon him, and it was but a few more for me to strip him to his skivvies and don his attire, thus allowing me to masquerade as one of Robert’s crew.

I motioned for Jeanette and the old man to follow me and we bounded down the hill towards the beach, determined to reach their longboats before anyone knew something was amiss.

We broke onto the beach and quickly slowed our flight to a dignified walk, so as not to alert the other pirates who were near the surf. We headed straight for the one of two remaining longboats and I ordered Jeanette and the old man into the vessel, as one might command prisoners.

“Where are you going with the scientist and this wench?” yelled out the nearest buccaneer.

“I’ve orders from the Cap’n to take her to his quarters,” I responded, making sure the pirate’s hat obscured my face from the man’s inquiring gaze. “She’s his special prize.”

“And what of the old man?” he responded.

“Captain Roberts tasked me with retrieving more fulminate from the ship for my experiments.” While his body looked aged, the old man’s mind was as sharp as ever.

Once in the boat, I rowed as if my very life depended on it, knowing any dalliance would allow the pirates more time to question us further. The sun was going down rapidly, which suited my plan to perfection. However, there was not time to waste.

Just as we were pulling up alongside the Apparition, I spotted Roberts and Gregor coming out of the jungle, as if goaded on by some sort of demon. While we were too far out to hear the words, I could tell by the gestures and body language that Roberts was chastising his men for not stopping us, before exhorting them into pursuit.

Expecting some sort of welcoming party, I furtively glanced over the rail before allowing Jeanette up the ladder. To my surprise, the deck was empty. We soon were aboard, and I sent Jeanette to the wheel, as I did my best to set the sails.

Believing we were all alone, I stupidly turned my back on the main hatch, which was almost my undoing, but for the briefest of warnings from my love.

“Look out!” Jeanette cried as she pointed behind me. I turned just in time to duck a cutlass that would have loosed my head from my body, were it not for Jeanette’s cry.

He was a wall of a man, standing several inches shorter than I do, but nearly twice as wide due to the massive amount of muscle he carried on his upper body. That he could best me in an exhibition of strength, I have no doubt, thankfully, this was a test of blades in which I’ve yet to find my equal.

While the man’s mighty physique must have been quite the boon in wrestling or moving cargo, it proved to be a detriment in swordplay. I believe the term is ‘muscle bound’, when a man’s strength is blessed at the detriment of his flexibility.

We crossed blades for several seconds, before I was able to back him into the rail with a flurry of blows. Then, as he began to lose his balance and lean onto the rail for support, I swung at his feet, which made him instinctively pull up on his legs. This feint did exactly as I’d intended, allowing me the opening to land a singular kick to his chest which propelled him backwards, over the rail and down into the brine.

I had no time to rejoice in my victory, as once again Jeanette’s cry alerted me to a new danger. I cast my gaze to follow where she pointed only to see the two remaining longboats, full of pirates and closing on us fast.

I turned immediately to the small cannons that had crippled the Camarillo just a few short hours earlier and loaded the first with a speed born of desperation. After what seemed like an eternity, the task was done, however the lengthy process of loading the gun had allowed the pirates to halve their distance from the ship.

These cannons were of a new style, whereby one could fire them simply by pulling a rope located near their tail section instead of lighting a fuse. The rope ran through some fulminate and created enough friction, if pulled hard, to ignite the fulminate and then detonate the charge that propelled the cannon ball.

Once loaded, I aimed the small gun towards the bow of the closest longboat. I had no desire to kill these men, but would rid us of their pursuit if at all possible. With my aim set, I yanked upon the firing rope. The loud crack of the cannon competed with the coming thunder, followed by an eruption in the waves that capsized the closer longboat.

While the men from that vessel cried out for their fellows to turn about and pull them from the water, Roberts ignored their pleas and exhorted his rowers to redouble their efforts to catch us.

Realizing I had not the time to load the cannon once again, I turned to the old man.

“Where do they keep the fulminate?” I demanded.

“B-below decks, if memory serves, in the aft hold.”

“Fetch me some of it, NOW” I was not normally one for barking orders at others, but time was against us. If I was to succeed in my plan, I could allow not one second to be wasted.

As the old man scurried below decks, I took the gunpowder keg I’d intended for reloading the cannon and began to empty its contents on the deck in a pattern that would suit my plan.

As soon as I was done, I raced over to Jeanette and helped her tie some lines to the wheel, in order to keep us going in roughly the same direction we were already heading.

At this moment, the old man returned, fulminate in hand. I ordered him and Jeanette to go below and secure a hiding place until I had either vanquished our opponents or died in the attempt. The fulminate was in a large wine skin, which I secured over my shoulder, along with a length of rope.

“Wait!” demanded my bride, grabbing me by the arm and pressing her full lips into mine. “If we are to die here, I want to die remembering the warmth of your lips ’pon my own!”

After our brief embrace, Jeanette followed the old man below.

“I hope this turns out better than the last time you tried to hide me somewhere . . .” if these were the last words I were to hear from my beloved, I knew they showed that her spirit could never die.

Just as they’d disappeared through the hatch, I heard the thud of the longboat against our hull. I quickly ducked behind the mainmast, so that its bulk would shield me from the pirates once they reached the deck.

“Where are they?” barked Roberts. “I want the one in the mask peeled and keel hauled by sunset!” His orders sent the seven crewmen to work, while he and Gregor stood back and surveyed the ship from the boarding rail, hoping to catch a glimpse of me, should their men flush me out.

“Aye Cap’n! Fan out boys!” bellowed Gregor. “An extra jug of rum for the man who brings me the masked one!”

Barely a few seconds had passed before I heard the shuffle of feet just on the other side of the mast. Timing is a necessity in fencing, as well as boxing, so I knew I had to time my next move perfectly. Peering around the side of the mast briefly, I saw exactly what I expected.

CRACK!

The buccaneer who was closing on me went down like a sack of wet flour when my right fist met his nose. Two others behind him let out a yelp and dove for me, however, they weren’t fast enough to prevent my next move. I reached out with my right hand and grabbed a rope, and then with my left, I swung my sword for the line, which was holding up some sandbags used as counterweights to set the main boom aloft. Once the rope was cut, I tightened my grip upon it and rode upward, like a ghost, as the sandbags crashed into the two approaching crewmen.

“Find him!” I heard Roberts bellowing from below. The fact that his voice conveyed just a hint of frustration brought a smile to my lips. My plan was working.

I dropped to the deck and poured some fulminate next to a barrel. I then laid some line through the fulminate and moved the barrel on top of the line. Once the trap was set, I ducked behind some other barrels several yards away, with the other end of the line in hand.

Mere seconds later, two pirates walked past the barrel, which was my cue. I yanked hard on the line, causing it to slide between the fulminate and the barrel quickly enough to cause friction, which, in turn, detonated the fulminate.

BA-BOOM!

The barrel shot about three yards into the air, and the resulting noise from the explosion was enough to startle the two pirates clean over the rail down into the dark water.

That left one more, besides Roberts and Gregor.

I quickly returned to the rigging, just as Roberts rounded the barrels, looking for the source of the explosion.

“Blimey!” Roberts saw the fulminate residue on the deck and with spittle flying from his mouth, barked at the last crewman. “Find that masked man and KILL HIM!”

It seems I’d finally managed to unnerve Roberts, now it was time to press my advantage.

I swung down hard and fast on the line, in a maneuver I’d read about in the chronicles of the Eighth. My arc intersected the crewman just as he turned to do Roberts’ bidding. The force of my boots landing full into his chest knocked the wind from the man’s lungs and propelled him backwards several yards and over the rail.

All Roberts saw was a dark purple flash, followed by the yelp of his man as he fell into the depths.

I played the Captain around the ship for the next several minutes in a game of cat and mouse. On more than one occasion, he thought he’d had me, but his sword cut empty air, or sheared through a sail into nothingness.

Just as I was preparing to end this, a voice cried out and changed my course of action.

“Masked man! I have the woman!” bellowed Gregor.

I turned upon hearing those words to see Gregor walking up from the hatch with my beloved, a jagged knife held to her throat in a manner that set my pulse drumming through my veins.

“Quickly, Gregor, bring her here!” yelled the Captain.

However, my game had finally positioned the Captain where I’d hoped. Pulling on another rope, I ignited a second pile of fulminate, but this time, the charge was so small, all it did was set fire to a line of gunpowder. The sparking fire quickly raced around in the pattern I’d made on the deck prior to the pirates boarding. What soon met the eyes of Roberts and Gregor was a flaming death’s head several yards across, with the Captain standing directly in the center.

Their reaction was all I needed. Gregor’s mouth fell agape and he pulled the knife from Jeanette’s throat as I drew my pistol. With one divinely guided shot, the knife went clattering from Gregor’s hand, and the man clawed at his wrist in pain. The sister of the most feared pirate in the Atlantic finished him off with a quick knife hand blow to his Adam’s apple, which sent Gregor choking to the ground, gasping for air.

Before Roberts knew what hit him, I had dropped to the deck and rose back up with a tremendous upper cut that sent him staggering backwards. However, the Captain was of more hearty stock than his crew and recovered far quicker than I’d expected.

Sword in hand, his reaction was to remove my head from my shoulders with a mighty cut. I ducked the blow and parried his backswing, which began what would be our final fight, trading sword blows in the center of the flaming Death’s Head. Back and forth, we went for what seemed like an eternity. While I could fend off his blows with some level of grace, I was unable to penetrate his guard. It had been quite some time since I’d faced a swordsman of Roberts’s skill, and it showed.

After trading what seemed near a hundred blows, a sudden lurch of the ship sent me off balance just enough for Roberts to get inside my guard and nearly slit my throat. At this point, I realized I had allowed myself to become cocky. Armed with this realization, I redoubled my efforts to end this fight once and for all.

With a quick series of feints and jabs, I maneuvered Roberts around until his back was against the main mast. With no place left to retreat, Roberts, in his frazzled mental state, made his mistake. He leapt forward in a thrust that would have run through a lesser man, but Roberts had not faced a jungle born fighter before. I sidestepped his sword and with a suddenness he’d never expected planted a right hook into the side of his orbital socket, which knocked Roberts unconscious.

William Roberts awoke to find himself tied to the main mast quite securely. The mid day sun shone down upon his olive skin, which hadn’t seen light unfiltered by clouds in nearly a year’s time.

“Untie me!” he demanded.

“I think not, good sir,” replied Jeanette, who had taken it upon herself to be his guard.

“We’re taking you back to civilization,” continued my beloved in a matter of fact voice. “Where we’ll hand you over to be tried for murder, piracy, kidnapping and what other charges you’re guilty of.”

“Ha!” Had Roberts gone mad to laugh when his match was met?

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” the fit of unbridled laughter was the last thing we’d expected.

“You fools! Take me back to England! Ha! Whom do you think commissioned my endeavors here in the eye of the storm?” Roberts then broke into another fit of self-amused laughter that left him tearing up from the perceived hilarity.

“The Queen herself gave me my orders and when you place me in the custody of Her Majesty’s servants I’ll be rewarded for a job well done! Tried for murder! That’s rich!”

“Oh, but you are mistaken, Mr. Roberts,” interjected Jeanette, with an icy cold voice that belied her passion.

“And how is that, wench?” Roberts retorted with contempt.

“No one said anything about England. We’re taking you to New Orleans, where you shall be handed over to my brother’s men, to stand trial amongst a jury of your peers.”

The look of stark terror that wiped across Roberts’ features convinced us that he knew exactly what that meant . . .

The End

In the deepest, darkest jungles of suburbia, MIKE BULLOCK dwells. His vast array of Bunsen burners and Tesla coils boil the morass of gooey electrons within his damaged psyche, bringing forth potions of pulp from a humidor of heroics and the occasional hallucinogenic dream catalyzed by catatonic irrelevance. Bullock’s works include Phantom: Ghost Who Walks, Black Bat, Death Angel and the occasional vat of spaghetti.

Night Visitor to Bangalla

By Robin Wayne Bailey

The velvet blackness above Bangalla shimmered with stars, wispy veils of stars, cool clusters, and singular bright stars. Periodically, sharp streaks of light cut blue or orange trails across the twinkling vista. Some lasted but moments and winked out while others burned swaths all the way to the horizon. Still others carved pale, smoky wakes and fairly vibrated the air as they passed through the hot, August night.

In the upper branches of a high tree, the man known as the Phantom tried to ignore the spectacular meteor show. He focused, instead, on the lantern lit tents and campfires in the valley below and watched the idle shufflings of a gang of diamond smugglers as they milled uneasily about. Their boss, a mysterious figure operating out of Mawitaan, was late for a scheduled rendezvous.

The Phantom might have taken the smugglers now. He’d been watching their operation for days. Yet even he did not know the identity of the boss, and so he waited, patient and watchful, and bided his time.

But for the susurrus of the breeze through the leaves or the occasional muttering from the camp, the jungle was quiet. The gentle wind carried a hint of salt, for the ocean was not far away. It lent a spice to the smells of damp bark and the spongy chlorophyll of the jungle’s mossy vegetation.

The Phantom glanced up at the meteor show again and toward the constellation Perseus directly above. In the camp below, an argument started. One of the smugglers pushed another, and a third, the leader of the crew, drew a gun. Everyone quieted again, and the gun disappeared. The Phantom decided it was time to seek a better vantage closer to the camp. Checking his holsters to make sure his automatics were secure, he prepared to descend.

At that moment, a sizzling touched his ears, and the sky lit up with an incandescent blue fire. The brightest meteor yet—it trailed white vapor as it burned through the atmosphere, and the night crackled as if charged with electricity. Trees swayed and leaves shivered as it passed, and the peaks of the nearest hills briefly glowed.

Then, the meteor vanished, and darkness closed in like a rushing wave.

Dazzled, the Phantom clung to a branch, squeezed his eyes shut and waited for his vision to recover. Loud voices rose again from the camp below. Even smugglers could be excited by such a wonder. They were not the only ones excited.

From the north, came the slow throb of Wambesi tribal drums. From the south, the drums of the Llongo responded with a swifter tempo. The Phantom listened intently as the pulsing rhythms proclaimed the birth of a new god—a god come to earth. Within moments, the Oogaan and the Tirangi tribes joined in. The drums began to argue as each tribe claimed the new god for themselves.

In the camp, the smugglers forgot the stars and resumed their noisy argument. “He’s not coming!” one of them shouted. “I say we take this last haul and split it ourselves and get the hell out!”

Another smuggler rubbed his arms, stared from the sky and into the campfire. The ruddy glow shimmered on his bearded face and bright eyes. “Maybe he’s right,” he agreed. “This jungle is giving me the creeps. We’ve been lucky so far, mates. Just listen to those drums!”

“We’re goin’ nowhere!” All six men gathered around as the leader, a tall, bare-chested and hirsute figure with a cigarette between his lips, drew his revolver again and spun the cylinder. “We’re sittin’ on a sweet deal, and when the boss sees the rock we glommed onto this time, we’ll be sittin’ pretty for life! Now get comfortable!” He snapped the cylinder back into place and cocked the hammer. “Or get dead!”

Who grabbed the gun, or who flung the handful of dirt, or who threw the first punch, even the Phantom couldn’t tell for sure. A single wild shot ripped through one of the tents, and all hell broke loose. The leader took a bone-jarring sucker punch and went down hard. Another thug sprawled beside him at the campfire’s edge. Two other men ran into the jungle while the remaining pair dashed into a tent only to emerge clutching fat leather satchels. One also carried a metal box.

At the edge of the jungle a pair of jeeps roared to life, and headlights flared through the foliage. The jeeps charged into camp, and the two smugglers with the loot jumped aboard. The drivers floored the gas pedals and tore away into the jungle again. The leader, still clutching his gun, recovered enough to rise up on his knees and fire hasty shots.

The Phantom cursed silently as he scrambled down through the thick branches. His white steed, Hero, waited on the ground below, and Devil, his wolf, lay curled among the giant roots at the boll of the tree. He dropped from the last limb into Hero’s saddle and seized the reins. Devil sprang up, snarling.

At full gallop, the Phantom charged through the jungle. At the edge of the encampment, Hero reared dramatically with a loud whinny and crashed his hooves upon the ground. The leader was gone, chasing after his rebellious henchmen. Only one man remained at the side of the fire. He leaped up at sight of the Phantom, and his face contorted in fear. He reached for a gun in a holster on his hip, but the weapon barely cleared leather before a gray-furred shape with slavering jaws lunged out the thick foliage and sank teeth into the smuggler’s gun hand.

The thug wrestled in the dirt beneath a twisting weight of fur and claws. Shrill screams rose up from the cloud of dust. “Get him off! Get him off!”

“Devil.” The Phantom spoke once, and the wolf backed off. Yet red canine eyes burned like coals, and Devil bared moist fangs. Holding up one bloody arm, the smuggler whimpered. “Don’t move,” the Phantom warned in a chill voice as he rode closer. Through his mask, he gazed down from the saddle. “If you twitch, he will attack again.”

The smuggler trembled and sweated. Streaks of dirt ran down his rough-stubbled cheeks. Not daring to turn his head, he rolled his eyes upward to regard the unlikely masked figure in the purple costume. “El Phantasma!” he stammered in a thick Spanish accent. “The Ghost Who Walks! I knew we were cursed the moment we touched that damned stone! I didn’t want any of it from the beginning! Everyone who touches it dies! Everyone!”

The Phantom gazed impatiently toward the jungle trail the jeeps had taken. He wanted to continue the chase, but this frightened little man seemed talkative, and the vehicles would be easy to track.

“Por favor! Just keep this beast off me!” the terrified smuggler begged. “I’ll tell you anything! Everything! I didn’t want to come on this trip!” A pair of dazzling shooting stars cut across the clearing, one after the other, fireball bright and trailing smoke. “Crazy stars!” he exclaimed as he clenched an upraised fist. “Even the sky is crazy tonight!” Forgetting Devil, he scrambled to his knees. His eyes contained a mad fire as he stared at the Phantom. “It’s the damn diamond!”

Devil snarled, but remained on guard. The Phantom, his curiosity piqued, dismounted and dropped Hero’s reins. For weeks and possibly months, this gang had efficiently been sneaking gems out of the national diamond mines in the Misty Mountains. The Phantom rested his hands on the butts of his automatics. “What’s your name?” he said.

“Marcos.” The smuggler hung his head. “Juan Marcos.”

Devil strode to the Phantom’s side and sat back on his haunches with his wolfen eyes gleaming. “Who’s your boss, Juan Marcos,” the Phantom pressed. “Not Espinoza, your leader who just abandoned you, but the real boss—the person Espinoza reports to.” He bent down and scratched his wolf between the ears. “Devil would really like to know a name.”

Juan Marcos swallowed. “I don’t know her name,” he answered. “Only Espinoza knew. But when she didn’t show up tonight the men went loco!” He shot a look toward the dark sky, which was alive with tiny swarms of light. “It’s the diamond, I tell you! We should have left it in the ground! It’s—it’s not meant for us!”

Panic overcame Juan Marcos. With surprising agility he sprang to his feet and ran. He didn’t get far. Hero lunged forward and cut him off. Devil flanked him, growling and baring fangs. Juan Marcos turned toward the Ghost Who Walks and sank to his knees, folding his hands and muttering prayers. “Dio! Dio mio!”

Perplexed, the Phantom rubbed his chin. The news that a woman led this crew startled him. The thieves had stolen hundreds of diamonds, and this latest haul had been the largest yet, and the bloodiest. A trail of carnage and corpses marked their course from the mountains through the Bangalla jungle.

Juan Marcos hugged himself and began to rock back and forth on his knees. “Shiva!” he murmured, his sanity seeming to slip away. “Shiva! Shiva!”

The Phantom frowned. Juan Marcos was crumbling, but maybe he knew a name after all. Bending down, he caught the smuggler by the shoulders. “Shiva?” he repeated sternly. “Who is Shiva?”

Juan Marcos shook his head. “The diamond,” he answered finally, “Espinosa named it. He calls it the Shiva Diamond! Twenty pounds of raw, uncut stone!” His eyes glazed over. “And it’s well-named! Twenty pounds of cursed chaos!”

Inside his mask, even the Phantom blinked. He glanced toward the trail the jeeps had taken, suddenly understanding the argument that had sundered the camp. Given half a chance, ruthless men like these would kill each other for such a treasure.

Deep in the jungle, the native drums grew suddenly louder. The Wambesi and the Llongo argued with angry, percussive rhythms. The Oogaan beat with a darker, more sinister air of menace. The Phantom pressed a finger against the lips of Juan Marcos, silencing the crazy smuggler. “Quiet!” he whispered. “Listen.”

He didn’t like the tone of the drums. They were not just angry. They were nervous and frightened. The tribes were never more dangerous than when they were frightened. The throbbing beats spoke no more of gods—but of demons.

The Phantom caught Juan Marcos’s collar and drew him so close that he could smell the stale whiskey on the smuggler’s breath. “Do you hear those drums?” He waited for Juan Marcos to nod. “We’re not alone tonight. The Oogaan are especially close, and you know how hostile they can be to strangers. You have one chance to live.”

Wide-eyed, Juan Marcos nodded again. “Anything!” he sputtered. “I’ll do anything!”

“Walk east,” the Phantom instructed in a low firm voice, “and surrender yourself to the Jungle Patrol. Devil will go with you. With him at your side, no native will touch you, for he’s known as a friend of the Phantom. But if you should try to run away . . .”

Devil lowered his ears and gave a low growl.

“I won’t!” Juan Marcos promised. “I’ll turn myself in, Phantom! Honest, I never wanted any part of this!”

The Phantom rose and gathered Hero’s reins. With a lithe movement, he swung up into the saddle. As he settled himself, a silvery flash far off in the woods caught his attention. It might have been a headlight, yet there was something different about it, some liquid quality that lingered for a heartbeat and diminished.

The drums stopped. The jungle fell silent. Even the breeze ceased, and the leaves stopped their rustling. A creepy and unnatural hush stilled the night, and not even the Phantom was immune to its effect. Beneath his tight costume, gooseflesh rippled on his neck.

Overhead, yet another shooting star whistled across the firmament. As if it was a signal, the native drums resumed, crazier and even more tempestuous. The Phantom stared in the direction of the strange flash and realized that he was also staring up the trail the jeeps had made.

Getting to his feet, Juan Marcos gazed in the same direction. “Behold, for I am Shiva,” he muttered under his breath, quoting Hindu mythology, “destroyer of worlds.” He shook his head as the wind picked up again and rustled his dirty hair. “Espinoza was a fool!”

“Remember your promise,” the Phantom warned. Leaving Devil to escort the smuggler, he touched boot heels to Hero’s flanks. The white stallion lunged forward in response and raced up the narrow trail after Espinoza and the jeeps.

Limbs and branches slapped at the Phantom as he rode through the dark jungle, but his mask and costume protected him. Over the steady fall of Hero’s hooves and the insistent throb of tribal drums, he listened for the sounds of motors far ahead and sniffed the air for the lingering stink of gasoline and engine exhaust. Through the trees, a distant flash of silver caught his attention before it winked out.

Gunshots caused him to pull back on the reins, and Hero stopped. The Phantom crouched, then straightened in the saddle, confident that the shots weren’t meant for him. A volley of gunshots answered. He recognized the sharp retorts of a .45 pistol and a carbine rifle.

Yet again in the deeper woods, he spied another silver flash, and the jungle fell silent once more. The Phantom frowned and pursed his lips. Overhead, three meteorites streaked out of the depths of space. It should have been a beautiful night in Bangalla. Instead, everything felt strange with a palpable apprehension.

More gunfire and the shrill cries of Oogaan warriors broke the silence. Noting the direction of the sounds, the Phantom spurred Hero forward. Sooner than expected, he came upon one of the jeeps half off the trail. The driver had smashed into a tree, but there was no sign of the smugglers. The spongy ground, however, bore the prints of many bare feet. And something else.

A small handful of diamonds sparkled on the ground beside the jeep and among the foliage as if someone had spilled them. Close by laid an Oogaan spear. Half hidden in the bushes lay the spear’s owner.

The Phantom quickly dismounted. It wasn’t like the Oogaan to leave a brother behind. The warrior’s eyes were still wide open, and a look of terror contorted his dark-skinned face. Yet, as the Phantom bent closer, he found a pulse in the warrior’s throat and observed lips that trembled with faint breath. He waved a hand before the wide-staring eyes, drawing no response. He found no wounds, nor marks of any kind.

Not dead, then. Drugged or entranced.

The silver light flashed again deep in the woods. It moved rapidly this time, passing among the trees like a will-o-wisp, and the cries of the Oogaan gave chase. The Phantom could do little for the fallen warrior, but he picked him up, placed him in the jeep, which was more comfortable than the ground. He spared only a fleeting glance at the scattered diamonds as he swung into the saddle again. It wasn’t the gems he wanted, but the murderous thieves still at large in his domain.

A little further up the trail, he found the second jeep with its headlights on and the engine still idling, but as he jerked on Hero’s reins, scores of figures sprang out of the bushes with fierce shouts to surround him. Outwardly, the Phantom remained calm, but he held his breath as he stared past the spear points and the arrows into the angry faces of Oogaan warriors. These were men to be respected.

A sharp voice silenced the Oogaan. Their chieftain pushed through the circle of warriors. His elaborate feathered headdress identified him, as did the lion skin and the pair of long knives he wore. He gestured, and the Oogaan lowered their weapons immediately. “Ghost Who Walks,” said the chieftain, “You have come to fight the demon with us!”

The Phantom answered in the Oogaan language as he dismounted and approached the jeep. “Greetings, Tuma,” he said to the chieftain. “I pursue only a band of smugglers and murderers tonight. I know nothing of your demon.”

“Then, for once we have something to teach you,” Tuma shot back with a proud arrogance. He waved a hand past the jeep. Two of the smugglers lay sprawled on the ground in the gleam of the headlights. One lay dead, shot between the eyes, but the other bore no wounds. He stared with wide, vacant eyes, alive but unmoving.

Tuma kicked the living one with a toe. “Throughout the jungle, many of my warriors are like this. The demon waves his hand, and they fall to the ground. Our spears and arrows are as nothing!”

The Phantom bent over the dead man. “What of this one?” he asked. “I heard gunfire.”

Tuma spat. “The outsiders fought among themselves. There is a third vehicle just up the trail. A white woman is dead. But they met the demon, too, and their guns were as useless as our spears!”

The Phantom rose to his feet. A third jeep? So the boss came after all and found her henchmen on the run. Stepping past Tuma, he quickly searched for the satchels of diamonds and found them. The metal box, however, containing the Shiva Diamond was gone.

With Tuma at his side and the warriors following, The Phantom strode up the trail to the third jeep. Dark blood poured from a hole in the driver’s head. In the passenger seat, a beautiful blonde-haired woman slumped back, her white blouse richly stained, shot through the heart. Her fingers still curled around the butt of a .38 revolver. A leather valise filled with American currency rested between the seats untouched. He quickly consulted with Tuma and ran a mental count. The smugglers were all accounted for, except one—Espinosa.

Tuma caught the Phantom’s arm suddenly and held up a hand to silence the mutterings of his warriors. “Listen!” he hissed.

Deep in the jungle, the Wambesi and the Llongo drums began to talk. In pulsing, fearful rhythms they argued of gods and demons, of warriors struck dead but suddenly waking, of something in the woods that defied their weapons and moved with a tiger’s speed. And over and over, they beat one word.

Keela-wee! Keela-wee!

“Take all your warriors home, Tuma,” the Phantom instructed, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. “Take any of the white men, too, and secure them. If the drums are true, I believe they will waken. I’ll not tell you what to do with the diamonds and the money, but the Ghost Who Walks would count it as a favor if the Oogaan would deliver it to the Jungle Patrol.”

Tuma nodded. “Will you fight the demon?”

The Phantom climbed into the saddle again. Two more meteorites whistled above the treetops. The Oogaan warriors cowered, trembling and murmuring. “I don’t believe in demons,” the Phantom answered as he stared skyward. But tonight, frankly, he wasn’t so sure.

The Golden Shore of Keela-wee lay to the west and south. Guided by the drums and his own knowledge of the jungle, he steered Hero off the trail and through the dense darkness. Far ahead, something flashed again. It moved among the trees briefly before he lost track of it. No headlight, not a gun flash this time he was certain of that.

Something moved in the brush off to his left. A branch rustled, and a stick snapped. An animal, perhaps. The Phantom wasted no time investigating a night-noise. He focused now on reaching the secret and sacred place called Keela-wee.

For hours he pushed through the thicket and the brush, sweating inside his all-concealing costume, but grateful for its protection. The stars continued to rain down as if the heavens themselves were weeping twinkling tears. Not even the jungle canopy could block the wonder.

The drums stopped. The sudden silence startled even him, but the last beats told the story. The Oogaan had sent the message, and some Wambesi had seen The Ghost Who Walks. The last beats called the warriors home. The battle belonged to the Phantom now.

A silver flash beckoned him forward. It shone like light reflecting off metal or off a mirror, and yet there was no light, not even moonlight, strong enough for that. It was closer, though, and its course lay for Keela-wee where gold-dust shimmered like sand along a hidden beach.

The Phantom set upon a plan of action. Whatever moved through the jungle, he could get there first on horseback. He nudged Hero, and the white stallion charged forward, sure-footed, knowing the way and the terrain almost as well as his rider. Bushes and branches swatted at them, and the Phantom ducked low limbs with an almost prescient instinct.

Then, the dense jungle gave away to a wonder as great as any in the world—a perfect, crescent-shaped beach, the Golden Shore of Keela-wee.

Yet, as horse and rider charged out of the jungle, the Phantom drew sharply on the reins. Hero reared on his hind legs, shaking his great maned head in protest, but crashing his hooves in the sand, he stopped and stood as still as the rider upon his back.

Half in the water and half on the beach, a giant sphere rested. It gleamed like polished metal, but pale snakes of blue and indigo and violet undulated over its surface, seemingly at random, without reason. The surf steamed around it, and through the sand came a slow, uneven throb, like a weakening heartbeat.

The Phantom slipped from the saddle. With hands on the butts of his guns, he moved a few paces closer, stopped and craned his head back. The sphere loomed taller than the trees, a hundred feet or more, and the ripples of color upon its skin he perceived now as sputterings.

Whatever it was, here was a wounded thing, or perhaps a dying one. Among all the shooting stars of the night, the greatest Perseid meteor shower of them all, he thought of the fireball that had blinded him earlier and nearly knocked him from his tree perch.

Back along the beach where the golden sand met the jungle, movement caught his eye. The Phantom whirled, snapping one automatic free. A slight figure emerged onto the sand. Its limbs were spidery thin and encased in a glowing fabric. Some kind of helmet obscured its head and face. It carried the metal box containing the Shiva Diamond.

The figure stopped when it saw the Phantom. A subtle, barely heard hum vibrated through the air as a bubble of radiance took shape around the stranger. It raised some kind of wand, pointed it, but if it was a weapon, the stranger held its fire. For a long moment, the two regarded each other. The Phantom looked slowly over his shoulder at the sphere, then back again, and he lowered his gun.

But from the edge of the jungle came a more familiar flash, the flame of a gunshot. The bubble around the stranger sparked with the intensity of lightning. The stranger spun about as a second and third gunshot sounded, and the bubble reacted each time, deflecting or devouring the bullets.

Espinosa crashed out of the foliage, his bare chest and arms streaked with blood, his flesh lashed and striated, his trousers torn by his crazed pursuit. Exhausted and desperate, he fired his gun again, his eyes burning with murderous fire. “Give me my diamond, you monster! Give me my diamond!”

More animal than human, he charged across the beach, kicking sand, leveling his gun again, cocking the hammer for one more shot. But this time, the stranger responded, raising its wand, pointing at its attacker. The bubble expanded, but in one direction only. It touched Espinosa. His eyes widened, his head snapped back, and the gun fell from his numbed grip. He toppled on top of it, and the cocked weapon fired. Espinosa gave the barest twitch. The Stranger turned toward the Phantom again.

The Phantom couldn’t say how he sensed its regret or its sorrow. Something in its posture, perhaps, or the fluidly graceful way it moved, or something more elemental. But the bubble retracted, and the humming ceased.

The Phantom holstered his own weapon. Whatever was happening here, enough violence had been done. He stood between the stranger and the sphere. Slowly, he moved out of its path.

Nodding as if in understanding, the stranger held out the metal box. It opened as if by some unseen force, and the Shiva Diamond, twenty pounds of gemstone, floated upward.

The colored snakes on the surface of the sphere reacted. Like hungry, playful creatures, they raced and chased each other, flickering and dancing. Suddenly, one indigo bolt crackled across the beach, striking the great diamond. The throbbing heartbeat in the sand, felt even through the Phantom’s boots, immediately grew stronger. The entire sphere trembled.

The stranger’s protective bubble activated again. Or perhaps it was more than protective, for a blue snake shot straight for it, and the bubble rose upward. The snake retracted again, drawing the bubble with it.

The Phantom and the stranger regarded each other until the bubble merged with the sphere and the visitor disappeared.

The water hissed, and the steam at the ocean’s edge boiled upward. The Phantom backed away, rejoining Hero at the edge of the jungle. The sphere rose slowly, soundlessly, then gained speed. A trio of bright meteors streaked past it as if to show the way.

When the vessel and its occupant were gone, the Phantom walked down to the water’s edge, and sat down in the golden sand. For a long time he stared upward, watching the sky, contemplating each silvery meteorite flashing in the night. Finally, near dawn, he lashed Espinosa’s body over Hero’s saddle and picked up the empty metal box. He thought of the Shiva Diamond. Fuel or food? How could he ever know?

An ordinary metal box. It would be the most mysterious addition to his trophy room.

The End

ROBIN WAYNE BAILEY is the author of seventeen novels and over one hundred other stories. His work includes the best-selling Dragonkin series, the Frost series, and the critically acclaimed stand-alone novel, Shadowdance, as well as a short story collection, Turn Left to Tomorrow. His novelette, “The Children’s Crusade,” was a 2008 Nebula Award nominee.

Robin is a former president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and was the principle founder of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, which has become part of the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame located in Seattle, Washington.

He lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Among his upcoming work is a new, original Spider story for Moonstone Books and a poetry collection entitled Zombies in Oz and Other Undead Musings from Yard Dog Press.

A Man of His Word

By Joe McKinney

The Phantom, disguised as a common merchant sailor, was leaning over the Edward Fowey’s port side railing with a big Scotsman named Carl Bodum, watching tendrils of steam drift up from the dark jungles of the Bangalla coast.

The talk, as it had been since they shipped out from Pointe Noire two days earlier, was of Ali Kamuda, the Black Raven.

“They say he’s a member of the Singh Brotherhood,” Bodum said.

“The Singh? Really?”

The Phantom gave the Scotsman a wide-eyed look of fear. He was playing a role here, masquerading as a young and naïve sailor with very little time at sea. The older salts like Bodum responded well to that, and they were usually willing to take a green horn under their wing and tell them how things really were. So, as they’d steamed down the African coastline, the Phantom had been using that parental urge that was the natural bent of so many veteran seamen to his advantage, gauging what the men knew of the trap that had been set for the Phantom by the Black Raven.

Bodum was no exception. Once the Phantom had got him alone and started up an innocent conversation, the man had been willing enough to talk. But mention of the Singh had turned him suddenly grave and given his sunburned face an odd, shadowed aspect.

He wore a medallion around his neck, a Spanish gold coin nestled in the thick gray hair on his chest. He took the medallion in his fingers and traced his thumb along the worn edges of the coin as he spoke.

“You’ve heard of the Singh, have you?”

“Of course,” the Phantom said. “Everyone has. They’re killers.”

“Aye,” Bodum said, and nodded.

“You don’t think they’ll attack us, do you? I mean, we’re just carrying sugar.”

Bodum turned his attention to the steaming jungles of Bangalla once more. “I think there’s a good chance of it. That was the talk around Pointe Noire.” He paused for a long moment. Then he looked at the Phantom, and his eyes were yellowed and bloodshot with hypertension, but they were steady. His voice was a whisper. “You heard the talk around Pointe Noire, I imagine. You heard why the captain had to recruit almost an entirely new crew. You heard how the Black Raven’s threats scared all but the desperate and the foolish from signing on this voyage.”

The Phantom nodded.

“Then you’ve heard of the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks.”

“I’ve heard stories,” the Phantom said. “I didn’t believe them.”

“What don’t you believe?”

“They say he can’t be killed. That can’t be true. All flesh is grass.”

“So says the prophet. Yes I know.”

“But you believe in him?”

Bodum let the medallion slip from his fingers and it thudded against his hairy chest. “I’ve been on the sea a long time,” he said. “A ghost who walks isn’t any stranger than some of what I’ve seen.”

“But if this Phantom really exists, I mean if all the stuff I’ve heard about him is true, wouldn’t Kamuda have to be crazy to take him on?”

“Or a fool. But apparently that’s what he wants. You heard about the nun he kidnapped, right?”

“Yeah, I heard about her, too, but that part didn’t make sense to me. Kamuda’s a pirate. Wouldn’t he get more of a ransom from some businessman or politician?”

“I don’t think money is what he wants.”

“What then?”

“To destroy the Phantom,” Bodum said. “She bears the Phantom’s mark of protection.”

“I’m confused. Why would he—”

“Because he wants to publicly destroy the Phantom.”

“You mean kill him? You think the Phantom’s a man then, not a ghost, like they say?”

“I don’t know if he’s a ghost or a man or a bloody Saint Bernard. But I do know his legend is the key to his success. Bad men fear him because they don’t know what he is. All they know is that he’s sworn to fight injustice, and that he’s a man of his word.”

“So why would Kamuda kidnap the nun?”

“I think Kamuda would kill the Phantom if he could. But if he can’t do that, he’ll unmask him instead. Reveal the secret identity, bring down the legend. And if he can’t do either of those things, he’ll kill the nun who bears the Phantom’s mark of protection and publicly discredit him. You see? The Black Raven has stacked the deck. It doesn’t matter which plan succeeds, he wins no matter what.”

Not quite, the Phantom thought.

The one thing Bodum and Kamuda both failed to understand was that the Phantom was, at his core, the Phantom. That was the essence of who he was. That was his true identity.

Kit Walker was the disguise.

But Kamuda would never get a chance to realize that. He was clever. He kept his base well hidden, which was why this disguise as a common merchant sailor was necessary, but he was overconfident.

And now the Phantom was going to make him pay for his hubris.

“So you think Kamuda will find the Phantom?”

“These African natives,” Bodum said, “they have a saying. They say you don’t find the Phantom. He finds you. You ask me, I think Kamuda has signed his own warrant.”

The Phantom smiled. It seemed Kamuda wasn’t the only one who knew the value of a good reputation.

But the smile was short-lived.

He’d heard something.

“Say,” Bodum said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Shhh.” The Phantom held up a silencing hand. “Listen.”

But there was only the sound of the wind and the engines and the waves lapping against the bow under their feet.

“I don’t hear—”

“There!” the Phantom said, and pointed toward the sky.

A long line of black birds was sprinting around the bridge tower, racing along the starboard side, then curling like a ribbon of black smoke around the bow.

At the same time there was a confused jumble of shouts and the sound of men running at a panic near the stern.

“What is it?” Bodum said.

But the Phantom was already on his feet and running that way.

“Hey, wait.”

The rest of the crew was gathering near the stern. Men were leaning over the rails and pointing out to sea. A few let out groans of dread.

Racing toward them from the coastline was a jet black trawler some sixty feet in length. Its rigging was swarming with black birds the way a stray dog’s flanks swarm with fleas and it appeared like a living, demonic presence rolling over the waves of the Edward Fowey’s wake as it closed the distance between them.

The Phantom turned to his left and saw their captain, a stout, gray bearded Liverpool sailor named Andrew Dutton running up onto the deck from below.

“What the bloody hell’s going on?” he said.

Dutton saw the approaching trawler and all at once the color drained from his face, leaving his skin whiter than his cap.

“No,” he said. “It can’t be.”

Men were shouting at him for orders, begging for direction, but he was too stricken to speak.

“They’re going to fire on us,” somebody said.

Without direction from Dutton, the crew panicked.

Through the mad swarm of birds the Phantom saw a pirate kneeling in the bow of the trawler, the gray metal tube of an RPG leveled on his shoulder.

The pirate fired.

Bodum was still standing near the stern. The Phantom rushed forward, but couldn’t reach him before the explosion turned the rear of the ship into a fireball.

The Phantom was knocked face down on the deck, his eyes full of oil and burning smoke. Through the smoky blackness and the tangle of debris the Phantom saw Bodum holding out a wounded hand toward him.

The Phantom grabbed Bodum and pulled him away from the fire and the smoke.

But he didn’t make it very far, for no sooner had he stepped out of the roiling smoke when he felt the muzzle of a machine gun touch the skin behind his ear.

“On your knees,” a man’s voice said. “Now.”

The pirates lined up the Edward Fowey’s crew and ordered them to strip. The Phantom stood naked with the others as one of Kamuda’s men looked over each man in turn, and then went through their clothes before finally turning away in disgust.

The pirate keyed up his radio. The Phantom strained his ears to pick up the conversation.

“He’s not here,” the pirate said.

“Impossible.”

“I saw no purple clothes, sir.”

“What about rings? Did you search their clothes for the rings I told you about?”

“We found nothing, Mr. Kamuda.”

“I don’t believe it,” the Black Raven said. “The Phantom is among them. I know he is. Bring them back to the base.”

The pirate made a hand signal to the others.

The men were ordered to get dressed, then black hoods were draped over their heads and they were taken ashore.

The sound of screaming birds was deafening. Death and defecation hung heavily on the air, like the downwind scent of a slaughterhouse.

Still wearing their hoods, the prisoners had been led on a forced march through the jungle.

But they’d just been given the order to stop.

The men were pushed into a line and all made to face the same direction.

Then their hoods were removed.

Up and down the line, the prisoners gasped at their surroundings.

A few men gagged.

They were in the courtyard of an old abandoned Dutch trading post. The Phantom recognized the architecture, the long, barnlike buildings. There were ruins like this everywhere along the African coast, blights on the face of paradise to mark Africa’s earliest exposure to the white man’s greed and his civilizing ways.

The buildings had once been an Easter egg blue. They were moldy with neglect now, falling in on themselves. None of them had doors. None of the windows had glass. Vegetation grew from the windowsills and it was clear the jungle was reclaiming this place. Black birds swirled through the air with an insectlike profusion, and everywhere the Phantom looked steel cages, most containing the rotted remains of dead men, depended from heavy chains attached to a large, overhead canopy designed to shield Kamuda’s base from aerial surveillance. Birds were feeding off the corpses. Everything was smeared and streaked a milky white by bird feces.

There was a sudden, furious beating of wings off to the Phantom’s left and a flight of birds erupted from the main building. A moment later two of Kamuda’s men dragged out a badly bruised elderly nun.

The Phantom recognized her at once as Sister Maria Elena, the kidnapped Catholic nun who bore the Phantom’s mark of protection.

He’d researched her in the chronicles of the eighteenth Phantom, his grandfather.

She’d been in the Congo for more than fifty years, maintaining an orphanage in the no man’s land between the warring Bakongo and Batwa tribes, an island of love in a sea of genocide. From the very beginning she’d made no secret of her intention to protect any child in need. Tribal origin made no difference to her.

The poor on both sides of the war called her the Sheltering Mother.

But her fearlessness made her a hated target of the warlords, and it was during a raid on her orphanage, as she knelt in the rain and the mud, staring up with unblinking eyes into the muzzle of a Batwa warrior’s rifle, that she got a visit from the eighteenth Phantom. The Phantom saved her that night, and placed his mark of protection, four intersecting swords each in the shape of the letter P, on her left wrist.

Now, in the courtyard, the guards dropped the old woman on the ground and the Phantom saw her hands fall to her side.

There was the good mark, etched into her tanned skin.

Rage swelled up inside the Phantom, but he kept his cool. He had to. He couldn’t help her now without giving everything away.

And that, ultimately, would help no one but Kamuda.

Then Kamuda himself stepped down from the main building. He wore the long black battle robes of an Anziku warlord, a small copper axe at his side. His hair was long and elaborately braided with bits of carved ivory.

Those who didn’t know Africa might think him some kind of gaudy showman. But to the Phantom, the hair and the scarred cheeks and the clothes were the calling cards of Congolese genocide.

With his costume Kamuda was deliberately evoking the memory of the ancient, vanished tribe of the Anziku, protectors of the Bakongo people and blood enemy of the Batwa.

To the prisoners he said, “I seek the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks. The rest of you will live if the Phantom reveals himself to me. Do you hear that, Phantom? You have two days. If you do not reveal yourself, I will kill these men. Their blood will be on your hands. But I will start with the woman. Show yourself, or I will show the world what your mark of protection means. I am a man of my word, Phantom. Do not test me. You have two days.”

That night, in the prisoners’ barracks, Captain Dutton stood before his crew, most of whom had come aboard at Pointe-Noire and were strangers to him, and pleaded for the Phantom to turn himself in.

“Think of us,” he said. “We didn’t ask for this.”

Many of the others echoed his words with pleas of their own.

But Carl Bodum, the big Scotsman, stood up and berated them. “You’re all fools and cowards,” he said. “You’re crazy if you believe Kamuda will let us live. Our only chance against piracy and greed and cruelty and injustice is to fight. We’ll be shot down like dogs if we don’t.”

The argument went on late into the night.

Heated words went back and forth, and eventually the cowardly majority managed to yell Bodum down.

But the Phantom had heard, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Bodum had no way of knowing it, but he had spoken almost word for word the sacred oath that every Phantom for twenty generations had sworn to uphold.

The Phantom wanted to fight. He wanted to end this now.

But the time wasn’t right.

The next morning the guards pulled Captain Dutton out of the barracks. They took him into the courtyard where Kamuda was waiting for him.

They spoke for less than a minute, but apparently it was long enough for Kamuda to get what he needed.

He motioned his guards to the barracks, and when they entered, they went straight for Bodum. One of the guards punched the Scotsman in the face with the butt of his rifle and the others dragged him out and dumped him at Kamuda’s feet.

“They think he’s the Phantom,” said one of the prisoners.

“Impossible,” said another. “Not him.”

“I bet he is. You heard him arguing last night.”

Kamuda pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at Bodum’s head. Even through the swarm of screaming birds, the Phantom could see the defiance on Bodum’s face.

Kamuda thumbed back the hammer on his pistol and put it against Bodum’s forehead.

The man next to the Phantom let out a strangled gasp. “Oh my dear God he’s going to execute him.”

But Kamuda had other plans.

Just as it seemed he was going to fire, he lifted the pistol, turned, and shot Captain Dutton in the stomach. Birds raced into the air with a thunderous explosion of beating wings as the crack of the pistol shot echoed away.

Dutton fell to his knees, and then onto his side. His screams of pain filled the air, and then were drowned out again as the birds resettled into the courtyard.

Two of the guards dragged Bodum’s limp form back to the barracks and dropped him onto a moldy blanket. Meanwhile two other guards carried Dutton to an empty steel cage hanging in front of the barracks and locked him inside.

The prisoners stood at the windows of the barracks, watching Dutton writhing in pain.

Kamuda said, “You have until tomorrow morning, Phantom.”

And with that, the birds descended on Dutton, and not even their furious squawking and the beating of their wings could cover up the sounds of the captain’s screams.

Dutton did not die quietly, or quickly.

His screams continued long into the afternoon. Inside the barracks, the prisoners turned their faces to the walls and cried because they could not block out the sounds of their captain’s screams.

Every muscle in the Phantom’s body strained to free the man. Dutton was a coward, and he had sold out Bodum to Kamuda, that was true, but nobody deserved the kind of torture he was suffering.

Still, he couldn’t save Dutton.

Kamuda was smart, keeping the Sister up in main building. He knew the Phantom could save these men, or he could save the nun, but he couldn’t save them all before Kamuda and his people killed again.

And not without revealing himself.

He had to wait for Kamuda to divide up his men.

In the barracks, the prisoners were psychologically beaten, numb. With their faces turned to the walls, none of them noticed as the Phantom slid out a side window and dropped down into the jungle below.

None of the guards noticed, either. Like Kamuda, they were overconfident.

Only the birds watched.

The Phantom crawled through the vegetation at the edge of the courtyard, aware of the eerie stillness that had settled over the scene.

Thousands of pairs of black eyes watched his every move, the only sound being the murmuring rustle of their wings as the Phantom crawled beneath them and into the crew’s mess hall. There he stole a cast iron skillet, a can of Sterno, a lighter and some sugar. Then he slowly started scraping bird feces off the wall, catching it as it fell into the pan.

He worked steadily all that afternoon, cooking the mixture of sugar and bird feces into dozens of gelatinized disks, a simple fuse of Sterno-smeared fabric attached to each one.

The next morning the prisoners were lined up in the courtyard. Each man had his hands tied behind his back.

“This is your last chance, Phantom,” Kamuda said.

He waited.

Birds were perched on nearly every available inch of the surrounding roofs, watching. Here and there a few of them rustled their wings in mute agitation.

“No?” Kamuda said. “Very well.”

Several guards stepped forward and motioned the men toward a path that led out of the base and into the jungle. They walked into the jungle and the mood became more ominous with every step.

Bodum said, “Mate, this is the end of us, I think.”

There was no answer.

He turned as much as he dared, but the sailor who had been right behind him when they walked out of the courtyard was gone.

They were led to a small hill that had been cleared of vegetation. On the hill were twenty poles sticking up from the ground, each pole about ten feet high and spiked at the top. A convexly-shaped running board flanked each pole, so that each spike looked like it stood between a pair of parenthesis.

Watching from the edge of the clearing, the Phantom recognized the arrangement. It was the most horrible form of torture he’d ever seen used, a favorite among the Bakongo tribes.

A prisoner was placed inside the parenthesis, suspended above the spike. Positioned that way, using his shoulders as a brace, the prisoner could keep himself from dropping down onto the spike.

But only for so long.

When his strength gave out, the man would drop onto the spike, which impaled him by degrees, killing him only after it had gone deep up into his bowels.

A strong man could usually hold out two days.

The Phantom leaned his head back and relaxed his throat. He reached into his mouth and tugged on a piece of dental floss tied around one of his molars and brought up the two rings that he had secreted down his throat. The ring bearing the good mark he slid onto his left hand, nearest his heart. The other ring, which bore the skull mark, went onto his right hand.

Then the Phantom took out his lighter.

It was time to light the fuses.

Kamuda stood in front of the prisoners. He glanced up and down the row, looking for something in their eyes that might reveal the wolf among the lambs.

He motioned for a radio.

Making sure the prisoners could hear him clearly, Kamuda ordered his men back at the base to set it on fire.

“You hear that, Phantom?” he said. “The woman you swore to protect is going to burn to death. Won’t you do anything to stop it? Reveal yourself.”

The man’s eyes were wild.

“Reveal yourself, Phantom. Reveal yourself to me.”

He waited, watching for the man who would break ranks and run back for the base. When no one spoke up, he ordered his guards to position the first of the prisoners above the spikes.

“You can save these men, Phantom, or you can save the woman. But you cannot save them both. I will reveal you to the world, Phantom. I promise you that.”

But as he spoke, the jungle began to fill with smoke. It was horrible to inhale. It had a wild, unspeakable, jungle odor about it that was like the smoke off a burning carcass.

Prisoners and guards alike bent over and coughed. More than a few vomited. The smart ones dropped to the ground and buried their faces in dirt.

But not Kamuda.

He was standing in the middle of the swirling smoke, screaming orders at his guards.

He was pointing at one man, ordering him to machine gun the prisoners, when the man was suddenly pulled straight up into the trees.

Plucked off his feet like a bug sucked up into a vacuum cleaner.

Kamuda cut himself off mid-sentence.

In a rage, believing he’d completely misjudged the value the Phantom placed on his mark of protection, he ordered his men forward. They’d been told to hide in the jungle between the hill and the base, waiting for the Phantom when he doubled back to rescue Sister Maria Elena.

The men charged headlong into the smoke-filled jungle.

But standing in the middle of it all, Kamuda watched his plan fall apart. Everywhere he turned, his soldiers were being yanked off their feet and pulled up into the trees.

“Fight, damn it!” he yelled. “Get him!”

He heard movement behind him. Believing it to be one of his soldiers, he turned to yell at the man to get into the fight.

He saw a figure shrouded in smoke instead.

The next thing he saw was a ringed fist pulled back for a mighty haymaker.

A moment later there was pain.

And then darkness.

Bodum emerged from the densest part of the smoke-filled jungle and fell onto his stomach, smoke still clinging to his clothes.

He tried to turn over, but a hand grabbed his bound hands and kept him face down.

The big Scotsman tried to wrestle himself loose, but couldn’t.

“Go ahead and kill me, you bastard,” he said.

But there was no answer, and no shot like he expected.

Instead, his hands were loosed.

And then a gold medallion dropped in front of his face. It was his Spanish coin. But now, imprinted on one side was a new mark, four intersecting swords, their hilts shaped like the letter P.

Bodum took the medallion, but when he turned over, he saw nothing above him but jungle.

By the time the Phantom made it back to the main house, all of Kamuda’s camp was burning. Flames poured from every window, every doorway. The sound of it was like standing next to a speeding train. The heat sucked the air from his lungs.

But from somewhere inside the roaring flames and the gushing smoke, the Phantom heard a voice, a small, scared voice.

He rushed into the flames.

He found Sister Maria Elena in a flimsy cell on the third floor. She was barely conscious. He yanked the cell doors open and guided her towards the nearest window.

But before they could jump to the safety of the jungle, the ceiling collapsed and the two of them nearly slid down into a tangle of burning rubble.

Flames were rushing up through the collapsing building. There was a loud whoosh of air and then a wave of heat from behind him. He turned to see the stairwell that led to the main door at the opposite end of the hall alive with fire.

Burning, liquefied tiles dropped from the ceiling.

“Come on,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“To the basement,” he said. “Most of these old Dutch buildings were equipped with furnaces.”

“A furnace?”

“If it’ll keep fire in, it’ll keep it out. And it’ll protect us from the falling debris.”

He carried her to the basement, hoping he was right. The fire was everywhere now, and they were out of time.

And then there was the furnace.

He helped her inside, and climbed in after her.

In the dark, the train wreck sound of the fire and collapsing building all around them, she touched his face.

“Thank you,” she said.

He sensed something of a younger woman in the touch, something that had perhaps not made it into the eighteenth Phantom’s diary.

“I made a promise,” he said.

“Tell me. Is Kamuda okay?”

“He won’t hurt you again,” the Phantom said. “I promise you that.”

And then, surprisingly, she laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he said.

“You don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about you. Not directly anyway. It’s me he wants to unmask, not you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve rescued hundreds of children over the years. Many of them were angry young boys. Many hated themselves for living when all their family had died. But of all of the young boys I’ve ever known, Ali Kamuda was the angriest.”

“Angry at you? But why?”

“Because I was the one who found him. Ali and his three brothers were hiding beneath the bodies of their parents. The parents had been machine gunned. I took the boys, and I promised them protection. They believed me. Ali trusted me.”

“What happened to them?”

“His brothers were killed in a Batwa raid on my orphanage. I managed to save Ali, but not the others.”

“And he blames you for that?”

“Yes. He heard the story of the mark of protection that you gave me all those years ago. He said it was just another lie. Killing you, discrediting you, was his way of making me believe it.”

The Phantom pulled her close.

“It’s not a lie,” he said. “I try my best, but not everyone can be saved. That’s my oath, and my curse. That’s your oath, and your curse, too. But it’s not a lie. It’s the truth about who we are, you and me.”

Sister Maria Elena awoke to daylight on her face. The scent of ash and charred wood was in her nostrils.

She blinked until she could see.

The furnace door was standing open. Beyond it, the Black Raven’s base was nothing but a few blackened beams sticking up among piles of brick and fallen walls.

The man who had saved her yet again, the Phantom, was walking away. Ash was pouring down off his broad shoulders and his back with every step.

A magnificent white horse and a huge white wolf emerged from the jungle and the Phantom walked toward them.

“Where’s Kamuda?” she said.

The Phantom stopped. He half turned his face toward her.

“The Jungle Patrol has him.”

“Will they hurt him?”

“He’s a pirate, Sister. Like me, the Jungle Patrol took an oath to destroy piracy and cruelty wherever they find it.”

“And you are a man of your word,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Always,” he said.

“Will you kill him?”

He steadied the horse with one hand. With his other, he pulled a purple costume from the saddlebag.

“The Phantom never kills,” he said.

“You are a man of mercy, then?”

The Phantom mounted his horse and turned the mighty animal away from her, never showing his face.

“I don’t deal in mercy,” he said. “Only justice.”

The End

JOE McKINNEY is a homicide detective for the San Antonio Police Department who has been writing professionally since 2006. He is the author of several novels, including Dead City, Quarantined, Apocalypse of the Dead, and Lost Girl of the Lake, and more than thirty horror, crime, and science fiction short stories. As a police officer, he’s received extensive professional training in disaster mitigation, forensics, and homicide investigation techniques, some of which finds its way into his stories.

Justice Delayed

By Ed Gorman
and Richard Dean Starr

Raw November night. A white stretch limo hurtles like a heat-seeking missile through the narrow streets surrounding the Chicago Loop.

A few minutes later it screeches to a halt in front of a nondescript private club. No sign marks the building, just a severe, brass-engraved plate with an address number.

A doorman in imposing black-and-white livery steps forward to open the passenger door. His movements are smooth and well-practiced; he does not make eye contact with the men who pile out of the limousine and they do not acknowledge his presence.

There are five of them. Four are guests of the tallest man, whose luminous white hair is in stark contrast to his dark, expensively tailored suit. If a patrician face can be said to be fierce, then that is the case with Judge Andrew Sloane. A reporter once described him as “the last defender of the eighteenth century.”

Sloane leads the way into the club, the others following deferentially along behind. An elevator takes them to the third floor and a private dining room.

Each man is seated where his name card indicates. Waiters in evening jackets immediately take their drink orders. Unlike the judge, the four men wear relatively cheap suits that can be bought off the rack at any department store, and their speech and manners mark them as the common men that they are.

Sloane is always amused by how the opulence of the room intimidates them. He realizes they are ignorant of life’s finer things, but at least they know enough to show nervous respect for the huge copper fireplace, the rich deep red wine carpeting, and the exquisite hardwood accents. Sloan knew that if they had their way, they’d be hanging out at the dry bar in the far corner of the room, watching a football game on the bigscreen plasma TV and drinking cheap beer.

Four years ago, the first time they all met, the night was spent with unending praise for Sloane, the jurist who sat at the head of their table. It was an informal but very real testimonial dinner . . .

Dave Cully, a chunky, bald thirty-six year old in a pin-striped suit his wife bought at Sears, said, “If it wasn’t for the Judge here, me’n Mulligan would’ve been looking at Murder One for sure. Those bastards in the street every day were pushin’ the DA to send us away for life. We want to thank you again, your honor.”

Mulligan, a lanky, blond forty-year-old wearing a bulky blue blazer and gray slacks, took a sip of his bourbon and water before speaking.

“The judge here understands what we have to go through out there on the streets,” he said. The tip of his pale, pink tongue flickered out between his lips like a tiny snake before disappearing behind yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

“All us cops know how it is,” he continued. “You get some punk-ass twenty year old like Stevie Barnes—it’s a hot night, we’re kinda beat, and then we see this black kid hangin’ around, probably up to no good. So we start asking him some questions. He gives us some sob story about how we beat up his brother a while back and he don’t want to cooperate with us. Then he runs away. So what’re we supposed to do, just let him run? We yell for him to stop but he don’t. So we both fire.”

Judge Sloan smiled. “Fortunately you found a gun on him. He could’ve killed you. I’m saying this despite what Mr. Finegarten wrote in that column of his.”

Finegarten is a local newspaperman who has built a small reputation for himself by claiming that some of the city’s cops are notorious for planting guns on people they’ve killed so they can justify their trigger-happy murders.

Down the table, an officer named Boyle coughed into his hand, his lungs polluted by years of smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes.

“Mulligan’s a good cop, Your Honor,” he said, taking a drink of water and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As soon as he sat the glass down a waiter moved over and discreetly refilled it. “He always carries a spare. At least Finegarten’s got that part right.”

He is referring to the guns that are planted on perps, the so-called “throw down” guns. Four years ago, Boyle had gotten a thirteen year old boy in a choke hold and killed him. Everything was arranged for him to face Judge Sloane instead of a jury trial. Sloane had, in his usual way, been most understanding and most forgiving.

“Someday,” Sloane said with a thin smile, “Mr. Finegarten will need to be taken care of.”

“I’d like to be in on that.” Paul Benti grinned. His case was the most controversial of all. He’d been off-duty and drunk, reeling out of a bar at two a.m. when he bumped into a passerby. Benti accused the man of intentionally piling into him. A fight began. Benti beat him to death. The lawyer Sloane recommended behind the scenes was good at destroying reputations. The twenty-three-year-old that that Benti killed had been arrested at sixteen for joy riding in his father’s car. The lawyer was able to make this sound as if the kid was the next Charles Manson. Judge Sloane found Benti not guilty.

“You ever want to take Finegarten out,” Benti said, “you just let me know.”

Sloane returned Benti’s smile. “Oh, I think we could arrange that in the not too distant future. Mr. Finegarten is becoming a real annoyance.”

And annoyance, Sloane thought, doesn’t really cover it.

Tonight, the men go right to their drink and food.

Despite the fact that several consummate fish dinners are on the menu—fresh fish flown in every day from Boston—Sloane knows that this is a steak and potato crowd. He amuses himself with an image of a six pack of Budweiser sitting in front of each man. A little beer, a little howling, and a little fraternization with the diseased whores that they frequently arrest—these are the kind of men he is forced to deal with if he is ever to restore the city to its once former glory.

As the men eat, Sloane watches each one briefly, assessing them for further usefulness. He has spent the last ten years making certain that no police officer who comes before him is ever convicted of a crime. By now it is well known that there is an intense and growing enthusiasm among the uniformed men and women to enlist Sloane as a mayoral candidate.

But Sloane knows he must be careful.

He can never accomplish as mayor what he can working in the background, with men just like these. His idea is simple: to gather together a force of one hundred officers who will help start a prolonged race war that will ultimately drive the majority of blacks from the city.

Sloane is not usually a sentimental man, but in this particular case, he wants nothing less than the city of his great, great grandfather—the famous banker whose domed headquarters was plated with solid gold and whose hansom cab, pulled by angry black steeds, was legendary not just here but across the entire state.

He likes being around these men, enjoys their war stories. It makes him feel like a cop himself.

Good men, these, but some will be more useful than others.

At least two of them are outright psychopaths and have to be carefully watched. But their particular skills will soon be put to use.

What Sloan would never say aloud is that Finegarten is becoming more than a simple pest. His columns are encouraging a handful of city council members to speak up against the judge, and that is the kind of publicity he does not need.

Already he has decided to make sure his docket is crowded when another case of police brutality hit the news. Let some other judge handle it. Sloane needs to fade from view for awhile. This way he can put together his small army of officers out of public view.

Perhaps then, he thinks with a contented sigh, he will be able to begin taking his meals with people who possess greater taste and distinction than men like these.

Diana Palmer-Walker does not have good memories of London’s Heathrow Airport. The last time she was here her plane was fogbound and could not take off. As a result she wound up sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair, only to be awakened by a rude male attendant who was shaking her none to gently by the shoulder.

Despite her quiet brunette elegance, she is a master at sending people scurrying with just a look from her fiery, jade-green eyes. In that particular instance the young man gulped, blurted that the fog was lifting, and hurried away.

Today there is no fog and no obnoxious airport employee to bother her. She landed in London two days ago following three days in Paris. Her job at the United Nations keeps her moving constantly. On this trip she also carried a private message to the American Ambassador in London from her husband, The Phantom, aka Kit Walker. He has been helping the Ambassador break a drug ring that stretches from the Middle East to the heart of New Jersey.

At nine a.m. on a sunny Friday morning, Heathrow might as well be the Superbowl. So many people are packed within its walls that moving about can be difficult at best.

Lines are long, tempers are short.

Diana is lucky to have her seat. She’s also lucky to be headed home for a month-long vacation, her first in two years. She will have many precious hours with the twins, Kit and Heloise.

Funny, then, that she can hear so soft a sound above the din of loudspeakers and hundreds of frenzied passengers.

A woman crying.

Not sobbing, not weeping, crying.

She looks up from her Dean Koontz novel and glances at the young woman next to her. Delicate, slender, dark-haired, pretty. She can’t be more than twenty. Probably a college student judging by the backpack sitting at her feet. Not to mention her simple outfit of jeans and blue crew-neck sweater and with a crisp white collar riding above it.

The young woman hides her face behind her hand, which is draped by a large, well-used hankerchief. Apparently she doesn’t want anybody to notice she is crying.

Diana is tempted to say something. Are you all right? Is there anything I can do? Can I get you anything? All the timid questions one stranger asks another at times like these.

But no; Diana senses that the young woman wants to be left alone. I’ll just embarrass her, Diana thinks, and it’s probably a personal problem—a loss of some kind: a job, a lover, a relative—and there isn’t anything I can do about it anyway.

Just over a half-hour later, Diana is seated next to the window on board the Boeing 747. She goes back to her reading as soon as she gets comfortable. She’s so involved with the novel that she doesn’t even look over at the person who sits down beside her. Only after the pilot comes on the speaker and begins to talk about the flight does she realize it is the same young woman from the terminal.

When she notices Diana looking at her, the woman smiles weakly. “I’ll try to stop crying,” she says, her voice slightly raspy. “I promise. I’m not a drama queen. Not usually, anyway.”

The woman has a winsome smile, almost that of a little girl. She also has the ability to poke fun at herself. Diana likes her immediately. She offers her hand and introduces herself.

“Cindy Rollins,” the girl replies.

She inhales deeply, making an effort to get control of herself. Then she exhales with great force. The smile again.

“Believe it or not I’m a second year law school student at Northwestern. How’d you like to have me as your lawyer? Wouldn’t I be great in court, crying all the time? If Professor Billings saw me now he’d drop me from the class.”

Diana usually avoids getting involved with passengers on flights, especially long flights. Too often the men try to make passes at her and the women want her to be their cut-rate shrink. But Cindy interests her. The tears. The smile. The law school. Elements that just might make her story an interesting one. But Diana knows better than to push. As the plane prepares for takeoff, they both sit back in their seats. For now the talking is finished.

She sleeps for a time. Dreams of her children. Golden children in golden sunlight on a golden beach. And then a tall, handsome man comes striding toward them and the children run toward him. She smiles when she sees him. Kit and the kids . . . they are her world. All else is secondary . . .

A moment of disorientation. Opens her eyes. Sits up. Airplane. Ocean below. Aroma of coffee. Sound of mighty engines and gentle crying.

She remembers then: Cindy Rollins.

The young woman from the airport. She glances to her left.

Cindy stares down at the hands, folded gently in her lap. Her eyes and nose are red. She snuffles up tears every few seconds.

Diana leans over and places her hand on Cindy’s arm. “We have a long flight ahead of us, Cindy. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? Maybe you’ll feel better if you do.”

Cindy’s blue eyes gleam with silver tears. “I appreciate it, Diana. But I’d just be wasting your time. There’s nothing you can do—or nothing I can do. That’s why I went to Paris. There’s a man there—he’s the only one who can help. But he won’t. He’s afraid, too. That’s why he left the country.”

“Left the country?” Diana raises her eyebrows. “That’s not so unusual. Is somebody after him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The police.”

“He’s a criminal?”

Cindy’s smile is bitter. “Oh, no. The police are the criminals. This man saw them kill somebody in cold blood then plant a gun on him. He went to the police station and told the watch commander about it. Then later that night, somebody broke into his apartment so they could kill him. He’d just pulled into the parking lot of his apartment house when they were going in the back door. He checked out their car. They were detectives. He left for Paris the next morning.”

She laughs, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you too much, huh?”

Diana ignores this, her curiosity piqued. “You knew the man they killed?”

“He was my brother,” she says, and even more fresh tears track down her face.

“I’m sorry.”

Cindy blows her nose, wipes it carefully and then says: “He could be a real smart-ass when he was drinking, there’s no doubt about that. But he was harmless otherwise, never did drugs or got into fights, nothing like that. He was a junior in college. He stayed in town because he couldn’t afford to go anywhere. He was getting good grades. He was planning on going to med school.”

She starts to break again but then makes fists of her small hands and then tightens her jaw.

“He was at a bar with some of his college friends and they went outside and started talking to these girls. Then for no reason, these two detectives seemed to think something was wrong with that. Even the girls admitted that they were having a good time and that the boys weren’t bothering them at all.

“But this one cop, this Mulligan, he really started to hassle Joel. And Joel said something back to him. Everybody said that this cop really had it in for my brother. Joel must have sensed he was in trouble because he backed off according to the girls. Apologized to the cop and everything and said he wanted to go back inside. The cop wanted to arrest him but then the bar owner came out and said that Joel was a regular customer and that he was a good kid and never caused any trouble and would vouch for him.”

“So what happened next?” says Diana, shifting to a more comfortable position in her seat.

“Well, the cop asked Joel if he was driving. And Joel said yes but that he’d had only one beer the whole night because of some cold medication he was taking. The bar owner said that was true and so finally this Mulligan decides not to arrest Joel. So all the kids go back inside and it looked like everything was over.

“But then about an hour later Joel decides to leave. Everybody else stays. He goes out to the parking lot and starts to get in his car. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, this unmarked police car pulls up next to him. Mulligan gets out and hassles him, starts shoving him around.”

“He must have been frightened,” Diana says, nodding sympathetically.

Cindy nods. “He got away somehow and started running,” she says, her voice bitter. “Mulligan shouts for him to stop, but at the same time he’s shouting he’s also firing three shots into Joel’s back.”

“Oh, my! That’s horrible!”

“There was an internal police investigation,” Cindy says, her voice now wooden with the same despair that had overtaken her earlier. “That absolved them, of course. However, because Joel was white and my father is a doctor, the press paid some attention to us. The news got enough people riled up that the DA was forced to charge them with first degree murder. We were encouraged until we learned that the DA had made sure that Judge Sloane was going to get the case—no jury.”

“Sloan . . . that name sounds familiar.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cindy says. “Sloane is notorious for giving black people and poor people the maximum sentence for everything—and always letting the police off, no mater what the charge is. His cases are so controversial they’re often covered by various newspapers and magazines.”

“So what happened in the end?”

“They were found not guilty,” Cindy says, “and reinstated with back pay.”

Diana shakes her head. “Given the circumstances, I’m astonished you couldn’t convince this witness to come back from Paris and testify.”

“I can’t really blame him,” Cindy says with a shrug. “He went to the police station the night it happened and told the watch commander what he’d seen. Then, about two o’clock in the morning, he heard a car pull up in the parking lot right below his window, the same one where he’d seen these two cops kill Joel in cold blood. He knew then he’d made a mistake going to the police and managed to get to the attic in the place and hide.”

“How many policemen were involved?”

“He said there were three of them and they broke into his apartment with their guns drawn. He knew they were going to kill him. The next morning he snuck to the airport and headed for Paris.”

“You’re lucky you found him,” Diana says.

“It wasn’t that hard. He did a lot of traveling in Europe for his business, so his passport and other papers were in order. We hired a private investigator to check out his background and learned he had a girl friend in Paris. That’s where I found him.”

“So what happens next?”

“I guess there’s nothing we can do now. This judge’ll just go on letting cops get away with whatever they want to do. He even let two cops who were drug dealers go free.”

“And nobody objected?”

“Oh, there were editorials but the judge is always giving these patriotic speeches at different events. He’s got a big following with the people. I guess we just have to face the facts—there’s nobody who can help us now.”

Diana smiles. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I might know somebody.”

“Really? Somebody you know?”

“Oh, I know him reasonably well, I suppose.” She is still smiling, thinking of The Phantom.

“Do you know how to get hold of him?”

Diana pats Cindy’s hand. “I’ll be seeing him in just a little while, in fact. Now write down all your contact information for me and I’ll get back to you.”

Now it is Cindy who smiles. “I can’t believe I was lucky enough to meet you, Diana.”

She opens her purse, takes out a small pad and ball point pen, and begins to write.

Three Weeks Later . . .

“Tom and Karen, I’m standing here in front of this exclusive condo complex where the head of the police union, Paul Benti, has been found shot to death in his jaccuzi. This makes the third murder of a police officer in the past two weeks. And once again, police are looking for the same black man neighbors described from the first two killings.”

For Nancy Palmer, this is her first big assignment since moving up from a small TV station in Maine. The city offers her a huge metro audience and a chance to get noticed by the networks. Hey, she’s a slim, good-looking brunette isn’t she? She can carry herself with subtlety and grace. And she’s got the right voice for the job, too. Serious, but not dull. So what if her major in college was Homemaking? She got hired on her looks the first time and she sees no reason she won’t use them to keep right on climbing the ladder to national stardom.

Back in the studio, Karen, the network anchorwoman, says: “What about the theory that the officers that have been killed have been good friends of Judge Sloane? That in fact he was the one who found them not guilty for what some felt were heinous crimes?”

The Witch. Nancy hates her and likes to think of her by this private and very apropos name. Karen with her lousy journalism degree and all the time reading political blogs on her computer. What a bimbo. She loves putting Nancy on the spot, watching her squirm.

“Well, uh, yes, I’ve heard that, Karen, but Paul Benti never went before the judge.”

“No, but the judge is the godfather of Benti’s second child.”

Nancy doesn’t care much for the word “witch”—it’s just a little too ‘Wizard of Oz’ for her—but right now it’s the only one that seems appropriate. Because that’s exactly what Karen is. She knows The Witch is drooling inside because she just made Nancy look stupid.

The co-anchor, Tom, says: “Actually, Karen the godfather thing hasn’t been confirmed yet so we’d better be careful. You’re doing a great job out there, Nancy. We’ll check in with you as this story develops.”

The previous winter, after one particularly cold and snowy night spent freezing her ass off on location, Nancy had slept with Tom. She’d felt taken advantage of the next morning and confronted him about it. Told him that he owed her, that what he could do for her—what he’d better do, by God—was stand up for her whenever Karen tried to make her look dumb.

Nancy imagines The Witch glowering after being put in her place. Tom is, after all, the nephew of the CEO in charge of the media conglomerate that owns the station—along with sixty-two other ones.

Now she’ll probably have to sleep with Tom again, because, well, tonight was above and beyond. This was slapping Karen down in public!

Next time, though, she thinks bitterly, I better not get another rash.

Kit Walker, known as “The Ghost Who Walks” when wearing his famous purple costume, strolls down the broad first floor hallway of the old courthouse. Had he been wearing his distinctive outfit he would have been instantly recognizable. From experience he knows that some people would have been fascinated; others would have scrambled out of his way, and some would have run, knowing that where The Phantom walks, so does justice.

The fact that he was in a courthouse, Kit reflected wryly, would have undoubtedly helped with that last perception.

Today, however, he is dressed in the crisp blue uniform of Conroy Electric and wearing a leather belt filled with various tools. He is sporting a dark red beard and mustache. With a pair of dark glasses thrown in for good measure, not to mention his large metal toolbox, he looks like any other workman going about his duties.

Kit pauses for only a moment when he reaches the massive oak door with the name “Judge Andrew Sloane” inscribed in gold letters. Then he walks over to a nearby water fountain jutting from the wall beside a long wooden bench.

He takes a drink, sits down, places the toolbox on the seat beside him, and glances at his watch like a man on a well-deserved break.

The wait isn’t bad. Fourteen minutes. Then the imperious figure of Judge Sloane opens his door and steps into the hallway. In his tailored gray suit and with his trim, athletic body, he looks much younger than his fifty years. He proceeds east, away from the bench where Kit Walker sits waiting.

One down.

The secretary doesn’t appear for another ten minutes. Kit has come here three days running, trying to get a sense of the best time to obtain access to the judge’s chambers. Sloane and his secretary seem to follow a fairly consistent pattern: the judge leaves first, from ten to noon, and then the secretary follows five to seven minutes later.

Today she is three minutes late.

As soon as she disappears down the hallway, Kit grips the handle of his toolbox. When the hall is completely empty he moves quickly. He has already examined the lock and will have no trouble picking it.

Once inside he hurries past the reception area and into chambers. With the wall-to-wall bookcases, dark brown wainscoting, massive wooden desk, parquet floor, and huge stationary globe, Kit feels as if he’s accidently stumbled into a private library rather than the digs of a humble public servant. Portraits of Sloane and his father, grandfather, and great grandfather cover one wall. The same arrogance and intolerance is evident in all of their identical blue eyes.

Kit has planted bugs like the ones concealed in his toolbox on many different occasions. His eyes scan the office and then returns to the portraits.

He smiles.

The idea of using the Sloane family against itself is an appealing one. The tiny bug will be hidden among the portraits.

Three-and-a-half minutes after he enters the judge’s chambers he leaves as quickly and quietly as he arrived.

When the beat cop named Rick Sanders retired, he bought a small neighborhood bar and turned it into a place where other cops could gather and relax without being hassled by citizens.

Sometimes the place gets rowdy, but that’s usually the work of just a few. Most of the police officers, male and female alike, come here to enjoy a few quiet drinks before heading home to their loved ones.

Tonight, the mood in the bar is tense and angry. The number of cops killed by the so-called “Black Slayer” is now at five. The local news media have been accused of racism in their coverage, but they don’t seem to care. Neither do the officers who swoop down on the black areas and stop African-American men at will.

At a table in the back of the place, Cully and Mulligan, two detectives recently found innocent by Judge Sloane, are on their fifth bourbon and waters. They’ve been talking about how much they would like to find the cop killer themselves and they enumerate the various things they would do to him before they finally put a couple of bullets into his head.

“Wonder what kind of mood the Judge’ll be in Thursday night?” Cully says.

The four men meet Sloane once a month but haven’t talked to him since the cop killings began. Knowing how Sloane feels about law and order, they imagine he’ll be all piss and vinegar when the five of them sit down to one of his fancy meals in the lavish dining room.

Mulligan smiles. “Now that you mention it, I’m getting kind of hungry for one of those steaks they serve at the club of his.”

“That’s one thing about the judge,” Cully says. “He sure knows how to take care of cops.”

No useful information the first day. None on the second. The third day yields the following from the judge’s side of a phone call: “I thought you agreed never to call me here.”

There is silence. Sloane listening.

“You don’t have anything to complain about”, he says. “You’re being very well paid.”

More silence.

“I’m not happy about this. Not happy at all.”

Again, silence. More listening.

Then: “All right, for God’s sake! You know where my yacht is. I’ll see you there tonight at ten. And in case you haven’t caught on, I’m not happy about this. Not at all.”

In a hotel room two blocks from the courthouse, Kit Walker listens to the words being transmitted from the bug. The day before, he had surreptitiously installed a powerful signal repeater on the roof of the courthouse. After installing an equally powerful receiver on the hotel roof, he is able to listen to Sloane’s conversations with a drink in his hand and a laptop open beside him on the bed.

After the call ends, he frowns. Who is Sloane talking to? Well paid for what? Sloane’s yacht—where is it docked?

Kit needs to order lunch from room service and then spend some time locating the marina where Sloane’s yacht is kept. He knows that unlike Florida, it won’t be docked at the judge’s home.

After typing in a search request for the city’s marinas, Kit finds that there are nine of them. They will probably all refuse to acknowledge that they’ve even heard of Sloane, much less that his yacht is docked there. In this age of terrorism—especially when the owner is as controversial as this particular judge—nobody wants to share personal information.

Kit gives the issue some thought, then grins. He will need to come up with a ruse to make his phone inquiries sound legitimate.

He knows that the Sloane family has its traditions. But so does The Phantom and his family . . . and clever ruses are among the oldest of them all.

The darkness of the marina is punctuated by the light that flows from some of the massive yachts moored along the vast concrete dock that extends into the harbor.

There are parties taking place, people busy with their pleasures—all of them laughing loudly, drinking endlessly, letching after other men’s wives. So much so that they all fail to notice the strange figure that emerges from the night-darkened water.

Although the vessels are distant from one another, the noise level is oppressive. All things considered, The Phantom thinks, he would rather enjoy the song of the night winds coming off of the sea and the beauty of the moon and the stars.

The Ghost Who Walks is one with the shadows as he pulls himself up onto the dock and immediately crouches down to survey the area. In the distance the parties and laughter continue unabated.

Unnoticed, he hurries to the yacht owned by Judge Sloane and finds it quiet. No lights, no music, no lovely ladies.

He wonders: is the yacht empty, or is there a crew person or two below decks? He knows that the judge often sleeps there. But tonight there is no sign of him.

The Phantom eases himself on board and stands on the deck, listening. The party noises ebb and flow like the tide, but with none of the tranquility. He cannot hear anything else.

From his research the Phantom has learned that this boat, built by Trinity Yachts, cost Sloane eleven million dollars. It is powered by twin Caterpillar diesel engines and has enough amenities to satisfy the most decadent of tyrants. Vessels like this, The Phantom thinks, are not a measure of a man’s love for the sea—they’re a measure of his manhood itself.

For the next ten minutes, working fast below deck, The Phantom checks for crewmembers.

None in the galley, the salon, or the lounge, although he finds a partially unpacked bag. The Judge has been here, and will clearly be back.

He hides bugs in all the rooms. The Phantom plans to hide behind a narrow copse of trees located on the slight rise above the marina. The receiving device can pick up conversations from three hundred yards. It also records them.

A sound. He freezes.

He was just about ready to go back to the deck when something bumps against one of the wood-paneled walls behind him.

He ducks into the darkened salon.

Listens again.

One thing he learned as a young boy was how to differentiate sounds. There is no better place to gain this knowledge than the jungle. The Phantom concentrates, stripping away the sound of the water, the wind, the creaking of the ship itself, until it has isolated . . . something. Something unexpected.

A smile breaks across the Phantom’s face.

A dog. For whatever reason, this is no rotweiller, no Doberman—just an old animal that lives aboard the yacht.

He steps quietly into the passageway and waits for the ancient collie to catch up to him. Most likely the animal was a good and true watch dog most of his life, but now he’s old and moves with arthritic difficulty. No doubt he slept through the Phantom’s search.

The Ghost Who Walks leans down to pet the dog. Its eyes are watery and melancholy, but the sounds in its throat—along with the slow-wagging tail—lets the man know that the petting is appreciated.

Five minutes later, crouched among the trees, the Phantom sets up his recording device. Even at this slight elevation, the wind off the ocean is cold and bitter.

The man appears in about twenty minutes.

Tall, slender, dressed in a tailored suit, toting a briefcase. To outward appearances a businessman, but The Phantom knows otherwise. This look would be a perfect disguise for a criminal.

The man boards Sloane’s yacht with easy familiarity. Either he’s been on this boat before or he has sea legs from time on other vessels. He stands on the stern of the yacht, sets the briefcase down, and lights a cigarette. This is no easy task with the wind. He has just taken his first drag when Sloane appears and hurries down the dock toward his yacht.

Once he is on board, the men shake hands and then disappear below deck. Sitting back on his heels, The Phantom slips a pair of small, compact headphones over his hood, then tunes the recorder for optimum sound quality.

Sloane: “I don’t know why you had to see me.”

Man: “Because it’s too hot. I want the rest of my money. I’m headed for South America.”

Sloane: “You’re not done yet. The agreement was you’d do seven.”

Man (with clear irony): “Yeah, well, maybe I’m sick of being black. That disguise is a pain in the ass.”

Sloane: “You can’t quit now.”

Man: “Either you give me the rest of my money now, or a TV reporter gets an anonymous note suggesting he look into what a certain judge has been up to.”

Sloane: “Don’t screw this up. Just two more and you’ll be done.”

Man: “This city’ll be coming apart by then. They’ll have so many pissed off cops looking for me that I’ll never get out of town alive.”

Sloane (amused): “I didn’t realize you had such an ethical problem with killing cops.”

Man: (laughing): “Usually I’d enjoy it. But not when it gets this hot. Like I said, I want the rest of my money by noon tomorrow. You understand me? Noon. Have a courier deliver it to my hotel room.”

There is a pause that seems to extend for an unnaturally long time. Then two distinctive, hard puffing sounds can be heard clearly over the transmitter, followed by a grunt of pain.

Clearly, the judge has prepared well for this moment. His visitor never even sees the two bullets coming. The Phantom hears the sound of a body falling, then silence.

Sloane (with obvious disgust): “You should have finished the job. Now I’m going to have to find someone else to do it . . . and get a new rug put in here.”

The Phantom inhales sharply. He must make a quick decision here. Swooping down on Sloane would be easy. Dragging him to a police station and letting the honest police take him might be too, assuming he can indentify who the honest ones are. Of course, if Sloane won’t go along peacefully, The Phantom can certainly handle that, too.

But that would leave the four cops he set free. Four cops who shouldn’t be on the streets . . .

Then an interesting idea occurs to him, an interesting alternative that could be much more satisfying in the end.

The waiters in their dinner jackets. The elegant dining room. The warm fire blazing beneath the copper hood. The steaks arriving, the clink of glasses as the judge salutes them. The ideal setting for the kind of perfect evening the men have enjoyed over the past years and months.

Or so it seems at the beginning of the festivities.

But now, the Judge has only three guests, Detective Benti having been murdered.

There is an anxious silence. None of the joking that filled the previous nights. No amount of food and drink will cheer the officers. No matter what they start to talk about, the subject inevitably comes back to the murders of their fellow officers. They may be crooked cops—they may be killer cops—but they are cops nonetheless.

Mulligan, cutting the last of his steak says, “We’re tearing this town apart and we still can’t find the creep who’s doing all the killing.”

“That’s all I can think about, too,” Sloan says. “But let’s count our blessings, shall we, boys? Last night our columnist friend Finegarten was killed in a hit-and-run accident.”

For a minute or two, all five of the men smile and laugh. Good riddance to the last of the liberal columnists in their city.

But then Cully, who started drinking four hours before coming to the club, slams his fist hard against the table. Dishes and glasses and silver jump a half an inch in the air.

“There’s no need for that kind of behavior!” Sloane snaps.

“Yeah, well you aren’t out there every day seeing your friends killed!”

The deference that Cully and the other three usually pay Sloane is clearly beginning to evaporate under the combined effects of alcohol and tension.

“Damn right!” Boyle says. “And who the hell knows, one of us could be next.”

Sloane’s lips purse and his voice becomes scolding. “If you men can’t behave like gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. I’m all for a little fun, but it’s difficult to digest food properly when there’s so much verbal violence in the room.”

Boyle smirks then mocks the judge in a simpering voice: “ ‘Verbal violence.’ Oh, Lordy, I think I might faint.”

Sloane throws down his linen napkin and starts to push back his chair. “I think you ingrates owe me a little something for keeping you out of prison—and off death row,” he says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you tonight, but I won’t stand for it. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”

There is only one door in the room, and suddenly it is flung open. There, framed by the lights of the outer hall, stands The Ghost Who Walks. He is aiming two matching .45 calibre pistols, at the men in the room.

Mulligan starts to reach inside his jacket but The Phantom shakes his head in warning. “Don’t do it. I know you’re all armed. Put your guns on the table. Now.”

“I know who you are,” Cully says, his voice curious. “But what the hell do you want with us?”

“To tell you a story,” The Phantom says, striding into the room and using one booted foot to kick the door shut behind him. “But first I want those guns on the table. I won’t ask you again.”

“Holy—!” Cully’s eyes widen. “You’re the one’s been killing all the cops!”

The Phantom is across the room in a flash and slams his weapon against Cully’s temple. The cop whimpers, then slides his gun out of his jacket and onto the table. The rest grudgingly follow suit.

“Now get up,” The Phantom tells them, “and stand over by the fireplace where I can see you.”

When all five men are lined up and their weapons have been collected in a loose pile, the Phantom reaches beneath the table and pulls out a long, black tape recorder. “I visited the club earlier and left this behind.”

One of them groans, but the others just look homicidal.

He checks the device, making certain it will play, and then says, “There have been several police officers killed in this city. I checked them out. Good cops doing a good job. Unlike you four and the judge who put you back on the street.”

“What the hell is this?” Enzi snaps.

“You want to know who’s behind the killings?” The Phantom says.

“I may not know his name, but we all get who it is: some black bastard. It’s only a matter of time until we find him.”

“I have to admit,” The Phantom says, “I’m astonished you ever managed to get your hands on a gold shield, Enzi. Your killer is a white man disguised to look black.”

“Bull!” Enzi blurts out, his eyes radiating fury. “You’re full of it, pal!”

“Am I?” The Phantom laughs, but it is devoid of humor. “I told you I had a story to tell. But why take my word for it?” He holds up a second, small digital memory drive. “I recorded this on Sloane’s yacht the other night.”

He glances at the judge.

“You do remember that, don’t you, ‘your honor’?”

“Wait! Wait!” Sloane shouts and starts to run toward The Phantom. But Cully grabs Sloane’s arm and hurls him back against the wall.

“Shut up,” Cully says. “This might be interesting.” He looks at The Phantom. “Let’s hear it.”

The recording starts playing. It isn’t long before Sloane’s words become incriminating. One by one, the four cops start looking at Sloane as if they’ve never really seen him before. Enzi tries to grab him by the throat but Mulligan and Cully step in and hold him back.

“Heard enough?” The Phantom says.

“You son of a—,” Wyle says to Sloane, his voice dripping with contempt. “You killed all those men! And for what?”

“I had to, I had no choice,” Sloan gibbers, his gaze raking across the room, seeking an escape that does not exist. “You all agreed: we need to clean up the city and drive out the criminal elements—”

“Yeah, but we must’ve missed the part about killing cops!” Cully says.

The Phantom raises his guns. “I have extra copies of this recording. One of them will go to the DA tonight. I’m going to leave you here with Sloane, and I’ll leave it up to you to decide what to do with him.”

“No!” Sloane cries. “No, you can’t!”

The Phantom’s smile vanishes. “Oh, but of course I can, judge.”

And with that, he is gone.

As night settles across the land of Bangalla, Diana and Kit put the children to bed and then wander out to the clearing behind their home. There, sitting on a bench suspended from the branch of a particularly old and sturdy tree, they watch the full moon shine down upon the jungle, making it seem even more mysterious than usual.

Both of them love their home. The cries of the night creatures and the scent of the soft winds are soothing as they sit next to each other staring up into the night sky.

“I left the paper for you on your desk. I thought you’d like to see the latest on Judge Sloane.”

“Oh, you know how papers are. They probably got the whole thing wrong.”

“No, for once I think they got it right. Most of it, anyway. It’s just about the way you said it was. The four detectives that Judge Sloane exonerated turned on him when they found out he was behind all those policemen being killed. They would have kicked and beat him to death if you hadn’t come back and rescued him.”

Kit shrugs. “I think once he spends some time in prison, he might wish I’d let them kill him. It’s too bad I forgot to tell those corrupt cops about the other recorder I left in the dining room, though.”

Diana smiles. “They probably would have appreciated knowing about the video camera, too.”

“Of course. But they know about it now, don’t they?”

“Certainly,” Diana says, “especially since someone tipped off the paper about where to find the equipment.”

“And now they’re all being tried for various crimes, including the judge’s attempted-murder.” Kit grins. “I guess it all worked out in the end.”

“Did I tell you I heard from Cindy Rollins today?” Diana says after a moment. “The man she was looking for in Paris came back and is willing to tell the DA that those same officers tried to kill him. She said she wishes she could forgive him for running away, but she’s not at that point yet.”

Diana yawns and then puts her head on Kit’s shoulder. “Are you getting sleepy? I sure am.”

He smiles. “Not too sleepy, I hope.”

Diana laughs softly. “Oh, no. Not too sleepy . . .”

“Well, let’s see, then—”

She stops him from saying more, and puts her lips to his. They sit that way for awhile, holding each other, the jungle sounds as comforting to them as they have always been.

Beneath that canopy of distant, shining stars they are content, because they both know that even in the darkness, some light can always be found.

The End

ED GORMAN is the author of more than forty novels and ten collections of short stories. Kirkus called him “One of the most original crime writers around” and Rocky Mountain News said “Gorman is the modern master of the lean and mean thriller.” Gorman’s work has been translated into eleven languages and two of his books have been made into motion pictures.

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.

Devil at My Side

By Joe Gentile
with Rafael Nieves

He had the scent. His prey was locked in his sights. He had tracked it for miles. He had lured it out into the open. Now he was giving chase. And it was panicking. Soon it would make a desperate mistake, and there was no doubt that it would. He was patient.

The metal beast disgorged unceremoniously through the foliage like a brick through glass. It had almost taken off airborne on that last bump, but it had come jarringly back down to the earth in a hurry, barely leaving the two rider’s teeth intact. Then, another bump and the jeep went up in the air again, but this time landed on its front tires. And then, the car stalled with a lingering death rattle.

The muscled bald driver pounded the steering wheel with an oath, and nervously grabbed at the keys in the ignition. “Damn it; damn it.”

A piercing cry suddenly broke the night.

“What was that?!” yelled the driver, swiveling his head from side to side.

The predator howled from close by, encouraging the fear it felt coming off the riders. He waited, for the time was not yet ripe for the kill.

The khaki dressed military passenger yelled into the driver’s ear. “Start it for god’s sake!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do, fool?”

And at that, the metal beast came to life again, and it launched itself forward down the dirt path. He let the jeep gather speed, then raced full tilt with it, as it bounded through the jungle overgrowth . . . the jeep didn’t know it, but it was being herded. The night moistened ground felt cool under him, and he ran with confidence and control. He shadowed the dirt road by way of the wild grass-filled high ground that ran parallel to the jeep’s path.

The white skinned military man screamed from the jeep while hanging onto its roller bar overhead, and trying to hold his hat on his head at the same time. “Good lord, can’t you go any faster? We can’t outrun that monster, and we’re doing 40 miles an hour!”

“How am I going to do that, idiot? I can’t see more than two feet ahead of me!” was the clenched teeth response of the driver, whose vice-like grip was white knuckled on the steering wheel, as the jeep bluntly machetied through the thicket covered winding narrow road.

Wolves have no trouble seeing in the dark. They are perfectly at home being nocturnal hunters as they are in daylight. You don’t outrun a wolf unless you’re a patient and fast, long distance runner. If you stand your ground, you might have a better chance . . . they will eventually get bored and walk away . . . but Devil is not like other wolves, but that would be obvious once you saw him.

He is physically intimidating, and it’s hard to get past that alone . . . a gray wolf over three feet tall, 150 pounds of bristling sinew, and more than six and a half feet long! Very few opponents want to “stand up” to such a creature, so most play right into his paws by running away.

The Jeep hit a deep divot in the dirt road, and the front wheel bent upon impact, so the Jeep continued drunkenly and out of control. It skidded and swerved trying to right itself, but ended up unbalanced and because it was going too fast, flipped over. With a screech of metal, it cut a 20 foot wound into the earth. A small cloud of dust rose from the crash, and then the jungle night went quiet.

A great weight slammed onto the Jeep’s underside, which was now facing up, with a loud whump.

Devil stood atop the vehicle, and let out a throaty howl. Then, calmly, he jumped off the chassis and walked around the vehicle . . . and walked around it again. He stopped at the driver’s side door and put his giant muzzle into the open window. Assuring himself that the occupants were still inside. He then trotted to a position a few feet away and patiently sat down and waited.

The Phantom rode up on his great white stallion Hero, and surveyed the Jeep. He dismounted and dragged out the men who were inside the vehicle to the dirt road. He stood over their unconscious forms and looked with a smirk at the big gray wolf at his side.

“Well, you didn’t leave me much to do, did you, boy?” He patted the wolf’s head. Devil looked up at his pack leader, with his tail held up high and wagged. But the story of Devil begins much earlier . . .

B’Toi woke up with a start. It was well into the twilight hours, but something was wrong. His heart was pounding in his chest. He swung his skinny knees over his bed to the ground with barely a sound.

In the not so far distance, he heard a wolf howl, and it seemed to be coming closer and closer. He looked over at his peacefully slumbering daughter, G’wanna. She was so beautiful. Such a shining little light: a light that lasted all day long. It was really the only reason to wake up in the morning. Since her mother Jada died in that fire during last year’s drought, B’Toi considered himself lucky to put one foot in front of the other.

Fear had hit him in the stomach, but he had to make sure that G’wanna was not in danger. He pressed two fingers to his lips, and then put those fingers on his daughter’s cheek. With his knife slick in his sweating hand, he exited their little wood plank home and silently went off into the black night.

Then the night erupted in noise.

There was barking, growling, running and screaming. Lit torches and lanterns appeared everywhere all at once, splitting the night into fragments of light. People were running past B’Toi before he understood what he was hearing. Then, he understood. He too began to run, but feared that it was already too late.

He came upon the clearing . . . the animal pens. He couldn’t see through the crowd and torches in front of him, but he didn’t have to. He knew. He slowly made his way to the front of the crowd, for most of the people barely noticed his presence. Such was his lot, he thought to himself. But as he got to the gates of the pens . . . where there would normally be activity and sound . . . there was stillness. The kind of stillness that was the absence of life. The animals . . . all of them . . . were dead, or had run off. It was hard to tell how many animals were in the pen. Most had been viciously killed by some beast, and animal parts were strewn about like leaves. You couldn’t tell the kind of leaves apart from each other . . . just leaves is all, B’Toi couldn’t believe his eyes, but felt a pit in his stomach, a heavy ache.

There would be little food to share, hell, there would be very little at all. And it was the worst time of the season for this. Tempers would flare, disease would occur, and people, ultimately would die . . . maybe even children who couldn’t fend for themselves . . . like G’wanna. He couldn’t let that happen. Not his daughter.

Men ran by him, some carrying rifles, and some carrying torches, as if they could reset time and undo this. B’Toi didn’t see the logic in this. While he was thinking these thoughts, he had wandered into the pens, and was basically walking the perimeter of the fences. He was looking out into the night, but not for anything in particular.

He saw them. It looked like they were all staring at him. The gray wolves just sat in the dark and looked at him. He was unnerved. Then, one of the men, Cala’bak, noticed that B’Toi was staring at something.

B’Toi felt him before he saw him. Cala’bak walked with heavy footfalls. B’Toi thought it was on purpose, for intimidation. Cala’bak was both taller and thicker than B’Toi, by some margin. The striking part of Cala’bak was his piercing, always intense black eyes. It was next to impossible for B’Toi to look directly into them, so most times he didn’t.

B’Toi grimaced as Cala’bak yelled to the other groups of men to follow him, for he saw the guilty wolves! Men ran by B’Toi, basically ignoring his presence completely. Their desire for vengeance made them blind to what was obvious to B’Toi, if only they’d paused to consider. The wolves weren’t guilty of this atrocity. The animals were destroyed . . . not eaten. Big difference. He also knew that tracking wolves at night was a fool’s errand. But none of that mattered now, for B’Toi felt he had been away from G’wanna for too long, and he ran back home the way he came.

They all agreed . . . well, most of them agreed, but the deal was that they would go to where the wolves were. They would do what needed to be done so that they could survive and provide for their families. The native farmers came armed to the teeth. They were serious. Their livestock were depleted and wolves were spotted close by the scene, and they had to be guilty.

The gray wolves could smell the farmers coming from a hundred yards away. Surprising a wolf is a learned skill that doesn’t come naturally to farmers. Wolves are not used to being the hunted, for they have no natural predator, and they usually try to avoid human contact. But they all knew that was going to be impossible this time.

There were very few wolves left in Bangalla, or in Africa as a whole . . . some say that there were so few, you can actually count them. And gray wolves were extremely rare, which is why almost everyone knew about this one pack and where they called home.

The armed farmers nervously approached, and their sweat coated the leaves of the trees as they passed. They reached the mouth of the cave, guns pointing ahead of them and into the dark den of the wolves.

Wolves don’t hide if their pack is being threatened. Each of them was determined to defend the pack with their very lives. As the farmers came closer, the adult wolves edged to the very entrance of the cave, with their alpha male in the forefront. They would meet the threat head on. Normally, they each had a specific function in the pack, but today, none of that mattered. Kill or be killed.

They saw each other eye to eye, these two newly sworn enemies. The farmers looked at the wolves over their rifles . . . and their canine opponents stared back for a long second.

“I-I can’t do this . . . it is not right.” B’Toi stuttered to no one in particular. He had traveled with the men to this den of wolves quite reluctantly, trying all the while to convince them of the animals’ innocence. Cala’bak had mocked him, and his courage, so mercilessly that B’Toi had finally fallen silent. But he couldn’t, now. He simply couldn’t allow this to happen.

He then felt an iron grip on his bare shoulder.

“You would rather your daughter have nothing to eat, dolt? They are good for nothing. You need to be a man, if that capacity is in you.” Cala’bak didn’t even look at B’Toi as he said that. B’Toi wasn’t worth that much of his notice, but there was little comfort in that.

Each wolf on the perimeter bared its incisors, and arched their backs . . . they meant business: stay away.

The Alpha male leapt out at the human ring leader, and the other wolves were a split second behind, as they would follow their pack leader to hell if that’s what was necessary. A group of wolves fighting a group of people . . . nothing like this has ever been recorded. The wolves would fight as a pack, like they hunt. They fight with their jaws, which had the crushing power of 500 pounds per square inch. You don’t survive a wolf bite, for it bites clean through you.

BLAM went the retort from Cala’bak’s rifle.

With the first shot the wolves were already leaping into the men, but that first bullet was followed by many others and a billow of gunpowder smoke . . .

When the scene cleared, all of the wolves were lying on the ground, dying or dead. Blood splattered everywhere inside the cave like a thrown bucket of paint. This was never going to be a fair fight. The wolves stood no chance at all against the rifles, but they stood and fought anyway. Some of the men went into the cave, to make sure all the wolves were dead, and continued to shoot the few that looked like they were still breathing.

A few of the farmers remained outside the cave, some, like B’Toi, threw up their breakfast into the nearby bushes, and some just walked home shaking.

“What goes on here?”

That’s all that needed to be said, as all of the farmers stopped in their tracks at the sound of the commanding voice.

The Phantom, riding atop Hero, had appeared out of nowhere.

A scrawny farmer with a small rifle tried to explain. “They killed our livestock . . . we had no way to feed our families . . .”

“I know of your livestock situation, and it wasn’t these gray wolves that killed them. I was on my way to inform you that we have caught the two rabid wild dogs that were responsible. But you decided the best course of action was to butcher these wolves, their families, and their young. That is not how we handle such things. You have disrespected nature.”

Cala’bak had just found a lively wolf pup and picked it off the ground by the scruff of its neck. He raised it up for all to see and pressed his gun to the wolf’s head. On the ground next to it, was an older wolf, still breathing, but with much effort. This wolf reached out in a futile pawing effort to protect the cub. The Phantom saw this and his heart sank yet again. There was much nobility and nurturing in these often misunderstood creatures.

“No, Cala’bak, stop! It is enough!” cried B’Toi, surprising himself that he spoke at all.

“B’Toi, I do not listen to cowards.” Cala’bak said, and then turned to the Phantom: “We saw these wolves . . . these right here . . . right near our dead livestock, you cannot tell me that they are innocent.”

Before Cala’bak could squeeze off a round, the Phantom was next to him, and slapped the gun away. Then, before anyone had a chance to catch a breath, the Phantom shot out an uppercut that literally took Cala’bak off his feet. He landed hard on his backside and was out.

“All of you. Leave. This pup will not be harmed. He is under my protection. There will be no more killing today.” As he said this, The Phantom ripped off a strip of cloth from his sleeve, and wrapped it loosely around the wolf pup’s neck.

Hero stood on the edge of the cave, and gave out a loud angry snorting neigh, and looked very determined to run over any who disobeyed his master.

The Phantom stood with arms folded across his chest, and waited for the men to file out . . . most dejected, some wary of the Phantom . . . some fearful of Hero, as the great horse steel-eyed each and every man as they exited the cave.

“And get him out of here.” The Phantom said, and the last two mean carried off their unconscious leader.

When they were all gone, The Phantom set the pup on the ground. They stared at each other in silence.

The wolf turned his head slightly, inquisitively.

The Phantom smiled, and patted the wolf on its head.

The Phantom bent down by the sick older wolf . . . who had been shot. He looked over the wound. He then started a small fire in the cave, and ran his knife through the fire.

With the little wolf pup by his side, the Phantom slowly extricated the bullet from the old wolf with the heated blade’s edge. As he did so, he spoke soothingly, hoping to allay the fears of the adult wolf who had no reason to trust man.

When he was finished, he went to his white horse and took some white cloth out of a saddlebag. He bandaged the wolf’s wound . . .

He then turned to the little wolf who was looking up at him.

“She will be fine in a couple days. Stay strong, little one. She will be able to teach you the proud ways of the wolf.”

As The Phantom and Hero were leaving the cave, the little wolf bounded to the cave’s edge and howled an oddly soothing howl in their direction. The Phantom stopped, and turned . . . then smiled and waved.

Time passed in the African jungle, sometimes the heat making the passage seem slow and inexorable.

And this year’s famine had lasted longer than expected, so tempers and food were in short supply. The Phantom and Hero were galloping through the underbrush, when in mid gallop, Hero’s right front leg came into contact with a low wire stretched across the path! The horse came to a sudden halt and then spun down to the ground, and The Phantom went flying off of Hero into the night. He did his best to protect himself, tucked himself in, but his trajectory was stopped short by a big tree. He hit the tree hard, and slid down the trunk to the wet dirt below. It all went dark for him from there. The wire could have been there for years, for there was no way of knowing. It was more than likely a hunting device for poachers who find it much easier to kill wounded animals.

Meanwhile Hero had crumpled to the ground . . . his leg was bleeding from where the wire cut through almost to the bone. He was stunned and badly bruised along his side and rear leg where he landed so awkwardly, but conscious. He tried to rise, for he knew his master must be in trouble, but as soon as he rose, he legs couldn’t hold him, and he fell back down. He clawed at the ground, each hoof to the ground was sheer agony, as he blinked his eyes to the pain, but he had to find his master.

Then, they came. First quietly, then all at once, as Hero was surrounded by red wolves . . . and they were salivating. Here was a huge horse who couldn’t move! Of course, this was no ordinary horse, but that didn’t enter into their intense hunger-frenzied minds. They circled him some more, making sure that he was incapacitated. Hero neighed, and bared his teeth. He will stand his ground, for these were not the first wolves Hero had come across.

A single wolf leapt right at Hero, who, using his one good front leg, kicked out and struck the wolf a traumatic blow to the head. The wolf spun in mid air and went down with a thud. The other wolves stopped circling. This might be more than they bargained for . . . no matter how hungry they were. They began to move away, but apparently came upon something else worthy of a meal, as they all gathered a few yards away from Hero. He couldn’t see what they saw, but instinctively knew . . . it was The Phantom!

He began to snort and neigh as loudly as he could, trying to scare the wolves away. When he saw that was having no effect, he scraped and clawed along the ground, trying vainly to reach his master’s side . . . although he knew he would be too late.

Then there was a great crashing through the thicket . . . and then there were wolf grunts and yelps seeming to come from everywhere at once. Hero was thrashing to get closer, but making slow progress.

All of the drooling wolves raced past Hero, in wide-eyed fear for their lives.

Then, it appeared in the clearing where Hero was.

The large gray wolf . . . fangs dripping with blood. This wolf was not part of the red wolf pack. It was alone, a rogue.

The wolf stared at Hero, and howled that sweet soothing howl from the past that Hero recognized, and turned to go back to where the wolves had gathered.

The Phantom woke with something wet against his face.

“What the . . . ?”

And he was staring into the face of the biggest gray wolf he had ever seen. Muscular, intimidating, but there was something else too . . . and then the Phantom saw it. The strip of purple cloth around its neck. It was that little wolf pup from a couple of years ago! He had saved both The Phantom and Hero’s life! The Phantom smiled, while patting the great wolf’s head.

“Good to see you, my friend. You seemed to chase the wolves off as if the devil himself were after them.”

The wolf, in turn, energetically wagged. The Phantom rose unsteady, and went over to Hero who was raising his head up and down with excitement at seeing his master.

The wolf stood guard, as the Phantom cared for the great horse’s wounds.

Looking at the wolf who tilted his head at the Phantom, he said: “I guess, we’re even, huh boy?”

The wolf howled. It sounded different this time. It was full of sorrow. To the ears of the Phantom, that meant only one thing. There is only one reason why a wolf would howl like that.

“Since you are not accompanied by anyone else, I am assuming you are on your own, eh?”

To which, the wolf howled again with that sweet soothing howl this time . . . to which, the Phantom smiled.

“Well, you are welcome to be part of our pack if you like. Would you like that . . . Devil? What do you say, boy?”

To which, there was more wagging and a howl.

As the group walked and loped away, their passage was heard a short distance away, near a village, where some men circled a pen filled with livestock, their precious food source guarded by armed sentries, who kept a watchful eye on their charges. As they had for years, thanks to their wise and gentle leader, B’Toi, who, with his teenaged daughter, the lovely G’Wanna, taught his people to think first, act second, and respect the ways of nature, and the ways of The Phantom.

The End

JOE GENTILE keeps pretty busy running a publishing company, but in his spare moments he has managed to write many graphic novels and short fiction: Buckaroo Banzai, Kolchak the Night Stalker, Sherlock Holmes, Werewolf the Apocalypse, The Mysterious Traveler, The Spider, The Avenger, and more. His newest is the critically acclaimed graphic novel Sherlock Holmes/Kolchak: “Cry of Thunder”, which later will be turned into an expanded novel. When he’s not writing, editing, publishing, or trying to sleep, Joe plays the bass guitar and enjoys a good life with his wife Kathy and their pack of personality ridden dogs.

No Ghosts Need Apply

By Win Scott Eckert

London, January 1899

The two men, clad all in black and wearing domino masks, leaped down from the six-foot wall surrounding the estate. One fell on his face among some bushes. He got to his feet, checked for cuts from the shards of glass embedded in the top of the wall, and ran to join his companion.

Behind them, within the walls of the burning estate, shouts and cries raised the alarm at the fire. The two men continued to dash across the vast stretch of Hampstead Heath, enshrouded by the depths of the night. Their pace slowed as they reached the edge of the Heath, bordering Highgate, when suddenly constables’ whistles pierced the silence and lanterns sliced through the darkness.

The two fugitives turned and fled the pursuing policemen. Seconds later they heard a muffled cry and turned to see one of the lantern beams whirling in the inky night. The beam whisked across a flying patch of purple, almost black. Then the lantern extinguished along with the constable’s howl, followed in short order by the rest of the lanterns. Sounds of huffing, exertion, fists cracking on bones, and curses floated across the Heath to the two fugitives who crouched and squinted, trying to make out from a distance what was happening to the policemen.

The sounds of the mêlée ceased in short order. After a suitable wait, the two masked men cautiously approached the battle site. Although they had no lantern, they could barely make out the scene in the waning moonlight.

“Are they all right?” one man asked.

The other performed a cursory examination. “They’re all unconscious. Just minor bruises, though, no broken bones. Whoever did this took care to inflict no permanent damage.”

“Good. Then we’ve shaken off our pursuers—with a little help from our unseen benefactor—and are safe. Go home, Nash. Meet me at my office in the morning.”

Cecil Barker passed a Red Apple cigarette to Nash and lit one of his own, tossing the match in the hearth.

The detective was tall and swarthy, with a heavy black moustache and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. He had an air of quiet authority about him that spoke of his prior military service. His companion Nash, by contrast, was short and stocky, almost wider than he was tall, with thinning sandy hair and florid complexion. Nash was a former boxer-turned-newsman, and it showed on his battered and scarred visage.

Barker offered a cigarette to Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard, but the rat-faced inspector declined. He had called early at Barker’s offices in Kingston on the Surrey bank, and was impatient to discuss his business.

“Criminals,” Barker said. “Four men?”

Nash listened to the exchange as Lestrade went on to explain that there were indeed four men involved in last night’s murder of one Charles Augustus Milverton, late of Appledore Towers, Hampstead. The gardeners had identified one pair of men as a lean and quick man, the other being middle-sized, with a square jaw, thick neck, moustache, and a mask over his eyes.

“Of the second pair,” Lestrade continued, looking hard at the men, “one was tall, dark, and heavily moustached, the other shorter and of a lighter coloring.” The men had shot Milverton, burgled the safe, set the fire, and fled the estate. The first pair had fled a minute or so before the second two men, and had escaped cleanly. Shortly thereafter, the second two men, who had taken a slightly different path in the darkness, had been confronted on the Heath by several constables. The fugitives had escaped, with the policemen worse for wear.

“Your rival in Marylebone has declined to lake the case,” Lestrade declared. “I had hoped—”

“No,” Barker cut him off, explaining that he knew of Milverton and considered him one of the most treacherous men in London. “It sounds to me as if Milverton finally got what he deserved.”

“And you have nothing else to tell me about it,” the inspector probed, giving Barker another tough look.

“No.”

As a disappointed Lestrade took his leave, the page popped his head in Barker’s back office and announced another visitor.

“Mr., ah, Mr. . . .” the boy stumbled.

“Spit it out, Dickson, who is it?” Barker was a cantankerous man in the best of circumstances and had little patience for bumblers.

“Well, y’see, sir,” young Dickson said, “the gentleman refused to give his name.”

Barker took a long drag at his cigarette and stared at the boy. Dickson hadn’t been with him long, and he knew he made the boy nervous. Still, the boy had better toughen up a little or he wouldn’t last long in Barker’s employ.

Finally, as the boy grew even more uncomfortable, Barker relented. “Fine,” he clipped, “show him in.”

Barker shook the newcomer’s hand and gestured him toward the hearth. Nash pulled another chair closer to the fire and the men sat.

“Now, who are you and what it is I can do for you?” Barker asked pointedly. “I should tell you now I don’t take on clients with something to hide. If Inspector Lestrade’s presence motivated your silence, you’d best move on.”

“I am known by many names,” the stranger said. He wore an overcoat against the London fog, trilby hat, and smoked glasses which obscured his upper facial features. The man’s jaw was solid and bore no facial hair. “Perhaps you can deduce my identity?”

“I’m not much in the mood for games this morning, but I’ll bite,” Barker said, his mouth twitching in annoyance.

“Your coat,” the detective began, “is several years out of date, but it’s in good condition; you have not worn it much. Your skin is bronzed, you spend a lot of time in the tropical sun. You have a nondescript accent. You are clearly well educated. You are not a native Briton, although your ancestors obviously came from here. You occasionally visit England on business, perhaps every few years, and it’s likely you maintain a small flat, probably in London, to accommodate these infrequent visits.”

Nash watched as the stranger shrugged noncommittally and gestured for the detective to continue.

“I see by a small quirk of a smile that I’m on target. You’re accustomed to the tropical sun, and yet you wear smoked glasses in the middle of a dense fog, when others in the city can’t see five feet in front of them. Therefore, you wish to conceal your face. And yet your visits to England are infrequent and you are probably not known to many here. You must have other reasons for concealing your features.

“You’re wearing two bands of silver, one on the middle finger of each hand. But there are thin strips of untanned skin next to each ring. Thus, the rings have larger emblems on the opposite sides which you’ve turned to face inward, toward your palms. Let’s see them.”

The stranger slowly turned each ring 180 degrees. On the left ring was a cross with a loop at each tip, making each leg of the cross look like a tiny letter “p.”

On the other ring was emblazoned a skull.

The man held out his hand and grasped Barker’s in a firm handshake. “How are you, Kit?” Barker said, an uncharacteristic note of warmth in his voice.

“ ‘Kit’? Barker, who—?”

“At your service, Mr. Nash,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Nash, this is my former page, Kit Walker, all grown up,” Barker said. A hint of a smile reached his dark eyes. “At our service, hmmm. That was a smart bit of work you did last night, out on the Heath. Nash and I owe you our thanks.”

“It was my pleasure, sir,” Walker said, as Nash heartily shook his hand.

“Kit Walker,” the newsman exclaimed. “Barker here has spoken highly of you. You were only with him for one summer, I recall.”

“Walker’s father arranged for young Kit to work for me, Nash,” Barker explained. “Sort of on-the-job training.”

“Ah, then you’ve become a detective as well, Walker?”

Walker smiled. “After a fashion, Mr. Nash. The education my father arranged for me was quite varied. My time with Mr. Barker was some of the most valuable I spent anywhere.”

Barker slapped his knee. “Enough reminiscing. Walker, it’s obvious you’ve also been investigating Milverton, but what led to your appearance on the Heath last night?”

“I was looking into an extortion scheme I had discovered back in Bangalla. The trail led to Milverton.”

“Bangalla,” Nash said. “What were you doing in Africa, Walker?”

Walker smiled again at the journalist. “I live there, Mr. Nash. In the jungle.”

“In the jungle?”

“Nash, enough,” Barker warned. “There’s no story here for you. Understand? If we’re not clear on that, you can go, now.”

The newsman nodded, abashed.

“Now, Walker, you mentioned extortion.” Barker lit another cigarette. “Let’s hear it.”

“Well, Mr. Barker, it’s this way. Eleven years ago a ship disappeared off the coast of Africa. Two members of the British nobility were aboard, a husband and wife who were never heard from again. Ever since, rumors have persisted that there were survivors, perhaps even a child. I investigated a few times in areas the rumors pointed to, and found nothing.”

“I heard similar anecdotes during my service in Africa,” Barker interjected, “but never found anything to substantiate them. There were, though, whispered stories of a fabled race of ‘great apes,’ proto-humans which might be capable of raising a human child from infancy.”

“Yes sir, I’ve heard those as well. But in all my time in the jungle I’ve never come across such a thing. I think these stories are better chalked up to superstition.

“In any event, members of the missing nobleman’s family were recently contacted with anonymous messages that the nobleman and his wife are still alive. Of course, the family must pay if they want more information. Rather than paying, the current Duke, the uncle of the man who disappeared, traveled to Africa to investigate for himself. He found nothing, but news travels fast in the jungle. I heard of his case and agreed to investigate again. Finally, after shaking up some wharf rats in a Mawitaan dive, one of them spilled a name: Milverton. I pressed for any other names. It seemed like Milverton was working for someone else, but in the end my informant was too scared. That’s all I could get out of him. I collected the Duke, headed back to England, and took up Milverton’s trail. I encountered you and Nash on the Heath last night before I could search Milverton’s house. You know the rest. Unfortunately, any evidence probably went up in the fire.”

“There may be hope, Walker. After the other two men at Milverton’s last night set fire to his blackmail materials and fled, Nash and I held back as long as we could. I memorized some items before the flames claimed everything completely.” Barker paused, and took a long drag. “Milverton worked for Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“Moran,” Nash said. “He escaped from Newgate almost three years ago.”

“Yes. In addition to Milverton’s own blackmail business, it looks like he was acting as a middleman in several extortion schemes, with the trail leading to Moran.”

“Tell me about Moran,” Walker asked.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in London, according to some. First lieutenant to the criminal mastermind known as the Professor, until 1891.”

“Moran was sent to prison for bumping off Hon. Ronald Adair several years back,” Nash added. “Adair had caught him cheating at cards.”

“What else,” Walker said. “Why the second most dangerous man in London?”

“Moran is a hunter and weapons expert. He’s traveled all over India and Africa,” Nash said. “Once crawled into a drain after a wounded tiger. His latest favorite weapon is an air rifle, which he tried to use on the head of one of Barker’s friends and rivals.”

“Blew apart a wax dummy, instead,” Barker added. He had pulled out a research file which he now showed to Walker. There was a portrait of Moran, followed by vital statistics, a brief biography, and Barker’s annotations concerning the man’s criminal dealings.

The portrait showed a man of ruddy complexion, muttonchop whiskers, bulbous red nose, and cruel eyes.

“Africa,” Walker said.

“Indeed.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll be going now.” Walker stood up. For the first time Nash fully realized how massive the man was, and the quiet power he exuded. “I’ll cable the Jungle Patrol in Bangalla. They can investigate if Moran has been in the country recently. I’ll also update the Duke. Shall we reconvene tomorrow?”

Several hours after Walker’s departure, Barker looked up from the morning paper and suggested, “Nash, the fog’s lifted somewhat. It’s time to consult and compare notes with our fellow trespassers from last night at Milverton’s.”

Nash agreed and the two men pulled on their coats. Barker locked the office behind him, gave young Dickson some instructions for some errands, and they left. They crossed the Thames and headed for the Marylebone district.

As they trod the damp cobblestone streets, Nash quizzed his friend “I still don’t see how you put together it was Walker, based on the observations you shared.”

“I had facts you didn’t know about,” Barker admitted with characteristic bluntness. “I knew Walker was from Africa from when his father sent him to me for training years ago. The family has a strong legend built up around them over the years, part of which involves concealing their faces from outsiders. And I knew of the rings; they were his father’s, and his father’s before him, back through the centuries.”

The two men neared Marylebone when they saw Barker’s fellow detective and his partner exiting their digs. Barker held up a hand, indicating silence to Nash. The two men strolled behind the lean sleuth and his companion, staying half a city block behind.

Finally, the two men in front came to a shop front in Regent Circus. Barker and Nash watched as the men paused, looked in the window, and kept walking.

Nash made to follow them, but Barker shook his head.

“Let them go, that shop was their destination. Let’s see what was so interesting.”

Barker and Nash approached the store front. In the window were photographs of celebrities and beauties of the day. Nash’s breath caught as his eyes fixed upon one photograph in particular, that of a noble and regal woman.

The woman who had pulled the trigger and dispatched Charles Augustus Milverton the previous evening, while the recently departed sleuth and his doctor friend had hid behind curtains in a darkened study. And while Barker and Nash had hid behind another set of curtains, unseen by both parties.

Barker touched a forefinger to his heavy moustache, forestalling any utterance from Nash, and the two men continued walking.

Finally Nash spoke again. “Barker, I still don’t understand the legends you spoke of regarding Walker.”

“To a few he can trust, such as myself, he’s the latest in an unbroken line of great opponents of evildoers all over the world. Just as his father, and his grandfather, and countless forebears were before him. But to most, he has always been one immortal man, the Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.” Barker paused. “You’re included in that trust, now, Nash. Don’t allow your newshound instincts to overtake you.”

Nash nodded, and the men strode on in silence through streets punctuated by gaslit halos fighting in vain to dispel the fog.

After a few more blocks, Nash indicated he’d part ways and head for his own quarters. He did, however, offer one final query. “I guess, Barker, despite your training in detection, that our friend Walker’s methods are more physical.”

“Probably true, Nash. We’ve shared our fair share of brawls, though, and this business is not always reasoning and deduction. Those fists of yours have come in handy. They may again this time around.”

Two days later, the three men shared a private compartment on the train from Dublin to Carlow. Sheets of rain fell on rolling green hills, and lightning split the darkness, reflecting the mounting tension Nash felt at the impending confrontation with Moran.

Walker had returned to Barker’s Surrey shore digs the day following their first meeting. “Mr. Barker, my men in the Jungle Patrol have cabled back. A ‘Great White Hunter’ matching Colonel Moran’s description was indeed sighted in Africa about a year ago, not in Bangalla, but up and down the coast on several safaris. I think if there was any doubt of Moran’s involvement, it’s been laid to rest.”

“Agreed,” Barker said. “We now know that Moran is behind the scheme to extort the Duke, for information that probably doesn’t exist. Moran should be languishing in his prison cell, awaiting the gallows, not living high in a Castle in Ireland.”

“Ireland?” Nash said.

“The papers which I memorized in Milverton’s study showed that his boss has set up headquarters in County Carlow, several hours inland from Dublin, on the River Harrow. I’m headed there tomorrow.”

“With respect, sir, this is my case as well,” The Phantom interrupted.

“No way you’re facing that madman without me, Barker,” Nash added, flexing his meaty fists. “You’re stuck with us.”

“Then it’s settled,” Barker had said grimly. “Quickly, we can just make the last train to Liverpool.”

Now, after a choppy Irish Sea crossing on the Dublin-Liverpool ferry, Walker and Barker spoke in low tones, as the train sped them along the final leg of their journey.

“Moran is not living at Carlow Castle,” Barker said softly. “He has a townhouse nearby. However, there were hints in Milverton’s notes of some activity at the Castle. It bears watching.”

“All right,” Walker replied. “When we arrive, we’ll separate. I’ll scout the Castle while you and Nash look in town.”

“Good. Your reconnaissance of the Castle should not take long. Only the two drum towers which flank the western wall remain of the structure. It was used as a lunatic asylum up until 1814 when part of it was destroyed in an explosion. I couldn’t tell from Milverton’s notes how the Castle figures in Moran’s criminal plans, but it’s not a livable structure. At most it could serve as a storehouse.”

“Perhaps Carlow Castle is involved in some other way,” Walker said. “Legend has it that the keep is haunted by its builder, the medieval Lord William Marshall, 1st Earl of Pembroke.”

“Where did you hear that?” Barker asked.

“On the ferry. I went up for some air while you and Mr. Nash were resting. A man approached me with the warning about the Castle legend.”

“So they’ve found us out already,” Nash said. “Moran’s men are on to us.”

“Apparently,” Barker said, his naturally taciturn expression becoming even more severe.

“I don’t think so,” Walker said. “Of course, that was my first response, but the man clearly believed what he was saying. He insisted that he had felt my ‘etheric storm’ and that I was headed into danger.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“He introduced, himself as Morris Klaw.”

“Klaw? That charlatan? He’s as bad as Low or Carnacki.”

“Then you place no credence in his warning?”

“You know my methods, Walker,” Barker said. “Occasionally I utilize techniques different from those of my better-known associate in Marylebone, but in one matter we agree completely. Human beings account for all known evils. No ghosts need apply.”

Walker looked at his former mentor in silence.

“Present company excepted, of course,” Barker added.

Barker and Nash approached Moran’s townhouse in Carlow. It was after 2 a.m. and most of the town drunks had stumbled home from the pubs, slipping and sliding on rain-slicked streets.

Reminiscent of a few nights ago, the two men were garbed entirely in black, melting into the shadows. No lights shone in the Moran house.

Barker crouched down and reached under his dark wool sweater, palming a leather lock-pick kit, when both men heard a step behind them.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Cecil Barker,” a voice drawled. “Don’t, Nash, don’t reach for your pistol. Just pull it out slowly and set it down nice and gently.” A dark lantern shone down on them. The reflection back revealed three dark figures. The two flanking men covered them with revolvers, while the man in the center held a sort of long cane, aimed at Barker’s head.

The lantern lit the stone sidewalk briefly as Nash silently deposited his firearm. “Nice piece,” the voice added.

“And yours, Colonel Moran, is the Von Herder air rifle you used to kill Ronald Adair—and many others, no doubt,” Barker replied.

“Of course. Now, Mr. Barker, Mr. Nash, I was expecting someone after Milverton was killed. After all, wouldn’t one of London’s premier detectives be called in to solve the murder of such a prominent businessman? And of course Milverton was the type to leave enough evidence behind to take down his confederates in the event of his demise. So we’ve been waiting for you. No, no, not here in the middle of the street. Just turn around and face the house, if you please.”

Barker nodded to his companion, silently instructing him to comply, but Nash wasn’t having any of it and landed a roundhouse punch on one of the men’s jaws. In the next instant, however, all went black as Moran and his other confederate clubbed them with the butts of their pistols.

The last thing they heard was Moran’s taunting voice: “Night, night . . .”

They awoke to cold granite walls. The damp and chill night air numbed their limbs, which were tied to heavy wooden chairs. The two chairs were secured back-to-back. Through windows in the old cut stone, they could see the clouds roiling as a new stormfront gathered force.

The lights of the village of Carlow twinkled below them.

“Nash, are you awake?”

“Barely, Barker.” Nash’s voice was gravelly, but solid. “Where are we?”

“From what I can tell, at the top of one of the two remaining towers of Castle Carlow.”

“Brilliant as always, Mr. Cecil Barker,” Moran said, as he climbed up the stone staircase which was cut into the inner perimeter of the tower wall. “But your brilliance can’t save you now.” He chuckled and tapped the air rifle on the stone floor, emphasizing his point.

In his other hand, Moran held a dark lantern. The dim orange light illuminated his face from below, giving a ghoulish cast to his broken-veined skin.

Moran brought up the air rifle and aimed it at the newsman’s head.

“Now, Mr. Barker, we can do this easy or we can do it hard. Tell me what else you’ve got on me from Milverton’s safe, or I’ll give you a nice warm bath of gray matter and blood, courtesy of good Mr. Nash’s blown out skull.”

“Barker—”

“Quiet, Nash. Moran, all we found were hints of information about survivors of an African shipwreck. The documents were obviously a cheap forgery. There’s nothing to indicate any of the Duke’s family might have survived.”

“Cheap forgery? Cheap forgery, he says.” Moran grinned. “Well, let me tell you, Mr. Cecil Barker, the rumors of a child born of the Duke’s nephew are true, but you’ll never find out more than that, and the Duke won’t either unless he pays up. But you, your time is up.”

“You could have shot us on the street,” Barker said quickly. Outside the Castle walls, lightning crackled again as the storm regained intensity. The wind howled through cracks in the ancient stonework. “Why move us here?”

“A bit dim for such a bloody brilliant detective, aren’t you?” Moran jeered. “The street was too public. Besides, I’ve got something else to take care of you lot.

“In the other tower of the Castle there’s a portrait of William Marshall. Legend has it that anyone spending the night in the Castle will die horribly at the hand of William’s ghost.” Moran’s eyes blazed in the darkness and a sheen of perspiration covered his splotchy face. His breath came hard.

Barker scoffed. “The Castle was occupied up until 1814. What about all the people that inhabited it up to that time? Is this what you’ve come to in your old age, Moran? Magic and ghosts? You’re deranged from your opiate addiction.” Barker turned his head slightly, addressing his friend, bound and immobilized behind him. “He shows all the classic signs, Nash.”

“No doubt about it Barker,” the ex-boxer replied. “The sweats, shining eyes, heavy breathing. Better go get yourself another dose, Moran, before you pass out.”

Moran shrugged and laughed. “I will, don’t you worry about me, now. Better worry about yourself and your self-styled copper friend here. If I can get a ghost to do the work, more the better.”

“You’ve smoked too much of the product” Barker said coolly. “It’s bad business, and might attract unwanted attention to your little storage depot here at the Castle.”

“If word spreads that you both were frightened to death by the ghost, the locals will stay away. Besides,” Moran rasped, “I’ve seen the ghost, gray-eyed and black-haired, skulking around the Castle grounds. And I know a predator when I see one, he’s a vicious one, the Earl’s specter. Whenever I make to follow, he disappears without a trace. So I’ll take a chance, come back in a few hours, see if the ghost has done his part, and if not, I’ll go ahead and do the deed myself and spread a tale blaming the ghost anyway.”

Moran tapped the air rifle to his brow in mock salute and climbed down the steep stone stairwell, his laugh trailing behind him.

Nash strained at his bonds, but to no avail. Moran’s men had done their work well. “We’d better hope that at least one ghost applies,” he said to Barker, ruefully.

Outside, the thunderstorm pounded the Castle walls and the wind shrieked in a howl that sounded more and more human.

A shadow flitted about the perimeter of Castle Carlow. The shadow became a deep purple during the brief instants when lightning tore open the sky. Had any of Moran’s men been stout enough to brave the sheets of rain, and had they chanced to see the purple shade from the corner of a bloodshot eye, they would have dismissed the hint of color in the roiling storm as a glowing afterimage.

But Moran’s men were not so stout, and The Phantom deftly scaled the exterior of the Castle tower unseen. Strong fingers secured holds in slight indentations in stone made slippery from the rain, where the grip of a lesser man would have faltered. Only those powerful hands, intense physical training, and the climbing techniques taught him by the Bandar pygmies of the Deep Woods, were between The Phantom and a dizzying plunge to the rocky ground below.

The Phantom reached a tall window in the tower wall and perched on the narrow ledge, observing the activities within.

Dark lanterns lit the interior of the tower hall with a flickering orange light. Workers passed bales up the circular interior staircase and stacked them against a far wall. The Phantom recognized the telltale signs of drug running—opium—and frowned.

Opposite the stairwell hung a tattered painting, a huge portrait in a faded gilt frame. The man depicted in the painting was gray-eyed and black-haired, in knight’s armor. Despite the dim lighting, The Phantom, with his perfect eyesight, easily made out the portrait. It was William Marshall, builder of Carlow Castle in the early 1200s. Two huge lances hung in a saltire cross on the wall above Marshall’s portrait. The Earl had a strong brow and noble countenance. His gray eyes watched the scene unfold before him.

One of Moran’s men passed below and The Phantom swung down, holding onto the window ledge with one arm. He scooped the man up, one cabled arm wrapped around the man’s throat to dispel any outcry. A quick fist to the jaw rendered the man senseless. The Phantom then removed a strong silk line from his belt, tied it under the man’s armpits, and lowered him to the ground below, outside the Castle.

The Phantom waited a few more minutes, the intense triangles of his masked eyes surveying the scene from the darkness of the window ledge, but no more of Moran’s men obligingly presented themselves.

When the workers’ backs were briefly turned, The Phantom leaped down from his perch and landed as silently as a leopard. With equal facility he skirted the interior wall until he was out of sight, hidden by one corner of the ever-increasing heap of opium bales. As Moran’s men stacked bundle upon bundle, The Phantom reached around the pile, plucked an unsuspecting worker around the corner, and dispatched him with a fast punch. He lowered the man quietly to the ground, an indelible skull mark marring the man’s features.

An improvement, The Phantom thought with grim humor. There were six left, by his count, not including Moran, who hadn’t yet put in an appearance.

“Hey, where’s Burke got to?” came a call from one of the men.

The Phantom leaped upward in a standing high jump, landed with both feet on the top of the stack, and crouched, observing as the remaining men congregated below. When they were close enough together, he dived into the crowd, granite fists extended, and scattered them like bowling pins. He curled as he landed, rolled, twisted in the air as he came out of the roll, and landed on his feet facing Moran’s men, most of whom were only beginning to recover their wits.

The Phantom waded into the crowd, fists flying. One thug went soaring into the Castle wall, The Phantom’s hard left hook sending the man’s skull slamming into the granite with an audible crack. The Phantom’s right elbow connected with another man’s nose, shattering it in a spray of blood. The right arm then flashed forward like a purple piston, sending a third tough to slumberland. As he leaned into the punch he pivoted on his right leg. His left foot swung behind him and landed in a fourth ruffian’s gut to the wooshing sound of expelled air.

Out of the corner of his eye, The Phantom saw Moran rise up through the stairwell, brandishing his trademark air rifle.

The distraction was just enough.

One of the two remaining thugs cracked a solid piece of wood, broken off from the opium bale pallets, over the back of the purple-clad man’s head. The blow wasn’t enough to knock out The Phantom, but he was momentarily dazed and Moran’s men restrained him, two men holding each arm.

Moran approached, the air-gun aimed at The Phantom’s forehead.

“I’ve heard of you,” Moran chuckled. “The fabled Ghost Who Walks. A legend in Africa and India. The Guardian of the Eastern Dark. The Man Who Cannot Die . . . well, we’ll see about that. But first, let’s unmask the so-called legend.”

Moran approached more closely and reached up toward The Phantom’s mask with his left hand. To do so, he had to slightly lower the long air rifle.

Before Moran got too close, The Phantom kicked out, using the men who held his arms for leverage. He swung one leg in a wide arc like a cricket bat, kicking the air-gun to the left, far out of Moran’s reach. His feet landed on the ground, the men still restraining his arms. As he landed he bent his knees and launched himself again, this time in an opposing arc, back toward Moran.

The Phantom bashed Moran in the face with his heavy black boots. His feet came back down and he planted his center of gravity low, swinging his arms together; the men holding his arms crashed into each other, skulls smashing together, and went down in a pile.

The Phantom looked up and Moran was gone. The Phantom double-checked all of Moran’s henchmen, ensuring they’d continue in their state of unconsciousness for some time to come, and then set off racing down the stairwell, searching for Moran and some sign of Barker and Nash.

Within moments he reached the base of the other tower, where another stack of opium was ablaze. Clearly Moran was attempting to distract him from the chase, but on the assumption that Barker and Nash were held prisoner in the tower above, it was a distraction he had to act upon.

Dense smoke filled the air and curled up the staircase of the second tower. The Phantom held his breath as long as he could, but some of the fumes penetrated and lightheadedness came over him.

The Phantom struggled up the carved stone stairs and made his way through the almost impenetrable fog of the opium smoke. A thick fog had marked The Phantom’s reunion with his former mentor. He vowed that a similar miasma would not mark their end; if he succumbed now, Moran would find them in their stupor and murder them as they lay dazed and helpless.

Finally, in the haze, The Phantom made out a murky form, approximately the size of two men. He stumbled closer, and felt the chairs, the ropes, and the two barely conscious men. The Phantom snapped the legs and arms of the chairs, untangled the ropes, and slid them off the limbs of the insensible detective and his friend.

Bundling each man under one massive arm, The Phantom ran full-tilt for the large window in the wall and leapt through it. His long jump carried the three men into the air in an extended arc, finally ending in a great splash at the edge of the River Barrow.

Sopping wet, but alive, The Phantom pulled the two semiconscious men to the shore, and they lay there for a few minutes, clearing their lungs and regaining their wits.

They stood slowly and watched the smoke pouring from one tower, although the flames were now dimmed, having already burned up most of the opium.

“Walker,” Barker croaked out, his throat raw from the smoke, “what about Moran?”

The Phantom shrugged. “I was pursuing him. He set the fire as a distraction. It’s still too hot and smoky to search that tower. I suggest we focus our efforts on its twin.”

The detective nodded in agreement. The three men climbed back up the slope from the river bank and entered the second tower at its base.

Finding nothing, they climbed the spiraling staircase.

At the top of the tower, in the great hall at the top of the granite steps, they saw the ragged portrait of William Marshall looking down balefully upon them. To one side was the other stack of opium and the pile of Moran’s unconscious men. Above the Earl’s portrait, one huge lance hung diagonally.

“The other weapon is missing,” Barker observed. “See the discoloration of the stonework, where it hung for many centuries.”

The Phantom nodded. “Yes, the other pike was there just a few minutes ago.”

“Then who—” Nash started, and broke off when Barker gripped his arm.

The three men turned around slowly to look behind them.

There, suspended in air, and pinned to the stone wall, was Moran, the pike thrust right through him and embedded into the thick granite. Amazingly, he was still alive, though barely. Blood stained his chest and poured out of his gaping mouth and nostrils. His eyes were wide circles and a look of horror was engraved on his muttenchop-whiskered face.

“Barker, the power it must have taken to drive the pike through Moran’s body and embed it within the stonework with a single thrust . . .” Nash trailed off.

“I doubt even I have the might to accomplish such a feat,” The Phantom said.

“I’ve heard of something similar once,” Barker said quietly, “when Patrick Cairns harpooned Black Peter Michael Carey. Never thought I’d see something like it in my lifetime.”

“Who did this?” Nash asked.

“I don’t see any clues,” Barker said. “Although that may be a clue in itself.”

“It must have been someone else who had it in for Moran,” Nash guessed.

“It certainly couldn’t have been the ghost of William Marshall,” Walker said.

“One phantom is sufficient,” Barker snapped, and then went silent.

Several days later, the three men convened once more in Barker’s offices to review the last particulars of the case.

After the local police arrived at Castle Carlow, in response to the brief burst of flames and the ensuing smoke, and Moran was carted away to the hospital, they had searched the Colonel’s townhome for any other information about shipwreck survivors from the Duke’s family. After all, Moran had taunted Barker with the pronouncement that there was a child survivor. But they had turned up nothing and concluded that it was all a swindle, that Moran had concocted the whole story to cheat the Duke out of as much money as possible.

Barker agreed. “But I’ll question Moran more about it when I’m able to.” By some miracle, Moran had survived, the lance having done tremendous internal damage but amazingly missing vital organs. The Colonel was still in a mad delirious state, not completely recovered by any stretch, and was under police guard awaiting transfer back to Newgate Prison.

“I’ll inform the Duke of Holdernesse,” The Phantom said. “He’ll be disappointed.”

“Holdernesse,” Barker said.

“Barker, the woman who shot Milverton . . .” Nash ventured.

“Yes, Nash, this sheds some light on recent events.”

“Gentlemen,” Walker said, “perhaps you’d better fill me in.”

Barker nodded. “As you know, the night you rescued us, outside Milverton’s estate, we’d been hiding in his study. Our mission had been to retrieve some compromising letters for our client. We saw Milverton murdered by another lady he’d victimized. After that, two men emerged from hiding, set fire to the other blackmail papers, and ran off across the Heath. I easily penetrated their disguises; they were my consulting detective rival and his partner. They apparently also had a client at Milverton’s mercy.

“The next day, Nash and I went to consult with my fellow sleuth in his Marylebone digs. Instead, we ended up following him to a celebrity photograph shop. In the window, among the portraits of some of the Kingdom’s greatest ladies, was a photograph of the woman we saw shoot Milverton.

“She was the Marchioness Blackwater, until her first husband’s death—a suicide—but she remarried . . . she is the current Duchess of Holdernesse.”

“Phew,” The Phantom whistled. “Mr. Barker, if the Duchess believed that the stories of her current husband’s nephew surviving the shipwreck were true . . .”

“. . . And that Milverton—via information from Moran—could reveal the survivors’ location,” Barker concluded, “then perhaps the lady had another reason, beyond ending Milverton’s blackmail, for pulling the trigger that night.”

“Something else,” The Phantom said. “There’s no way she could have hurled that pike at Colonel Moran herself . . .”

“But she could have hired someone to kill him,” Barker finished.

“Exactly.”

“Barker, how can you turn the Duchess in to Lestrade now, after you told him you weren’t interested in the case?” Nash asked.

“We have no proof as to her motive, Nash. Only speculation. Can you see a way clear to turning her in?”

“Not really, no,” the newsman admitted.

“Besides, whatever her motive, it’s irrelevant now. Milverton has gone to meet his Maker and I think we can all agree he deserved it.”

“Mr. Barker,” The Phantom said, “it’s my mission to bring evildoers to justice. Milverton met his fate and Moran is headed back for jail. I’ll accede to your wishes and leave the Duchess out of it. But I’d point out that if she ever gets an inkling that you and Nash know of the rumors of shipwreck survivors in Africa, you may be next on her list. Beware.”

“Point taken, Walker,” Barker replied. “We’ll watch our backs—and the Duchess.”

“This is all rather cold-blooded, though, Barker,” Nash protested. “What if the Duke’s nephew and wife are alive, after all? What if there really was a child?”

Barker took a long pull at his cigarette and looked thoughtful. Then he said, “It’s doubtful, Nash. But I think it’s a task for our friend Walker to continue investigating when he returns home.”

“And I will, Mr. Barker, I promise,” The Phantom said. “I’ll keep searching as I’m able, for any more tales of shipwreck survivors living in the jungle, and spread the story among all friendly tribes.

“After all, when The Phantom asks, he expects an answer, and a whisper can go around the earth.”

The End

WIN SCOTT ECKERT’S Myths for the Modern Age: Philip José Farmer’s Wold Newton Universe (MonkeyBrain Books, 2005) was a 2007 Locus Award Finalist for Best Non-Fiction book. He has written stories for The Avenger Chronicles (Moonstone Books, 2008), and many other forthcoming anthologies from Moonstone, including More Tales of Zorro, The Captain Midnight Chronicles, and The Green Hornet Chronicles, which he is also co-editing, as well as tales featuring characters such as Doc Ardan and The Scarlet Pimpernel for six volumes (and counting) of Tales of the Shadowmen (Black Coat Press). He was honored to provide the Foreword to the new edition of Farmer’s seminal “fictional biography,” Tarzan Alive: A Definitive Biography of Lord Greystoke (Bison Books, 2006). Win’s latest books are Crossovers: A Secret Crononology of the World, Vols. 1 & 2, (Black Coat Press), and the Wold Newton novel The Evil in Pemberley House, about Patricia Wildman, the daughter of a certain bronze-skinned pulp hero (co-authored with Philip José Farmer, Subterranean Press, 2009).

The Diamonds of the Brumoli

By C.J. Henderson

The explosion tore open the ground, shattering rock and trees, showering the defenders with splinters of wood and stone. The air filled with a mixture of soil and shredded vegetation. The strike was the closest one so far.

“They’re getting our range,” the leader of the resistance shouted, desperate to be heard over the ceaseless din. “Did anyone spot where the shells are coming from this time?”

“I think I did.”

The speaker was a youngster, no more than fourteen. Black, dressed in little more than a loin cloth and woven sandals, he stood in marked contrast to the man directing their group. White, in his mid-thirties, costumed in a form-fitting purple uniform which revealed nothing more than his hands, mouth and chin, the tall, tightly-muscled man moved toward the boy quickly, asking;

“Where?”

“I saw the white smoke blossom, as you said, Phantom, that way.” The youth pointed. “The explosion came just seconds later.”

Taking up his binoculars, one of its lens shattered during the endless fighting, the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, turned his attention in the direction the boy had indicated. After only a few seconds scanning, he spotted what appeared to be a covered shelter from which the mortar shells plaguing them could be launched. His suspicions were born out when he saw a white-gray puff of smoke emerge from the same spot.

“Get down!”

The Phantom’s warning sent everyone scrambling for shelter. Seconds later another explosion rocked the mountainside stronghold. The ground shook violently, enough to send men toppling one into the other. Gathering their remaining archers, the Phantom pointed out the area the youth had spotted, ordering;

“That’s where the shells are coming from. Feather that spot.”

He was obeyed instantly. Twenty-two strong arms strained, pulling back, eyes sighting the target, breath being steadied, pulse rates calmed—

“Fire.”

Twenty-two arrows were released. All who could manage to find a spot from which to watch did so, following the shafts on their arced flight. Fourteen of the arrows shattered against the mortarmen’s shelter. Three were entangled in its camouflage netting. One missed the area entirely. But the last four found flesh—one arm, one shin, one back and one chest. Divided among the three men manning the pair of mortars, it was enough damage to silence the weapons—at least for the moment.

Cheers were thrown toward the heavens in the small mountainside sanctuary, but they were thin and hollow noises. The remaining warriors of the Brumoli tribe were tired and dispirited. None of them had slept now for some thirty-seven hours. The Phantom gave the boy who had spotted the launch site an appreciative grin, wondering how the youth could even still be standing. The boy’s chest swelled with pride. Acknowledgement from the jungle legend was a gift he would keep with him the rest of his life.

“And how long will that be,” wondered the Phantom. “Until tomorrow? Maybe the next day . . . if he’s one of the lucky ones.”

The masked man bluntly cut off the negative voice in his head. There was no doubting the thought could very well be prophetic, but there was also no sense in welcoming it with open arms. The Phantom turned away from the others for a moment. He needed to shut his eyes, to rub away their soreness. He could not do so in front of the Brumoli, however. Cornered, slaughtered, those remaining needed his strength to carry on. If he showed weakness, it would spread like a virus throughout the remaining defenders.

“Thinking highly of yourself again, aren’t you?”

Once more the Phantom attempted to silence the dark voice within his mind. He was as tired as anyone on the mountainside, but he could not give in. He had to maintain his will, had to resist the urge to yawn, to stretch—to sleep. To give in to the inevitable.

But, was that not the problem, he asked himself? Courage was one thing. To stand against such monsters as had surrounded the Brumoli was noble and honorable and all the rest. But it was also, he had to admit, suicide. The Phantom had done everything he could, but the destiny of the Brumoli had been written by the events of the last seven months, and it had finally caught up with them. The tribesmen were now, essentially, the walking dead.

All he was doing was prolonging their pain.

“Loo—”

The Phantom spun around at the touch on his shoulder, bending his body away from the hand that had been placed there, coming up out of his crouch ready to shatter his assailant. Only the quick thinking of Dumbutu, the Brumoli chief’s war leader, saved the fool who had approached the Phantom without thinking. Yanking the woman away from the deadly hands instinctively reaching for her, Dumbutu warned;

“Fool. None may touch Phantom without permission.”

“But I only wanted—”

“What you want is not important. You outside, no understand.” Raising his hand to signal he wanted to interrupt, the Phantom fixed the European newswoman with an unblinking glance, telling her;

“Don’t take an attitude with a man who just saved you no little discomfort.”

The Phantom walked away then, heading for the edge of the shelter. Ages ago the Brumoli had planned well against invaders. Laboring for some thirty years, they had prepared a safe zone on the top of, not the highest mountain in their land, but the most difficult to ascend. Only one trail led to the top. In times of conflict, the women, children and the elderly would be sent to the sheltering peak. The warriors of the tribe would only climb halfway with them, to a stronghold built on an expansive rock shelf. Sending their families on, they would then stand their ground and face whatever menace had come at them.

For over a thousand years it had been all the defense the Brumoli had ever needed. But eventually had dawned the advent of explosives and airplanes, of war machines unthought of in centuries past. Before they could become a part of the age-old tribal tensions which had always strangled Africa, however, the Europeans had arrived, dividing the country according to their own whims. They were cruel and rapacious, but they did impose order. An order which, sadly, disappeared practically overnight when they left.

Now, much of Central Africa was condemned to madness. The once lush continent had been turned into a wasteland, a world of darkness consumed by greed—millions dead in blood and fire so that a few might prosper. It was a story told since the beginning of civilization, and in its closing pages it had finally caught up to the Brumoli.

As the Phantom looked out over the edge of the cliff shelf, he could spot no new soldiers being sent to man the mortar position. The tactic made sense. Darkness was setting in, and the warlord seeking the death of the Brumoli would not waste either his men or his arms in the futility of a night battle. A thick cloud cover had plagued his assault so far, drowning the world in gray, constantly threatening rain. With no star or moonlight to guide his men up the mountainside, he would simply be throwing their lives away for no good reason.

“Well,” thought the Phantom. “That’s something to be grateful for. But, that only gives us until morning. We’ll be able to risk catching a little sleep, but that just means we’ll be well rested for our deaths tomorrow.”

And with that thought, the Phantom smiled. Yes, he was trapped along with the Brumoli. But he knew no fear in the face of death. How could he be, considering he was the Ghost Who Walks? He was, after all, immortal.

None present understood the facts behind the reason the Phantom would suddenly chuckle despite their situation. They did not know that in truth he was a man like any other, at least as far as death was concerned. His son was a teenager, his wife certainly capable of bringing him along to manhood. The legend would live on if he, himself, died the next day. The great work of his family would continue.

Still, the moment of amusement bolstered the courage of all who witnessed it—as it for the Phantom himself. He had been on the move for days—reaching the Brumoli with the warning of the warlord’s approach, helping organize their flight to their mountain stronghold, attempting to gauge their enemy’s strength, climbing with them, resisting the murderers come to take their lives and their land—throughout the last forty some hours he had been reacting, only. Not acting.

That, he told himself, had to change.

As he continued to stare out over the cliff edge, the reporter who had been swept up along with the Phantom in the lives of the Brumoli watched him carefully, her mind as conflicted as his. Yes, like the masked hero, she too had begun to come to grips with the idea she might soon be dead. But, that was a secondary consideration to her.

In her time, Kristin Engel had faced more than her share of danger. She realized it was her own responsibility she was where she was at that moment, and she was willing to accept that. As the old phrase went, she knew the job was dangerous when she took it. What she was not willing to accept, however, was the senselessness of the matter. It was one thing to die, she told herself, but it was another to do so for no reason. Driven by that thought, she suddenly made her way across the rock shelf toward the Phantom, calling out;

“No surprises this time. If I could just talk to you for a moment . . .”

The Phantom turned, eyeing the woman less harshly than before. His earlier bluntness had been driven by the growing fatigue gnawing at them all. Reminding himself that she could have left several times when the conflict had been escalating, but had chosen to stay to continue covering the plight of the Brumoli, he said;

“Allow me to apologize. I guess the tension is getting to all of us.”

“I’ve experienced frontline conflict before. And I’ve said worse than you in my time. And, I suppose, I have been whining a bit at that. So, if my apology could cancel out yours . . .”

“Deal.”

The Phantom let the single word hang in the air while he continued to stare at Engel. The reporter was an attractive blonde. Being stared at by men in all manner of situations was nothing new to her. But, she also knew men well enough to realize the look the Phantom was giving her had nothing to do with her blue eyes or her well-maintained figure. Something was happening within his brain. Engel had spent her adult life observing the rich, the powerful, the famous and the infamous. She knew the Phantom was making some sort of important decision, and that it involved her.

“Going to let me in on whatever it is you’re planning, or do I have to knock you down and beat it out of you?”

“You’ve got a sense of humor,” the Phantom answered. “Good. You’re going to need it.”

“You’ve got a plan, don’t you?”

“Well,” the Phantom admitted, “I’ve got an idea. Whether or not I’ve got a plan is going to depend a great deal on you. Just how brave are you feeling?”

Engel dropped her head for a moment. Her eyes closed, she drew a deep breath, holding it for a long moment. They were, all of them, tired—rung out, at the end of the line and surrounded by death. On top of that, the bigger-than-life legend she had traveled thousands of miles to turn into just another story had suddenly offered her a chance to keep breathing past the next sunset. Daring to exhale, she asked;

“How brave do you need me to feel?”

“Let’s talk.”

The next morning brought no relief for the warlord’s troops. In fact, if anything, the prospect of driving the Brumoli from their stronghold had been rendered far less likely by the fact the endlessly gray skies had finally unleashed the rain they had been promising for days. Worse for the invaders, they had decided to do so in the worst imaginable way for an assault. Rather than release their moisture in torrents, instead it was coming down in the slowest way possible.

Mugari Kiligara stared through the continual drizzle without speaking. The extermination of the Brumoli should never have taken so long. They were a backward people. They lived in huts the way they had five thousand years ago. They planted crops by hand. They fought with bows and arrows, with spears.

Kiligara considered himself a modern individual. He wore shoes on his feet, not rags or reeds. He dressed in suits, or tailored uniforms. He knew what a microwave oven was, talked to people on the other side of the world with a cell phone, knew how to drive a car—knew what a car was. To him, he had as much in common with the Brumoli as he did the fish he had eaten for his breakfast.

Kiligara was a powerful warlord, commanded an army of many thousands. He possessed machine guns, grenades, mortars and missiles, trucks and jeeps and even some planes. By all rights, the ignorant savages hiding on the mountain before him should have fallen days earlier. But no, they had been helped, warned. Had been given time to reach their miserable sanctuary.

By the damned Phantom.

By the Ghost Who Walks.

“I want my diamonds.”

Kiligara’s second-in-command did not answer, but he did make note of the fact the warlord was already considering the treasure of the Brumoli his own. The legends of a small, insignificant tribe holding the secret to hidden gem mines had never impressed the man. If the Brumoli were sitting on untold wealth, then why did they plant grain by hand? Raise herds of malnourished goats and pigs? Watch each other die from plague and insect bites?

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you, my leader. But I didn’t think it my place to speak. The rain will pass, and the Brumoli will either surrender their treasure, or starve. You will have all you desire, if you can but make an ally of patience.”

Kiligara began to make a rejoinder to his lieutenant, but was interrupted by a sudden commotion. Demanding an explanation, he was handed a pair of field glasses, his attention directed to the trail leading up the mountain. As he adjusted the focus of his binoculars, he was surprised to see a solitary figure dressed in white and waving a white flag descending the mountain.

“What do you make of this,” asked the warlord, handing the field glasses to his second. After glancing at the figure making its way down the trail, he answered;

“It appears to be the German reporter, the one who was in the capital for several weeks, trying to gather information on the Phantom. It appears she found him.”

“Yes,” agreed Kiligara. “And that perhaps she no longer wishes his company.”

“What shall we do, my leader?”

“Allow her to continue. There might have been some small merit in attacking in this mist, but let us see what is happening here. The Brumoli are not going anywhere.”

“She has a great distance to travel,” pointed out the second. “She will not reach us until late in the afternoon.”

The warlord thought on the delay. On the one hand, his forces were tired. He was well aware that to throw them at the mountain in the rain would be a waste, and he had endured enough waste in recent months. His rival for control of the area, Borugi Gawanu, had caught his unawares twice, inflicting heavy casualties on his men.

His forces had also suffered severe losses to the Brumoli the day before. Primitive as the tribe’s basic defense was, the approach was narrow, and men still had as much difficulty dodging rolling boulders as they did a thousand years in the past. The curiosity of the descending reporter gave him an excuse to wait for a more favorable moment to attack without losing face.

There was also the fact that once he had his hands on the woman, he could wring from her every detail she knew about the situation above. How many men capable of resistance were still alive? Did they have more arrows? More boulders? Other defenses as yet unseen?

On the other hand, however, the warlord recognized the possibility he was being stalled. Could the Brumoli need only a certain amount of time to bring some other plan to bear? Were they waiting for reinforcements, did they need the rain to clear so they might put some other defense into play? Was there some other way off the mountain? Could they be escaping even as he sat futilely wondering what they were doing? Snapping his fingers, Kiligara ordered;

“We will hold for now. Wait for the woman. Observe the formality of the white flag . . . for now.”

“Yes, my leader.”

“This does not mean, though, that we shall be idle. I want two patrols formed, seventy men each. Send them around the mountain, one left, one right. When they meet on the other side, they are to return.”

“Their purpose, my leader?”

“My suspicions are aroused. Assign two of your best lieutenants, men who can think. They are to search for tricks, watch for Brumoli attempting to escape. They will look for anything that is what or where it should not be. And . . .”

Kiligara paused, turning away from the mountain. Staring intently as his second-in-command, eyes unblinking, voice gone cold and dark, he added;

“Most importantly, they will watch for the Ghost Who Walks. And if they find him, they will rid the world of this pestilence once and for all.”

By the time Kiligara had sent forth his patrols, the Phantom had completed roughly two-thirds of his descent. Pausing on a secure ledge as the sun began to rise, he used the breaking dawn to estimate his further travel time. The hours he saw ahead of him made his heart grow weary. While the Brumoli above had at least gotten some rest during the night, he had been making his way down their treacherous mountain. In the rain. In the dark.

He had not cared for the notion of abandoning them, but the plan which had struck him was the only solution of which he could think. He had quickly outlined the idea to Dumbutu, and although the warrior had not smiled, he had nodded approvingly. The main thing that gave the war leader pause was the degree to which the Phantom’s plan depended on the European woman. She had displayed persistence in his presence, but little else of which Dumbutu approved.

Still, the Phantom had made it clear that he trusted her to do her part. Or that, at least, he trusted her to try. It had been good enough for the warrior. As he told the Phantom;

“We are dead men anyway. What matter the means we are delivered unto the gods, as long as the manner in which we make the journey meets with their approval.”

The Phantom put his head back against the cliff face. He congratulated himself on making the vegetation line before sunrise. Not only would the cover of brush and trees aid him by disguising his descent, but it would also offer him many more handholds and footstops than had been available to him throughout the night.

Closing his eyes, the Phantom allowed himself a moment’s rest. Part of his mind cursed his weakness. More than once he had remained awake in excess of five days before surrendering to the inevitable. But, he reminded himself, he had not been mountain climbing without equipment during any of those times. Resting on the narrow ledge he had found, the longer he sat, the more his muscles began to ache—or, more correctly, the more he began to notice the dull pain throbbing throughout his body.

His arms and legs, his neck, too much strain. Too much tension. His left knee, still not quite healed from a different battle earlier in the month, was beginning to protest. His fingers, torn and bruised from his nighttime descent, were aching as well. Even his breathing was failing him, still rushing in and out of him at an accelerated rate despite the fact he had been resting for several minutes.

He wanted to make a joke about growing old, to extend himself a bit of sympathy for not being as young as when he had first worn his father’s mask, first strapped on his heavy gunbelt. Then, the back of his mind whispered to him, calling out one by one the names of the hundreds of people trapped atop the mountain, all of them waiting for him to bring their relief.

With a Herculean effort, the Ghost Who Walks dragged his back away from its rocky perch. As easily as he could have curled himself into a ball and simply allowed himself to surrender to sleep, he stretched his arms out to his sides instead, and then began climbing downward once more.

“And this is all you know?”

“Yes, sir.”

Engel had been keeping her answers short. She knew the kind of man Mugari Kiligara was—had met many like him. Playing to his sense of grandeur, she did not meet his gaze, did not argue, spoke only when spoken to. She did not offer anything more than was requested. It rankled her to behave in such a fashion, but the reporter knew she needed to appear docile, helpless. Beaten.

Of course, it was not Kiligara who questioned the woman. That task had fallen to his second. The warlord sat back instead, overseeing the interrogation. He had risen to power through the force of his personality. Kiligara knew the snaking intricacies of tribal politics all too well. The slightest crack in a man’s façade could destroy him overnight—instantly.

And so he continued to trod along his tightrope, honoring the woman’s white flag so as to please the larger world, having her grilled for information that might bring his campaign to an end to keep his troops happy—just long enough. Long enough to capture the treasure of the Brumoli.

The thought of the tribe’s riches brought an unconscious smile to the warlord’s lips. The lands he had captured during his campaigns had been looted with a steady and careful eye. But, so far he had done little more than feed his army. What funds he had managed to siphon off into his foreign bank accounts so far amount to no more than a few paltry millions—not nearly enough for the dreams of a man like Kiligara.

But, he knew, it was only a matter of time at that point. Let it rain for another week, a month. It did not matter. Finally, he could feel the inevitability of his present course. He knew what so many other did not, that the rumored diamonds of the Brumoli were real. Only a month previous, he had presided over the brutal torture of a captured Brumoli subchief. Endless questions had been asked of the man about anything but the diamonds. Finally, as Kiligara had expected, the dying wretch had begged for a final release from his agony, offering the secret of the tribal treasure in return. The warlord had agreed, only to have his prisoner die moments after.

Still, it had been enough. He knew—knew—the diamonds were real. Knew that if he but crushed the Brumoli he could leave Africa behind forever. With their wealth he would set himself up in a palace of his own, a thing of beauty with marbled-floors and mirrored walls. His servants would know their place. His women would be well-trained. And every day, he would sit by his private pool, drinking wine, and laughing at the fools and corpses that had once thought to stand in his way.

“And what about the diamonds?”

The warlord’s second turned in surprise. He had not expected Kiligara to speak during the questioning. But, if the warlord’s sudden question surprised him, the woman’s answer brought him shock.

“They’re up there,” she said, pointing out the door flap of Kiligara’s tent. “Up on the mountain.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” she answered quietly. Maintaining her subservience. “I didn’t see them. I only went as far as the ledge. But the others spoke of the diamonds as being there. Not on the ledge, but higher up.”

Kiligara considered the woman’s answer. Everything he knew about people made him trust her words. He knew the subtle changes that came over a person when they lied. The flushing of the cheeks, the slight change in breathing, increase in blinking, inability to sit still—all the rest. The warlord was certain the reporter was telling him the truth. Still, not wishing to rush to his doom simply because he liked what he had heard, he asked;

“You realize that telling me this dooms the Brumoli?”

“I assumed they were already doomed, sir.” Kiligara tilted his head to the side, more than a trifle amused at the woman’s answer. Daring to look partially in the warlord direction, Engel asked;

“If I might elaborate?” When Kiligara nodded, the reporter continued, saying, “You must understand, sir, I’m here to cover the news, not make it. The Brumoli are not my concern. Getting the story of what happens to them . . . before anyone else . . . that’s really all I care about.”

The warlord considered the woman’s words once more. As he studied her reaction, he could see in her the fact she did care about other things, but they were of no consequence. She had been to the mountain, had heard the Brumoli speak of their treasure, had left their presence when there was no more profit for her there and come down to him—where there was profit for her.

“Ready the men.”

“My leader—”

“You heard our honored guest, the Brumoli’s defenses are worn. God has gathered them in one place so we might rid the world of their backward presence.”

“Yes, of course.”

“In one hour your first assault team will be ready. Heavy guns in the first wave. We will send men up the mountain in ten minute intervals, groups of fifteen. This ends today. It is my will.”

With those words the warlord’s second did nothing more than salute and turn on his heel. None challenged the will of Kiligara, at least not for long. The lieutenant was not certain he trusted the reporter to the extent of his master, but his opinion had not been asked for, and he was not fool enough to volunteer it.

No, he thought. What he had been asked to do was have Kiligara’s forces ready in an hour. That was what he would do. And, why not? Whether the rain slowed the warlord’s men or not, whether the Brumoli were better prepared than the reporter’s information indicated, so they lost more men than planned—what did it matter? In the end, Kiligara would have what he wanted.

So thinking, the warlord’s second exited the tent, snapping off orders as he did so, preparing for the blood letting to come.

Finally, it seemed, everything was going Kiligara’s way. The men dispatched earlier in the day had met on the other side of the mountain. They had found nothing out of the ordinary and were on their way back to join the final assault, a thing well under way. The first of his men had started up the mountain several hours earlier. He now had hundreds of them in motion, strung out between the Brumoli’s stronghold and the valley below.

Even though dusk was less than an hour away, still the warlord felt fortune had turned a kind eye in his direction. Just before their assault began, the rains ceased. Kiligara’s forces considered it a blessing from the gods that the moment their warlord commanded their attack to begin, not only did the rain stop, but the cloud began to dissipate. Within minutes the sun had returned. Kiligara’s men sang as they climbed the muddy trail.

They had good reason. Not only had the sun appeared to ease their passage, but the Brumoli seemed shorn of defenses. As the reporter had told Kiligara, their enemies were beaten. Watching his soldiers’ progress with only casual interest by that point, the warlord relaxed in his camp. Knowing everything he desired would soon be his, he had called for his best cigars and whiskey. He had waited a long time to celebrate his coming victory.

Who, he asked himself, could blame him for starting early?

He had just finished his third tumbler when the sound of gunfire reached his ears. Blinking hard, stirring his mind against the alcohol induced lethargy dragging at him, Kiligara stared at the mountain before him. The Brumoli did not possess guns, but he could see his men were not firing. Staggering forward, he had just begun to realize the shots he was hearing seemed far too close when his second rushed toward him, shouting;

“My leader, take cover. We are under attack!”

“Attack?” The warlord uttered the word as if it were a thing he did not understand. “How can we be under attack? The Brumoli have no weapons—”

“It is Gawanu’s militia—they have found us!”

As the drunken warlord made his way forward, he saw all manner of vehicles coming from both ends of the valley, filled with soldiers firing upon his own. Scores of his men were already down. Many scrambled to protect themselves, but Kiligara had ordered no defenses erected. They had come merely to eliminate the Brumoli, they had no need—

“This wasn’t supposed, supp-supposed . . . no. No!” Kiligara dropped his glass, fumbling for his sidearm. “Go away. This wasn’t in the plan.” Waving his pistol in the air, the warlord screamed at the approaching forces;

“You can have the stinking country. I don’t want it. I never wanted it. I only wanted—”

And then, a bullet tore through Kiligara’s arm, spinning him around and slamming him to the ground. On his back in the mud, machine gun fire and explosions all around him, his gaze turned toward the Brumoli’s mountain once more. As he watched, he saw his men running down the mountain in terror, chased by rolling boulders and well-aimed spears.

“I just wanted my diamonds.”

Kiligara repeated the phrase several more times, then simply passed out, his continual tears the only indication he was still alive.

A few hours later the fighting was ended. Borugi Gawanu met there with the Brumoli war chief, Dumbutu. In the background, Kristin Engel filmed their discussion. The reporter was careful to make certain that the Phantom, although present throughout the proceedings, did not appear within any of her shots. Enjoying one of Kiligara’s Monte Cristos, the militia leader asked the Phantom;

“So, Ghost, is this all you hoped for?”

Before Gawanu could receive his answer, however, several of his men approached, dragging forward a mud-covered Kiligara. Flinging him to the ground before their chief, the men smiled and laughed as their former-foeman struggled to pull himself erect.

“I must admit, Ghost, seeing this rabble here before me, it is all that I hoped for.”

“My diamonds,” muttered the still-dazed Kiligara. “All I wanted were my diamonds.”

“What is he babbling about?”

“He believes the old stories,” answered Dumbutu. As Gawanu joined in with the laughter of his men, the Brumoli war chief said;

“We do have diamonds, and in time of danger we do store them on our mountain. They are all the riches we need. But, I do not believe a dog such as this one can understand.”

And then, pointing far up the mountain, Dumbutu indicated the long-stretching line of torchlights making their way down from the summit. Swelling with pride, he explained;

“A man dies and is forgotten. His riches are his family—those who cared for him, those for whom he has cared. As we are cherished by our fathers and mothers, so we cherish our daughters and sons. You see them, coming down the mountain, that is what we fight for. They are the diamonds of the Brumoli.”

As Kiligara howled in disbelief, Gawanu ordered him to be taken away and watched. Engel had already contacted her news outlet which had in turn contacted the U.N., arranging for them to send in peace keepers to do the taking away. The militia leader was happy enough to agree.

Those of the warlord’s men who had not run off or been slain had flocked to his army. As the Phantom had predicted when he had made his way to Gawanu’s headquarters earlier in the day, if the militia struck quickly, they would most certainly catch Kiligara’s forces where they could be easily routed. The militia’s losses had been minimal, and more than compensated for by the adding of the warlord’s men and equipment to their own.

After Kiligara was removed, the staged event was quickly concluded. Engel’s camera recorded Gawanu’s pledge to both protect the Brumoli and to allow them to retain their traditional way of life, both conditions upon which the Phantom had insisted before leading the militia to the battleground. With dusk having already settled into blackness, the militia spent the night in the valley, then left the next morning after turning over Kiligara to the U.N. forces. Just before departing, though, the militia leader sought out the Phantom.

“Tell me. Ghost,” he said, “why me? Why come to me?”

“I needed someone to stop Kiligara. You were the one who would benefit the most. You were also closest. And you are, while not an exceedingly decent individual, an intelligent enough one to know when someone is doing you a favor.”

“Yes, that’s true. I have my own country now. And I have the Ghost Who Walks in my debt. Not a bad day, eh?”

“You have your own country now, if you can hold onto it. That much is true,” agreed the Phantom. “But, I gave you that country. I am not the one here who owes a debt.”

Gawanu’s round face split along the lines of a gigantic smile, one that erupted in sincere and boisterous laughter. Wiping his eyes after a moment, he agreed with the Phantom’s assessment, then leaped upward into the truck waiting for him. Giving the masked hero a salute, he cried out;

“You are the only white man Africa will ever love. It is, I think, our very good fortune you will never die!”

And then, the militia leader ordered his truck to leave. In less than twenty minutes every trace of Gawanu and his men were gone. Once they had departed, the U.N. forces made to leave as well. They offered Engel a ride back to the capitol, which she accepted, asked them to give her a moment. She had wanted to speak to the Phantom once more.

She had faced torture and death by walking into Kiligara’s hands for him. Now she had a number of questions she wanted answered. Many of them coming from her as a reporter, but just as many coming from her as a woman. When she could not find him, Dumbutu came to her, explaining that, his work done, the Phantom had disappeared—as always. When she protested, not understanding how a man could simply turn away from reward and gratitude, how anyone could risk their life for no reason other than it was the right thing to do, Dumbutu held up a hand to gently capture the reporter’s attention. When he had, the war chief explained patiently;

“He does as he does, for he is the only one who can. You ask how he can disappear, how any man can reject gifts and accolades. The answer is an oak you cannot find, for you see only the forest. Step beyond your shallow life, and you will know as we all know, he does such, because he is not a man . . . he is the Ghost Who Walks.”

The End

C.J. HENDERSON is the creator of both the Piers Knight supernatural investigator and Teddy London occult detective series. The author of some 70 books, he has also written thousands of short stories, comics and non-fiction pieces for everyone from Marvel, DC and Starlog to Tor/Forge, Heavy Metal and Penthouse. He has also contributed to many of the titles and anthologies produced at Moonstone as well. Currently he is handling much of the work for their highly successful Kolchak: the Night Stalker franchise and will be one of the main voices behind their upcoming Green Hornet launch.

The Green Hornet Meets the Phantom in

The Soul of Solomon

By Harlan Ellison
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What Is, Is;
Sometimes, Perhaps,
What Ain’t Shouldn’t Be
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“Wisdom come late, is wisdom nonetheless.”
Paul Selvin, Attorney
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I curse the lesson, and bless the knowledge. An old man sits at a manual typewriter as the midwinter sun sighs beyond the horizon. He seeks what he has always sought, the right path through the story. The correct and only way to weave the spell, sense and mordant wit, adventure and recurring surprise. As with each time, all the way back to the very first one, it calls its name, finally revealing its true self, and he follows where it leads. He trusts those tiny voices. They always give up their name and their hiding place. The story tells itself.

An old man practices his craft.

But this time he hears only his own heartbeat and the empty cavern of his mind. The story hides. But he goes on, because this is the work, the work he has done all his life, and one does not leave the plough in the unfinished furrow.

It used to be so effortless, a glide, a slalom; now, there is heaviness, and the voice out there is barely audible. Time and gravity are no man’s friends.

But he said he would do it, and the plough stands waiting, so he goes on. And how little the younger ones know. How shallowly they confront the work to come. A tsunami is coming toward them, and they perceive of it merely as a new season of American Idol.

Arrogance will not suffice. Nor will putting the shoulder to the wheel. No amount of dithering will shorten the heavily-trod pathway to the abyss. Nonetheless, dammit, the work must be done. How did I ever get into this? the old man muses. Who got me into this one?

His name is Rubén Procopio. I curse the lesson and bless the knowledge.

It is possible that the cover of this very book may sport a painting by Rubén Procopio. He is an excellent artist.

He is also a gracious and great-hearted man, and his friendship manifested itself one day last year in the manner of his arriving at my home bearing gifts. Sumptuous gifts. Sculptures by Rubén. The Phantom. The Green Hornet. (And Andy Panda, but he doesn’t make any more than this cameo reference.) Rubén had come to tell me how much he admired my work, and we stood around like two seven-year-olds, praising each other’s toys. And as I stared at the magnificent double-statue of The Green Hornet and Kato, back to back and radiating all the grandeur I’d known through radio their exploits as a little boy in the early 1940s, the beginning of the lesson Rubén was to drag me into learning, began.

I said, “Boy, wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were a story in which The Green Hornet actually met The Phantom?!”

The old man pauses. He needs to explain a theory. Because the theory lies at the heart of the trouble, of the lesson, of the anguish.

#

Sometimes, what is . . . simply is. It is that way because the universe has decreed it so. No larger, no smaller, no more blue, not patterned with stripes. Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should. What an arrogant, transitory little species we are. Change, always change; just for the sake of spewing NEW! on the carton. No better, no richer, no more profound . . . just other. The great French poet Mallarmé wisely pointed out, “To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.” The old man smiles and concurs.

Besotted with technology, but no greater of heart or innovation, the world goes a-whirling, onward ever onward, but loses its shadow. The moment is suffused with a cobalt blue miasma, and a kind of cultural hypnosis takes us all. We stare at the unreal, creating nothing of our own, providing willing customers for the Company Store. And all that was, is lost, unremembered, ridiculed and discarded.

Because we can, we do.

No better, no nobler, merely one more pony added to that dog-and-pony show that recycles the old ideas, but leaches from them their freshness.

For instance, the old man points out, we had one King Kong. A perfectly good one. We never needed five or six others, just because we had the ability to articulate the great beast a little better.

One still goes back to that crampy, stop-motion black and white artifact, and the wonder is not dimmed. One watches for a while all “re-imaginings”--theft is too harsh a word--and after a time there is a nasty buzzing between the ears. Just because they could, well, they needn’t have. The universe created that first, miraculous King Kong and said, “Never again.” But we are a duplicitous little species. Give us a knife, and we can whittle a flute to charm a child, or to cut our meat to survive. But because they can, some use the knife to bury the blade in someone’s skull, to build the bomb, to strap the death onto an old woman and send her into a marketplace. The knife makes no flutes, quarters no loin of beef: it kills.

Because we are capable, if we can, we do. Even though the universe makes it clear: sometimes, what is, is; and sometimes what ain’t, shouldn’t be.

The old man looks back on the theory, and sighs. It seems diffuse. Does it parse at all? What all this of a universe of IFDs and fat people losing weight on television? If one were just encountering such maunderings, if one were younger and had no idea who, say, Willis O’Brien was, or Christy Mathewson, or Ma Rainey, or Jim Tully, would this theory make any sense? Or would it merely resonate with a great and deep, heartfelt sense of loss?

#

The world is run by the geek-boys. Anything they can think of, is ooo awesome! Kewwwwwl!

And the geek-boy said to Rubén Procopio, “Woooo, wouldn’t it be neato keeno kewwwwl if The Phantom met The Green Hornet?!” And Rubén Procopio said, “I am seven years old, too. And I’d love to illustrate that!” And the geek-boy, overcome with gratitude and respect for the great gifts the artist had given him, being only seven years old himself, let Rubén Procopio take it to his publisher. And the geek-boy did nothing to stop the publisher from making it all real, asking permission of two elegant gentlemen--David Grace of the firm of Loeb & Loeb, that represents the Trendle holding of The Green Hornet, Inc.--and Brendan Burford of King Features Syndication--and the seven-year-old geek-boy cozzened them, and chatted with them, and told them of the sublime story that could be written. Not knowing that this was a lesson brutal in the learning, defying the universe and its message: what is . . . just is. Let it lie, old man.

And so, arrogant and naive, even after all these years, after chasing down and capturing every one of these fleeing little creatures, and gaining power over them by uncasting the runes and learning their true names . . .

I could easily lie, and say it was the fault of Britt Reid and The Ghost Who Walks. I could lie and say I held sway over them, that they were just fictions and so many hundreds of others had done with them as they chose . . . why not I? I could lie, but I won’t.

It was arrogance. A fool’s pride and refusal to bend to the will of the universe. I had to learn that lesson, finally, after all the years I had pulled that plough.

Yes, it was Procopio who abetted my fecklessness. He had no way of knowing that’s what he was doing, but if I lie and attempt to blame Rubén, I might get away with it, oh poor sad old man, he didn’t know what he was doing, and I might get away with it. But always, inevitably, the fault is mine. More than sixty years at this typewriter, I should’ve known what the hell I was getting into.

But I was arrogant. No other word for it.

It is an explanation, but not an excuse.

I have to eat that rotting, redolent fish, head and bones and all.

#

That was April 5th 2009. It is now nearly ten months later.

So I began to write. And here is the beginning of that story. It is all you’ll ever get of “The Soul of Solomon.”

MY name is Kato.

At one time or another, I have been asked thus: “Ah, well and good. Kato. Yes, we know that name. But what is the full of it? Kato “Who?”

The asking is simple. Unsullied and clear, without twist or turn. The answering is much more difficult; and never fully satisfying. Kato Kikigaki, the faithful Japanese house boy. Kato Aguinaldo, the staunch Filipino aide; Kato Tung hu, of what you might call “royal” Manchurian lineage. Kato Yutang, who was definitely Chinese; and Kato Nguyen, who might have been Korean, Vietnamese, even Laotian, there is no certainty.

My name is Kato.

Let that suffice for the duration of this narration.

I would tell you of two men I knew: Mr. Reid, for whom I worked many many years, until he committed suicide and this telling will disclose the reason for his final act of life and Mr. Walker, who said to me, “When the devil is your landlord, you had best begin humming “The End of the World Blues.” Immediately after the events of which I will treat here, Mr. Walker shunned his other self, and turned what you might call the “family business” over to his son. He then became hermitic, as one with aramites; and sequestered, let the ashes of his final days disappear on the winds of the years.

My name is Kato, and I worked for the man who was known as The Green Hornet, and once, just once, I was of avail to The Ghost Who Walks, he who called himself both Mr. Walker and The Phantom. Beside them in the most terrible moments of their lives, on the path that forced them to cut trail with each other as I say, once, just once.

The beginning, if you believe, was long before the birth of Christ. If you believe, it was long before the Neolithic peoples of Middle and Lower Egypt, more than a thousand years before Mentuhotep II reigned in the Middle Kingdom. Perhaps even before, as one has said, “the oceans drank Atlantis,” if you believe. Again, the asking is simple, any fool can play in that field. Not even belief, not even faith, suggests that the beginning occurred at the same moment most life on Earth succumbed to the flaming cudgel that snuffed out the saurians. No . . . no one can believe that.

It has been said that the second beginning was during the excavation for the Temple of Jerusalem. Not the Haram al Sharif, not Herod’s Temple on the Mount, not the temple of Zerubbabel, but the first Temple, the one called Solomon’s. It was erected based on plans given to Solomon by his father, David; and decades before Solomon completed his father’s dream, ground was first broken, the soil was first turned, in 959 Before the Common Era.

Beneath the blade of one such exploratory spade, an Israelite laborer struck something that rang with the sonority of a carillon. When it was unearthed, it was carried to the overseer, who held it away from himself as he rubbed it clean. And he took it to the Master Builder Hiram, who had been sent to Solomon by the ruler of the Phoenicians, and Hiram was dazzled by it, and he took it to Solomon, and the King held it, staring into its abyssal depths for a very long time. It was neither stone nor gem, neither coral nor petrified wood, neither scoria nor glass. It was exquisite; and it rang sonorously; and it gave back the sunlight and starlight in colors and shadows whose hues could not be named.

They came to call it The Soul of Solomon, and it was put in the inner sanctuary, the Holy of Holies, the debir, nearby the Torah and the Ark of the Covenant and the twin cherubim covered with gold that were fifteen feet tall, each with a fifteen foot wingspread and there, for three millennia, it lay waiting, there atop Mount Moriah, on the threshing floor of Araunah where (if you believe) not only had Abraham sacrificed, but so had Adam, Cain, Abel, and Noah.

There it remained, for almost four hundred years, till the First Temple was burned and plundered by the Babylonians of Nebuchadnezzer.

And so vanished from men’s eyes, The Soul of Solomon. If you believe.

Night had dropped its tonnage . . .

I wrote in a frenzy, all of that opening in one sitting. I was so drunk on it, I called Josh and read it to him. And he was knocked out by it. Then I read it to Susan and she was knocked out by it, but she loves me, so I can’t trust that. Then I called Joe Gentile, and he said, “Britt Reid commits suicide?! You can’t do that!” And I, arrogant and puffed up like a pouter pigeon, replied, “Trust me. I’m the fuckin’ king of the universe; you’ll only love it when you see where I’m going with this.” And Joe trusted me, because he didn’t know he was talking to a seven-year-old geek-boy.

Goshwow, wouldn’t it be so kewwwl if Godzilla battled The Creature from the Black Lagoon while Flash Gordon and The Bowery Boys joined forces to bring down The Red Skull who travels around in the Tardis! There is a balance in the universe, dear friends. Trifle with it at your peril. I sat and stared at Rubén Procopio’s magnificent sculptures of The Phantom and The Green Hornet, and I wrote as well as I could write--Josh said so, Susan said so, even Rubén said so--but I didn’t realize, till the white heat of my beginning cooled, and I had to contemplate how I was going to run down that fleeing creature called story, and gain the power of its name. Then I began to learn that lesson, and began to fear the knowledge.

What happened was this . . .

I knew how I was going to tell the story: from Kato’s viewpoint.

But why had Britt Reid killed himself? Why had The Phantom passed over his active life to his son, the next Walker, after the affair of The Soul of Solomon. And what was the Soul? I knew! It is no less than the conscience of god; the ability to know, and to do, good or evil.

It would have a powerful, possibly deleterious effect on anyone who possessed it. For instance, on Mount Moriah, Abraham would have sacrificed his son; Solomon would have cut the baby in half. Cain did slay Abel, there on Mount Moriah, because the Soul lay just beneath.

What a great concept. Bigger than I’d planned, more complex and ethereal than I’d intended, but what a kewwwwl idea. In pursuing the Soul, for whatever reason, The Phantom comes to Chicago, where he and The Hornet cut trail, and this happens, and that happens, all of it written with all the skill and imagination of a lifetime of unraveling storylines and creating characters.

I even went so far as to seek out a pseudoscientific reason for that stellar object to possess the qualities I needed to move the plot. And I called my friend, the (also) stellar science fiction writer, Jack McDevitt, and shared my plot-problem with him. And Jack, good friend, went to a prestigious reference source with geek-boy’s conundrum.

“Michael,” Jack wrote, “Harlan Ellison is working on a story. He has a meteorite which puts out radiation that effectively bifurcates the nature of an observer, causing him to go to one extreme or the other. Think the Lone Ranger deciding he has had enough and shooting the bad guy. Or an individual who is normally extremely selfish sacrificing himself to save someone else. What he needs is an explanation--something that can be encapsulated in three lines or so; how might this happen?”

Already, the universe was trying to tell me . . . what is, simply is. If it were condign for The Phantom to meet The Green Hornet, it would not require this convoluted, cobbled-up Lara Croft, Tomb Raider jiggery-pokery. You are suddenly in the middle of doing what only the crappiest kind of Michael Bay filmmakers do . . . you are twisting and corrupting your own story to achieve an artificial end. I was doing exactly what I’d spent a lifetime avoiding--I was lying.

And the “Michael” whom Jack had asked to intercede on my behalf, Michael Fossel, MD, PhD, MA, FACEP, wrote back and said, “. . . the quantum nature of consciousness. It goes something like this: consciousness is absolutely dependant upon the quantum nature of reality and its inherent unpredictability (hence free will). The radiation (it immediately makes me think of ‘Bizarro’ from Superman) inverts the relationship between normal neuronal function and consciousness by producing a mirror image of the normal quantum connection (and here a great deal of hand waving occurs) . . .”

The Green Hornet possesses the Soul. He does something so tenebrous, so impossible to live with, that he kills himself, even though what he did was sunk to the roots in the greater good.

What “greater good?” What am I talking about here? What sort of nebulous Judeo-Christian morality am I trying to sell? Why didn’t I just do a simple, silly story about gangsters and goons in the jungle and Chicago back o’ the yards. What the hell have I gotten myself into here?

And that was in May. Then June. Then year-end. And now I come to the end of my tale.

The old man sits hunched as he has been for decades, tapping out line after line. He has learned a terrible lesson, and it may be the very last one of his life:

Rubén responded to the geek-boy. Wouldn’t it be kewwwl if . . .

If what? If worms had wings? If monkeys bit the heads off every lubricating vampire-loving teen? If a thought got lost and found its way into Sarah Palin’s arid Sahara of a skull? If this and if that; it is a terrible lesson finally to learn that just because we can, it doesn’t mean we should.

I spent a year near the end of my life, trying to write what should never be written. The Phantom stands, The Green Hornet stands, they need never meet. They have nothing in common, ultimately, save the arrogance of an old man who has learned at the last doorway that sometimes what ain’t, shouldn’t be.

Wisdom come late, is wisdom nonetheless.

The End

HARLAN ELLISON, a Grand Master Lauerate of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, was recently characterized by The New York Times Book Review as having “the spellbinding quality of a great nonstop talker, with a cultural warehouse for a mind.” And the Washington Post Book World said simply, “One of the great living American short story writers.” In 2009 a best-selling documentary of his life, “Dreams with Sharp Teeth” premiered at Lincoln Center, and is currently high on Amazon’s “Best” list.

He has written or edited 75 books; more than 1700 stories, essays, articles, and newspaper columns; two dozen teleplays, for which he received the Writers Guild of America most outstanding teleplay award for solo work an unprecedented four times; and a dozen movies. He won the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe award twice, the Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker award six times (including The Lifetime Achievement Award in 1996), the Nebula three times, the Hugo 8½ times, and received the Silver Pen for Journalism from P.E.N. Not to mention The World Fantasy Award, the British Fantasy Award, the American Mystery Award, two Audie Awards, the Ray Bradbury Award, and two Grammy nominations for Spoken Word recordings, the latest being this year!

He created great fantasies for The Twilight Zone (including Danny Kaye’s final performance) and The Outer Limits; traveled with The Rolling Stones; marched with Martin Luther King from Selma to Montgomery; once stood off the son of a Mafia kingpin with a Remington XP-100, while wearing nothing but a bath towel; sued Paramount three times and ABC-TV for plagiarism and won $337,000—(among his perfect score of legal wins, including AOL and hundreds of internet pirates) and probably is the most contentious person now walking the Earth. But the bottom line, as voiced by Booklist last year, is this: “One thing for sure: the man can write.”

In 1990, Ellison was honored by P.E.N. for his continuing commitment to artistic freedom and the battle against censorship. He lives with his wife, Susan, inside the Lost Aztec Temple of Mars, in Los Angeles.

BONUS
SECTION

The Phantom History

By Ed Rhoades

Deep in the darkest jungles of Africa, there is a legend of a four hundred year old man. In the deep woods, home of the deadly Bandar . . . the poison pygmy tribe . . . where no outsider dares to go, beyond a secret entrance through a waterfall, in a cave shaped like a human skull, a mysterious figure sits upon a skull throne. With his grey mountain wolf, Devil and his white stallion, Hero, he fights piracy and injustice leaving his calling card . . . the death’s head imprinted from his skull ring. He is known by many names . . . The Ghost Who Walks, Guardian of the Eastern Dark, The Man Who Cannot Die . . . or simply The Phantom.

The Phantom first appeared in a newspaper strip on February 17, 1936. Lee Falk, a young writer from St. Louis, had already established himself as a syndicated comic strip writer with his first comic strip creation, Mandrake the Magician. Nearly two years later, The Phantom was the result of his collaboration with artist Ray Moore who had been working as an assistant on the Mandrake strip.

The Phantom’s appearance, credited as the first mainstream comic strip to feature a costumed hero, was the result of brainstorming sessions attended by Moore and some of his artist friends. The skin-tight costume was like that worn by circus performers of the day, and the mask and cowl were reminiscent of old-time executioners giving an eerie, spooky but very original appearance to the character. Initially, the Phantom wore gloves, and Moore’s hatching on the outer shorts eventually evolved into stripes giving the hero the look of a character from an Elizabethan play.

The skull motif added an aura of mystery and the oath of the skull was inspired by Hamlet. Lee was an aspiring playwright who ended up owning half a dozen playhouses, creating and directing plays and being responsible for hundreds of stage productions. In later years, Sy Barry designed a Phantom poster for Lee to promote a version of Hamlet.

It’s likely that Lee also drew inspiration from John Singleton Mosby, The Gray Ghost, an authentic civil war hero whose daring exploits captured everyone’s imagination. Mosby’s real life exploits, like single handedly capturing a general, paralleled Phantom adventures that Lee wrote during his long tenure on the strip.

Lee told me that since there was already the Phantom Detective and The Phantom of the Opera he considered calling his character “The Gray Ghost” but decided there was room for one more Phantom.

Lee wrote stories from the strips beginning until 1999, when on his deathbed he literally tore off his oxygen mask to dictate the strip right up until the end.

Under Lee’s tenure, stories drew inspiration from history, current events, theatre and classical literature. In the first story, the Phantom fights his longtime nemesis, the Singh Pirates. Initially, Lee planned for the character to have a secret identity in the guise of Jimmy Wells, but soon abandoned the idea to create a jungle mystique. In his origin story the Phantom lives among the poison pygmy tribe called the Bandar, who are enslaved by a tribe of giants called the Wasaka. Phantom artist Wilson McCoy actually visited Africa and met with the Ituri, the real poison pygmy tribe that inspired Lee. There also was a real tribe of giants called the Watusi.

One Lee Falk Phantom story, Queen Samaris XII, was inspired by H. Rider Haggard’s She. Another, The Jungle Olympics was a retelling of the Greek comedy Lysistrata. Diana Aviatrix Lost was a tribute to Amelia Earhart, and The Rattle was reminiscent of Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Lee’s extensive knowledge of theatre, literature and stage experiences enriched his writing.

Unlike Superman and Batman who both came later, The Phantom was the character’s real identity and Mr. Walker was merely his disguise. The idea of a hero whose son succeeds him after his death was also a fascinating touch. It gave the character a legendary status of “The Ghost Who Walks” or the “Man Who Never Dies” while presenting readers with a human figure to whom they could relate.

Lee’s character became a global phenomenon. The first Phantom publication was a Big Little Book that came out when the first story was still running in newspapers, but the first comic book was published in Italy, a country that generated an enormous amount of original Phantom comic book stories. When Mussolini finally outlawed the American import, famed filmmaker, Federico Fellini wrote his own version of Phantom stories to satisfy the Italian thirst for Phantom adventures.

Lee related to me that during the WW II occupation of Norway, the Germans told the people that the US had fallen, but the Phantom strip kept appearing in the newspapers reassuring the people that it wasn’t true. The word “Phantom” became a code word for the resistance. Robert McCoy told me that his father, wartime Phantom artist Wilson McCoy, visited Norway in the post war years, where he was given a hero’s welcome, as was legendary Phantom artist Sy Barry on a more recent visit.

Australia and Sweden have been publishing Phantom comics for more than fifty consecutive years and the character continues to thrive there. In Sweden, there is even a Phantom themed amusement park.

Besides Sweden, Norway, and Australia, Phantom comics have also been published around the world including Finland, New Zealand, Germany, Argentina, Buenos Aires, England, Thailand, Turkey, Brazil, France, Spain, Russia, Yugoslavia, and India.

Lee’s Phantom stories evolved with the times. In the 1950s he wrote about uranium claim jumpers, in the ’60s US astronauts, and before his death in 1999, he wrote about terrorists.

The Phantom has also been featured in a 1943 Columbia serial starring Tom Tyler and Jeanne Bates, a 1996 big budget film starring Billy Zane, and two syndicated cartoon series, as well as an A&E Biography. Soon, there will be a futuristic version of The Phantom in a live action TV show on the SyFy Channel.

The Phantom newspaper strip has been read by over sixty million readers worldwide, From the beginning, its popularity was solid with art work by the late Ray Moore in the 1930’s and ’40s and illustrations by the late Wilson McCoy from wartime to 1961. It became even more beloved by fans under the hand of Sy Barry and his assistant George Olesen.

In recent years former Batman artist Graham Nolan drew the Sunday strips, and Paul Ryan illustrated the dailies, with both storylines being written by Tony DePaul. Now, for both Sundays and dailies the artist is Paul Ryan.

The publishing history outside newspapers for the character in the US began with Big Little Books in 1936 and Better Little Books followed. Syndicated adventures were serialized in Ace, King and Future comics from 1936 to 1947. The early Lee Falk stories were also reprinted in comics called Feature Books from 1938 to 1949 and more of Lee’s stories were reprinted in Harvey Comic Hits and Harvey Hits until 1957. Gold Key Phantom comics in the early 1960s were the first to feature original art by Bill Lignante and covers by the late George Wilson, but the stories were still taken from newspaper strips written by Lee. It wasn’t until King and Charlton comics that entirely new Phantom stories were presented to US comic book fans. Some Charlton comics featured work by the late Jim Aparo and the late Don Newton. These are fan favorites.

Other publishers like Tony Raiola of Pacific Comics continued to reprint classic Lee Falk stories, but it wasn’t until the late 1980s that consistently high quality Phantom stories were created for US comic book readers. The first DC Comics miniseries was written by Peter David and illustrated by the late Joe Orlando and Dennis Janke. The issues by DC that followed were drawn by Luke McDonnell and written by Mark Verheiden, known for his work on Superman comics, and his work on TV and movies for Smallville, Freaky Links, The Mask, and Time Cop. Still even with this run of outstanding stories, the comic was cancelled after thirteen issues.

Hermes Press is contracted to reprint the newspaper strips from the beginning through the Sy Barry years with the first volume slated for release in December of 2009.

Moonstone, the current US publisher of Phantom comic books, brought back the beauty of painted covers beginning with Joel Naprstek. Joel’s work for Moonstone had the drama and charm of a retro pulp style. Later, cover artist, Doug Klauba, began painting superb illustrations in a neo-realistic style. These paintings are a major contribution for Phantom fans and are comparable to the legendary work of the late George Wilson (Gold Key and Avon paperbacks), the late Don Newton (Charlton) and (Semic/Egmont) artist, Rolf Gohs. Other outstanding covers from Moonstone include the work of Pat Quinn and Dave McCaig, Graham Nolan, Brett Blevins, Daryl Banks, Jerry DeCaire and John Cassaday.

As for Moonstone’s content, they hit the ground running with stories by the talented Ben Raab, Ron Goulart, and Raphael Nieves and later added Chuck Dixon and Mike Bullock to their team of writers.

The interiors began with a young stylish artist from Spain named Fernando Blanco, and continued with Mike Collins and Art Nichols with colors by Ken Wolak and Dawn Groszewski. Other talents making contributions to the comic included Tom DeFalco, Lou Manna, Art Nichols and Terry Pallot. Subsequent artists have included Pat Quinn, Jerry DeCaire, Ken Wheaton, Eric J, Peter Guzman, Gabriel Rearte, Carlos Magno and Nick Derington. Their work has a modern stylized, edgy feel without losing the appeal of the traditional Phantom.

In addition to their own original stories, Moonstone has reprinted recent syndicated strips illustrated by Graham Nolan and written by popular Semic/Egmont author Claes Reimerthi, Semic/Egmont/newspaper strip writer Tony DePaul and even one by Nolan himself.

Long time Phantom fans and King Features Syndicate are very protective of Lee Falk’s vision, but US comic book fans are a very demanding audience. Moonstone editor Joe Gentile is committed to presenting the vintage comic character with sensibilities for modern readers without compromising its original integrity.

With a very impressive talent pool of writers and artists, Moonstone has set the record for the largest number of original Phantom offerings by any comic book publisher in US history. With Mike Bullock and Silvestre Szilagyi working diligently as the writer and artist for the regular series, this record increases every month.

Moonstone remains dedicated to publishing new Phantom material on a regular basis, helping The Phantom become a commercial success for US audiences, an accomplishment no other US comic book publisher has been able to sustain.

The Plague

By Saurav Mohapatra
and C.J. Henderson

Kwame Ibanwa felt the soft weight of the raindrops on his bare back. The constantly drizzling rain had made the underbrush slick and heavy, slowing travel. Each further step sapped the young man of what little strength remained within it. His body bore the marks of his travels—bruises, welts and cuts administered by the unforgiving jungle. Not that Kwame even noticed his various aches. At that point his battered, sweating body had become numb.

In all his sixteen years Kwame Ibanwa had never ventured so deep into the jungle. He was of the Walosha—the people of the valley. His life had been spent in the comfort of the hills’ shadow by the bend of the mighty river. The valley had good soil and much wildlife. As his father would so often say, why would a man need go further than their river’s edge?

Sadly, Kwame had found a reason.

If the young man could have felt anything at all, at that moment he would have chosen fear—fear of being lost in the jungle, of what lurked in the dark, of what was behind him, or more specifically, of what he had left behind. Kwame did not actually know if he was being pursued. He did not care. All that mattered to him as he stumbled onward was the promise he had made to a dying man, and the medallion in his hand. The medal was a physical reminder of that promise, and the only thing keeping him sane as his body burned with fever and his mind reeled closer to insanity.

Kwame had lost track of how long he had been running in the woods, clutching the necklace that once his grandfather Okanu wore proudly. It was decorated with the image of four cutlasses joined at the center, yet the old man spoke of the amulet as if it were sacred—a totem of divine protection. When he had been a child, Kwame had been fascinated by it. Okanu had let him hold it—once. Now it was his, his sole possession, and a reminder of the mindless evil which had destroyed his world, and placed an old man’s dying whispers within his mind.

“Find the Ghost Who Walks. Find the Phantom.”

The Phantom? Kwame staggered onward, no more than wandering, the charge given him by his grandfather still echoing inside his skull.

Perhaps, he thought, the old man’s mind had burned with fever as did his. But even so, what else could he to do but press on? Somewhere in the darkness behind him was his village, every man, woman and child within it dead. Kwame remembered the screams. The days of the plague, men and women wasting away in a day as the hot disease burning their minds and eating their soul from the inside. Children dying in hours, reduced beyond recognition to bags of bones and pus-covered flesh. Kwame had been one of the lucky ones, for he had shown no signs of the plague.

For a while.

When his grandfather had fallen ill, Kwame had tended to him. The first sign he himself was succumbing to the disease came when he had spit blood. He tried to hide the fact, but the old man had noticed. Through the delirium of his own raging fever, Okanu had pleaded with Kwame to let him be, to leave the village. But, the young man had wondered, where could he go? His grandfather was his family—their village, his world.

The only reason Kwame would consider worthy for leaving his grandfather’s side was to search the jungle for the herbs the tribe’s medicine man had said might help. The teenager knew the herbs had been tried already with practically no success. But the effort gave the old man hope, and so Kwame would hunt for them. He was out hunting for herbs when the helicopters came.

When he first heard their noise, Kwame thought help had come from the high heavens. The last of the white robed men, the ones who called themselves “doctors”, had left their village six months ago before the onset of the winter rains. That was when Kwame had seen his first helicopter. Maybe, he hoped, the doctors had heard of the plague and returned. The notion filling him with joy, Kwame began back towards his village. Halfway there he heard the thunder of weapons.

Stopping behind a stand of trees, the young man watched as helicopters rained fire across the entire settlement. Tubes mounted on their sides belched fire, incinerating everything within their range. Kwame felt his spine shudder as the screams began to reach his ears. Mixed as they were, blended by terror, still he could identify the throats making the hideous sounds. His grandfather’s friends, his own friends, their mothers, fathers, animals he tended—the cacophony of terror froze him stock-still for a moment, then set him running forward.

Kwame had managed to make it to his hut before the helicopters came around for a second pass. His structure stood on the fringe of the village, away from the attackers initial entry point, and thus had not been set ablaze during the first wave of the attack. But spying the helicopters turning in air, he knew instinctively that was about to change. Like a lion hunting antelope, the second swoop would finish off what was left standing after the first lunge. Knowing he had but seconds, Kwame rushed to his grandfather’s side.

“Grandfather, hurry! We must go—now.”

The old man’s eyes lit up when he saw his grandson, but only for a moment. Foreboding filled them as the sound of the helicopters grew louder. Okanu was listening to the sound of the weapons outside, and the screams they were created. He could smell the burning structures and flesh all about him. Knowing he was far too weak to move, refusing to burden his grandson, the old man summoned all his remaining strength, then ordered;

“Leave me, Kwame.” Surprised at the strength in his grandfather’s hoarse whisper, unable to consider his words, he shouted back;

“No! I will not leave you. I—”

“It is too late for me, boy, and you will do as you are told. You will go. Go—go now. Run—run for the woods.”

The old man summoned the last of his strength as he took the medallion he wore proudly on his neck all his life and put it in Kwame’s hands.

“Find the Ghost Who Walks. Find the Phantom. Tell him our tale.”

The hut walls shattered as the helicopter’s fire was replaced by bullets.

“Go!”

Kwame dashed out just before his home collapsed and then exploded into an inferno. He dashed straight for the trees, but sadly not fast enough. The men in the helicopters spotted him and turned their weapons in his direction. Kwame was not the best of runners, but feeling the whiz of bullets rushing past him granted him a speed that made him feel the gods had blessed his feet with the swiftest of winds.

He had run back towards the safety of the trees, plunging deeper into the jungle beyond than he had ever imagined ever going. The helicopters poured bullets in every direction, followed by more of their fire. But, though they could burn down his village despite the rain, they could not set fire to his forest. Kwame escaped into the protective green.

But, staggering through the unfamiliar jungle, his mind blurred by fever, breath coming in gasps, the young man was on the verge of collapse. He prayed that his legs hold up just for a few furlongs more for his tale had to be told. But, as is so often the case, the universe willed otherwise. His legs no longer responding to his commands, the blurring shapes all about him started to spin. As Kwame cried out, the fire in his chest welled and everything turned dark. Try as he might, the young man could go no further. Kwame fell to the ground—unconscious. Finished. His medallion fell from his hand and into the mud. Ants and others crawled across his prostrate body as the rain continued to fall. In his fevered mind, the teenager dreamed of failure.

“It’s strange, all right. When the Llongo found him in the jungle he was unconscious. I gave him a check-up and what I came up with shocked me.”

Kwame could not understand the tongue being spoken. The tone sounded kind—concerned, but there was a distinct trace of agitation in it. It was a man’s voice, one tempered with age and experience. The soothing quality of it reminded Kwame of his grandfather.

“Why so, doctor?”

“What this boy has shouldn’t even still exist, not in this age.”

Kwame’s eyelids felt like they were made of stone. It took him an extraordinary amount of effort to open them even the thinnest of cracks. Even then his vision was blurry. But, he could see that he was no longer in the jungle. How he had been found, by whom, to where he had been taken, Kwame had no answers.

There was an alien tinge to the air. In the back of his mind, the teenager knew he had taken in this smell at some time in the past, but his delirious mind could not place it. He was too weak to remember. Too weak to move.

“Elephant’s Fever, that’s what he has. There was an outbreak in this region back in, oh, 1922. It was later identified to be a virus that’d mutated from a disease common in elephants. Its virulence proved to be its undoing, though. Couldn’t survive the death of its human host. The animal pathogen still exists to this day, but the variant that could harm humans . . . that, that’s supposed to be extinct.”

Kwame’s mind was clearing. His body still felt weary, yet the veil clouding his mind was lifting. Suddenly he remembered where he had encountered the smell all around him. It had been in the tent of the doctors, back in his village. The doctors, the white men, like the men in the helicopters.

Kwame shuddered, feeling his chest tighten. The white devils had returned for him. And he was helpless.

“This patient has the infection all right, but this virus kills within a day—two at the most. He’s been carrying it close to a week now, though.”

“Then,” offered the woman in white next to the doctor, “something in his body is resisting it, fighting it, somehow?”

“Somehow . . .”

Kwame willed his muscles to move. He invoked the name of his ancestors, prayed to them for strength. It cannot end this way, he told himself. He had to survive. The tale of his people had to be told.

The teenager wanted to jump up, to flee his captor, but all he managed to do was move his head a bit. He could see the doctor and his nurse more clearly now. The doctor was talking to someone Kwame could not yet see.

Who had made him prisoner did not matter. What they were saying did not matter. The only thought raging within Kwame’s mind was escaping, and finding the Phantom. Commanded his body with all the urgency he could summon, the young man strained to move.

“It’s a strange case—a disease that shouldn’t exist and a boy who shouldn’t have survived. It’s almost as if . . .”

Suddenly a strident beeping filled the room. Kwame became afraid as he saw the doctor turn and begin to run towards him. Bending over him, the man shouted;

“He’s going into shock! Nurse, pass me that syringe. Quick, we’re losing him.”

As the doctor shouted in his foreign tongue, Kwame had an epiphany—he was dead and in hell. A strange calm engulfed him. The distant beeping became even and faint once more. Ready to make his peace with the world, the young man took a deep breath, then whispered;

“Spirits of the jungle. I, Kwame Ibanwa of the Walosha, son to Orida and grandson to Okanu, pray to you. Rescue my spirit from this hell.”

It was then that Kwame heard the voice. It was strong without being harsh, a deep tone capable of capturing attention and commanding respect from even the most resistant.

“Kwame Ibanwa of the Walosha,” it said, “put your heart at ease. You are not dead.”

Kwame understood the words being spoken to him. Forcing his eyes open, he struggled to see from whence the voice had come. As a purple-clad figure bent into view, the teenager knew his quest had been successful.

“I am the Phantom,” he said. Holding the amulet Okanu had given to Kwame, he asked, “I’d like to know where you got this.”

Kwame felt relief. He had survived, at least long enough to fulfill his promise. Taking a deep breath, struggling to make himself heard, all thoughts of his own condition faded from his mind as he began to speak.

“How’s he doing, doctor?”

The Phantom’s voice was as even as usual, yet somewhere within it Axel thought he detected a quiet anger. It was hard to tell with the Ghost Who Walked. The doctor knew that sometimes people simply projected onto him what they wanted to hear. To believe.

Then again, thought Axel, that’s the way it is with heroes, isn’t it?

The Phantom had asked his question while preparing to mount his white stallion, Hero. In the split-second before he answered, the doctor thought about the scene before him. The boy in his clinic had told of armed troops destroying an entire village, men armed with guns and flamethrowers—possibly napalm bombs. And yet, here was a man, not only ready to track this force down, but to all appearances confident he would have no trouble with them.

One man, on horseback, against modern helicopters. A man carrying only a single set of automatics. A man who, when he finally caught up to the murderers of the Walosha, would go to great lengths to not kill them, but to deliver them unto justice.

The doctor had devoted his life to helping people, had turned his back on large fees and fine living to give back to the world by being of service. Staring at the Phantom, suddenly he felt as if he had nothing at all. Somewhat embarrassed by not only his revelation, but his delay in speaking, he finally answered;

“Oh, the boy, oh, he’ll be fine. His body, well it’s a miracle, but it’s fighting the virus, and it’s winning. I need to be certain, of course, that’s why I’ve sent his blood sample to Mawitaan by runner. A friend of mine heads a lab there—Edwin Chikota.”

“Chikota? Now where have I heard that name before?” The doctor smiled, saying;

“Dr. Edwin Chikota, Nobel laureate in Medicine, perhaps the best virologist of our age. We went to medical school together. He gave up tenure in Johns Hopkins to institute the ‘No Boundaries’ program.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of him. Vaccinations for inner Africa—a noble endeavor, indeed.”

“Yes, he somehow convinced VulCorp, the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world, to fund his dream. Which means Edwin also happens to have the most sophisticated lab in all of Africa. We’ll know everything there is to know about our Kwame soon.”

“And how is he?”

“Oh, fine now. Sedated. Still very weak, dehydrated. I should get the results back in a couple of days. Till then I’ll be keeping him on a drip, till he gets his strength back. He’s been through a lot.”

“Yes, he has.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“The Walosha village is a day’s ride to the east. I’m going to investigate, to see if I can find anything concrete. In the meantime, if you come across anything I should know, contact Guran. He can always find me.”

“I . . .” Axel blurted as the Phantom mounted Hero. Even though the mask made it impossible for Axel to see the Phantom’s eyes, the old doctor felt a hard gaze bore into him. Forcing himself to continue, he said;

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing, really. I just find it all so incredulous. The team that went up to the Walosha village sounds like Edwin’s as per Kwame’s description. Oh, but then, to a boy like him, never seen a car, let alone a helicopter . . .” Axel sputtered for a moment, then finished, saying;

“Oh, what am I saying? No Boundaries has done wonders here. Africa isn’t the same place I knew as a young man, true, but . . . well, perhaps I should leave the police work to those who understand it, just do what I know how to do.”

The Phantom nodded silently, then dug his heels into Hero’s sides gently, signalling the stallion that it was time to leave. The same notion which had struck the doctor had already crossed his mind. He, however, was not quite so eager to dismiss it.

The Phantom had seen much in his time as the protector of the jungle, yet the sight of the carnage that had been wrought upon the Walosha shocked even him. Still, he told himself, the comfort of shock was not a luxury in which he could afford to indulge for long. So say, he slid from his saddle and bent to his work, coaxing the charred earth to open its heart to him. The rain had been nearly constant since the attack, yet the Phantom did not let the fact discourage him. He would learn whatever he could and then act upon what he had learned. He had no choice.

Kwame had spoken the truth. The entire tribe had been wiped out, their village razed to the ground. From what he could determine from the bullet spray and fire drop patterns, those responsible had been professional and methodical. They had not been there to spread fear. One leaves survivors when they want to intimidate a few escapees to spread the word. But those who had ravaged the Walosha had done everything they could to murder Kwame as well.

“Then why?”

And, just as the Phantom muttered his question to himself, he realized its answer. He was examining an extermination of evidence. Someone wanted the Walosha village removed from the face of the Earth. Buildings and bodies incinerated. Nothing for him to examine but ashes.

The Phantom’s reverie was interrupted by Devil’s bark. He had left his horse, and his faithful companion, Devil, the mountain wolf, some distance away lest they inadvertently trample some manner of clue. The wolf’s bark was not frantic, not an alert signalling danger. Listening carefully, the Phantom became aware of a familiar buzzing sound.

His ancestors had sent and received messages through the old jungle telegraph—the tom-tom. The Phantom still called upon the tried and true method for much of Africa was still denied other means of communication. But, all the Phantoms had stayed current within their times, and he was no different. Drawing the ringing satellite phone out of his saddlebag, he knew it could be one of only a few handful of people. It was Guran of the Bandar who had reached him.

His friend’s words were few, but terrible. Those that had razed the Walosha village to cinders had struck again. This time their target had been Dr. Alex’s Hospital. The facility had been hit by a team of mercenaries, from all accounts the same ones as those that hit Kwame’s people. Had Guran and the Bandar not intervened in time, Alex and his hospital would have suffered from the same fate as the Walosha village. The Bandar poison arrows were a persuasive deterrent, however, and the mercenaries had fled before they could complete their task. They did manage to perform one action that alerted the Phantom to their main objective. They had taken Kwame.

Alive.

The Phantom stood on the wooden pier looking out into the ocean. To the casual observer he was dressed in the manner of the city folk. A dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat sheltered him from the nippy sea breeze. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. That same casual observer might wonder why anyone would wear dark glasses in the dead of the night, but the truth was they were specially treated with a chemical which amplified whatever light was available. Like all the jungle’s great night hunters, the Phantom could see in the dark.

Before his friend had broken their connection, the Phantom had decided that if mercenaries had known where to find Kwame, there was only one place they could have gotten the information—Chikota’s lab. A quick call to Colonel Worubu of the Jungle Patrol had put a copy of their dossier on VulCorp and “No Boundaries” in his hands when he had reached the coast.

A quick study of what the Patrol had amassed helped him piece together an all too familiar pattern. A visionary man of science decides to work for the greater good. But, who steps forward to help him but an unscrupulous man of riches. Mercenaries, death squads, retro-engineered plagues—the Phantom sighed. An entire people murdered for nothing more than money.

“The most worthless of illusions,” he muttered, once more puzzled at the insanity of greed.

As per Worubu’s information, for tax and other reasons, VulCorp operated out of the M.S. Prometheus, a moored ship just out in the international waters off the coast of Mawitaan, registered from an obscure Mediterranean principality. A quick call to President Luaga had confirmed that his hands were tied, but he did confirm that over the last few days, coinciding with the date Kwame’s blood sample should have reached the corporate hospital, many key VulCorp personnel, including Viktor Vulco, CKO of VulCorp and Dr. Edwin Chikota, along with a large number of security personnel had withdrawn from Mawitaan to the Prometheus.

The Phantom weighed the information silently. Presence of Vulco meant that Kwame was obviously important to him. It certainly must have to do with the fact the boy had survived Elephant’s Fever. That meant Kwame was almost certainly still alive, as Vulco would need a living subject if he was to unlock the secret of his survival.

Studying the ship with a pair of high-powered binoculars, the Phantom counted four powerful searchlights mounted at regular intervals along the sides. There was nearly thirty miles of shark infested water between shore and the ship. The distance was not a problem, as the Phantom had arranged for an inflatable Zodiac raft from the Bangallan Navy to be left for him. Its muffled outboard motor would allow him to approach within a mile of the ship without raising alarms unless he was somehow spotted visually.

Worubu’s papers also included an almost totally complete layout of the ship. Although some areas had been deemed classified under the laws protecting corporations from industrial espionage, still the Phantom found what he needed. One section showed extensive climate control ventilation. He felt quite certain this would have to be a shipboard laboratory, and that he would find Kwame. With all the information he needed, the Phantom slipped over the side of the dock and into his waiting craft. In minutes he had shed his disguise and set course for the Prometheus.

The mercenaries guarding the ship were no match for the Ghost Who Walks. He had swum the last mile after leaving the raft to deflate and sink into the ocean. The only shark he met provided distraction enough for any others that might be in the area after the Phantom skillfully blooded it with his knife. The feeding frenzy that followed attracted the attention of most of the ship’s sentries while the Phantom used its anchor chain to climb aboard.

Avoiding the knot of mercenaries watching the carnage in the water, the Phantom moved from one end of the ship to the other, taking out the stationary guards. Taking them each by surprise, he rendered them unconscious one after another, either through a carefully pinched nerve or a simple choke hold or, as in two occasions, a sharp knockout blow to the head. He disliked having to resort to such a tactic so early in his assault simply because it was a noisier method, one which might attract the attention of those on the deck. After only a handful of minutes, however, the ones on deck watching the sharks were the only ones left, and such considerations were no longer a problem.

Throwing himself off the masthead tower, the Phantom came feet down against the backs of two of the guards. Both men went down instantly, crying out in startled alarm until they slammed against the railing. As the pair threw up their arms, their lungs emptied by the violence of the Phantom’s attack, the others jumped to both sides in surprise. At the same time, the Phantom had pushed off from them, launching himself upward and to the side, back-flipping so that he would land behind three of their compatriots.

Not one to waste time with niceties when facing murderers, the Phantom grabbed the closest man and simply swung him around into his waiting fist. The man’s jaw broke as he stumbled into one of the other guards, bouncing his head off the metal stanchion behind him. The third man had almost begun to realize what was happening when the Phantom slammed a fist against his jaw, sending him toppling end over end.

The guards to the other side had time to lay their hands on their sidearms, but no time to draw them. The Phantom was among them in an instant, seemingly lashing out in multiple directions at once, sending them all unconscious to the deck. When they woke up, hours later, they might wonder what happened to them, but only until they discovered the indelible mark in the shape of a death’s head on their jaws. Like any who perpetrated evil within Africa, sight of that skull dug deep into their flesh would tell them all they needed to know.

The Phantom had grabbed up the guard who had been slammed against the stanchion and kept him conscious long enough to force him to reveal the locations of both Vulco’s cabin and the engine room. The armed guard outside the engine room caused the masked avenger no more trouble than the others. Disabling the officer on night watch as well, he then used the codes provided by Worubu to plot a new course for the ship. After that, he used the Prometheus’ own transmitter to send a short burst signal to the shore. Using the butt of one of his automatics, he then made certain the course corrections he had made could not be reversed. Things were falling into place.

All that remained was the final phase.

Feeling the gentle tremor of the ship beginning to move, the guards outside Vulco’s cabin acted as the Phantom expected. Uncertain of what was happening, they tried to raise the engine room on their walkie-talkies. Concentrating on discovering answers they did not need rather than simply doing their jobs, the pair gave the Phantom the chance to slide up behind them and bang their heads together, a simple maneuver which took both of them out of the picture.

Using the key he found on one of their belts, he entered Vulco’s quarters. He did not find what he expected inside.

As he entered the cabin, the Phantom found Vulco gagged and tied in a chair, his eyes wide in terror. The older man was sweating, and bleeding. As the Phantom removed the socked taped in his mouth, Vulco screamed;

“It’s Chikota. He’s gone mad!” The Phantom sighed as he loosened the CEO’s restraints. He did not like making mistakes, but the facts revealed Vulco had to be telling the truth. The Ghost Who Walks had run into so many of the wealthy who could not help grabbing for more no matter who it hurt, he had misjudged the facts. The monster that had murdered the Walosha had been Chikota.

The humanitarian—Chikota.

Edwin Chikota stood near Kwame’s bed, readying a syringe so that he might extract a sample of the teenager’s blood. Kwame’s eyes narrowed in fear as he saw the white robed man of his nightmares standing right before him.

“Ah, Kwame is it? It’s been a long time since we last met.”

The anesthetics administered to Kwame had slowed all of his responses, but he had regained enough control over his facial muscles for them to contort with rage as he swore;

“You bastard—you killed my people!”

“I did, yes.” The doctor surprised Kwame by answering him in his own language.

“Your people are unique, or should I say, they ‘were.’ You all lived so long without the interference of modern medicine, your bodies became unusually immune to a variety of diseases that plague the world at large. Normally it works the other way—people come up against a new virus or the such and most of them just up and die. Not the Walosha, though.” Tapping his syringe absently, the doctor continued speaking without bothering to look at his patient.

“But, in the end I over-estimated your immunity. Most of you couldn’t handle the re-engineered retrovirus. But you, well . . . you’re all that I’d hoped for! Your body adapted, fought free. Triumphed.” Finally turning toward the boy, Chikota moved away from his work station, saying;

“That makes you the key I’ve been searching for. I just need the final analysis to baseline my findings. And just think, you’ll live forever in the annals of the medical profession as my anonymous donor zero. I’ll harvest your blood to create a panacea that very well may spell the end for each and every infection that plagues the human race.”

Kwame closed his eyes. He could no longer comprehend what the mad man was talking about, but he knew that his end was near. Closing his eyes, he prayed, his mind running through the pantheon of jungle spirits known to him. He prayed not for deliverance, but for one chance at revenge, one moment before his last breath where he might entwine his fingers around the neck of the villain who had killed his entire tribe.

The mad man laughed.

Kwame prayed harder.

Then, with all eyes on Chikota, the Phantom leapt from the hallway into the laboratory. Thunder bellowed from his guns, the first bullet knocking the syringe from the doctor’s hands. The next shots found their way into the guns of the guards, disarming them. As they dropped their now shattered weapons, instinctively nursing their wounded hands, the Phantom moved in quickly, slamming his way through the last few of Chikota’s mercenaries.

Still somewhat dazed, but recovering quickly, Kwame heard the Phantom’s fists crashing into the jaws of his tormentors as well as the dull thuds they made as they slammed against the floor. In but moments the Phantom was by his side, his voice giving strength to the young man. As soon as his restraints were untied, Kwame managed to get his feet onto the ground under his own power.

As the Phantom worked to lift Kwame onto his shoulders, however, he did not see what the teenager saw. Chikota had not been immobilized. His right hand was shaking—bleeding, but in his left he clutched a scalpel and he was moving towards the Phantom.

With the attention of the Ghost Who Walks focused upon Kwame, the boy knew he had been given his chance. He had already grabbed a similar weapon from his bedside. And, Kwame knew that once Chikota drove his weapon into the Phantom, he could simply reach across and gut the monster, thus ensuring revenge for his people. Focusing, steeling himself for the moment to come, time stood still for the young man.

In one instance he relived the death of his people, smelled their burning flesh, heard their cries. But also he saw his grandfather, willing to die, giving his life so Kwame might live. He saw also Dr. Axel, as well as the other doctors who had tried to help when others would not.

Kwame closed his eyes against the vision, then opened them once more. Knowing what he had to do, the young man summoned all his strength, then threw his scalpel and collapsed in the Phantom’s arms as a sudden terrible wrenching threw everything in the room sideways. He knew not what happened, neither did he care. All he knew was that the madman lay on the floor writhing, the scalpel he had thrown embedded in his shoulder.

For Kwame of the Walosha, it was enough.

The sudden shudder which had toppled everything on the Prometheus save for the Phantom and the young man in his arms had been the ship running aground on the shores of Mawitaan. As it had been worked out in advance, the Bangallan Navy had made for the vessel as soon as it had entered their territorial waters.

Chikota and those who had worked for him were taken into custody. The international media was circumvented by the torching of the Prometheus. Remains of the murdered Walosha were presented as all that was left of the “noble” doctor. As was usual in such cases, no mention was made of the Phantom. He was, after all, as any intelligent person knew, merely a myth. Nothing to be taken seriously in the twenty-first century.

Kwame was made a quite handsome offer by Vulco. With Dr. Alex, the only man he now trusted overseeing things, the young man would donate blood to the corporation in the hopes Chikota’s work could be pieced together and lives could still be saved one day. He would be schooled and given a home and be well cared for.

Still, at his first opportunity, the young man stole away into the night, returning to his former home. He stood for a long time on the knoll overlooking his village, simply staring. Then finally, he knelt down and dug in the lush earth. When he had reached a depth he considered sufficient, he dropped the medallion his grandfather had entrusted to him, the one the old man knew the Phantom would recognize, into the hole and covered it over.

Then, he spoke the name of Okanu of the Walosha, praying for him, and for the safe passage of the souls of all his kinsmen from the terror in which they had died to the joyous safety of the other realm.

Then, after a long time, he finally rose and turned to go back into the jungle. The past had been dealt with. As always, the future remained ahead.

The End