In the dark labyrinth of her mind, she considered how brilliantly insane Mr. Death truly was. He knew the truth that she was going to betray these Nazis when the proper time came and she suspected that he also knew that she wasn’t sharing all the details of her plan with her own allies, either.
Dieter cleared his throat as the creature that had once been his daughter moved ahead of him. He was still the odd man out here, the only one who had not been transformed. “Are you certain that you have to go into the United States? It seems very dangerous.”
Darhoth turned to face him. They were in a walkway that connected two halves of the OFP labs and several large windows showed the dull gray skies of Berlin. She held his gaze for a moment, recognizing the disturbance that he felt. She was looking at him with the face of his daughter but he knew that Sonya was long dead, her spirit having been devoured by the Mother of Pus. Forcing a softness into her tone, she reached out and caressed his face, using his devotion to his daughter to manipulate him. “I will be careful, Father. When all of this is done, I will make sure that your loyalty is noted.”
Dieter seemed to shrink somewhat, his fear lessened by her words. “Thank you.”
Darhoth glanced at Vulthar and a silent command went from one to the other. Vulthar nodded, knowing that he was being told to keep a close eye on Dieter.
Mr. Death had wandered a short distance away. He had his palms and his skeletal face pressed up against the glass, watching the people in the streets below. “They look like ants,” he said. “Smash! Smash!”
“Come with me,” Darhoth said. “We must make preparations for our trip to America.”
“Land of the Free,” Mr. Death hissed. “Red, white and blue.” He laughed to himself. “I can’t wait for them to meet me!”
CHAPTER VIII
The Spreading Darkness
Tony Quinn’s life was defined by a great and powerful lie.
Scarred by a criminal, the well-known attorney’s face was now lined with horrific scratches across both eyes, as if a jungle cat had let loose with a deadly attack. In the aftermath of this, Tony had been left blind. Morose, he’d thought that his pursuit of justice had come to an end until a secret operation had given him a new lease on life.
Receiving a double eye transplant from a murdered police officer, Tony had discovered that not only had his normal vision been restored but that he now possessed perfect night vision. His other senses were enhanced as well, giving him uncanny hearing, amazingly sensitive touch and a superhumanly accurate sense of smell.
Realizing that he could accomplish even more than before, Tony adopted a double life. During the day, he continued to pretend to be blind, operating as best he could within the legal system. No matter how good of a job he did as a lawyer, however, he occasionally saw criminals slip through the cracks.
As such, at night he donned a black bodysuit equipped with crepe-sole shoes and thin nylon gloves with rubber tips for better gripping ability. Under his armpits, he wore holstered .45 automatics and around his waist was a utility belt containing a wide variety of tools and gases. A black hood completed his disguise and hid his identity. Anyone who came across his dark path knew him only as The Black Bat, the spectral avenger of the night.
The next few months sent ripples through the underworld. The Black Bat became one of the most feared entities in New York, smashing criminal rings at every turn and coming to blows with police officers that considered his vigilante activities to be worthy of suspicion. The Black Bat’s silhouette was now a familiar sight for all those who lived in the shadows, evoking terror in some and comfort in others.
Aided by a gorgeous blonde named Carol Baldwin, whose father had donated his eyes to Tony; a former con man named “Silk” Kirby; and the hulking Butch O’Leary, The Black Bat’s crusade was an increasingly successful one.
A confident smile played across the Black Bat’s lips as he thought about Carol and the way their relationship had developed. He often gave pause to reflect on the many strange paths his life had taken, having long ago decided that only by studying the past could one forge a new future.
Studying the past actions of a thug like “Slim” Malone had allowed the Black Bat to predict that upon receiving his freedom from the state pen, the goon would head straight into the shadowy underworld of New York City, looking for work. That had proven to be the case and Slim had spent the last two weeks ingratiating himself back into the mob.
Slim now stood in a darkened alleyway behind a nightclub called The Flying Dutchman, from which the sounds of debauchery and music drifted into the night. Slim lit a smoke and leaned against the brick wall, enjoying himself immensely. As soon as that busty brunette, Mindy or Miranda, whatever her name was, got off shift as a dancer, Slim was going to ask her to have a drink and maybe head back to his place. She’d been making doe-eyes at him all night so he thought he had a good chance to score with her.
A cold, deadly voice came down from above, freezing the blood in Slim’s veins.
“Back to your old habits, I see.”
He knew that voice, for it had kept him awake nights at the state pen. It was the voice of the man who had put him away.
Slim swallowed hard, tossing away his cigarette. He looked upwards but could see nothing save for the twinkling of stars. And then there was the briefest of movements, the rustle of a cape, and the Black Bat had dropped from the rooftop to land in a crouch before him.
The vigilante’s right hand shot out, his fingers gripping Slim around the throat. The Black Bat lifted him off the ground, applying enough pressure that Slim struggled to breathe.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong,” the criminal gasped, trying to pull the Bat’s hand away so he could take a breath.
“You were involved in that heist at O’Reilly’s Pub,” the Black Bat hissed. “Don’t deny it. The other boys have already fingered you.”
Slim gave up the fight. He gave a quick nod and muttered an obscenity. The Black Bat smiled coldly and let the man drop to the ground. He landed in a heap at the vigilante’s feet.
“You want to know where we fenced the goods we stole?”
“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Slim. Your buddies said you handled the sales.”
Slim started to answer but for some reason, his words were strangely distorted to The Black Bat’s ears. The world seemed to suddenly grow unstable, as if a powerful earthquake were shaking the ground beneath his feet.
Slim stopped talking, staring at the hero in confusion. The Black Bat was swaying like a drunk, his hands reaching out to stabilize himself. Slim rose to his feet, torn between a desire to flee and the realization that now was his chance to off the scourge of the underworld.
His hand snaked into an interior pocket of his coat, where it found the hilt of a knife. He paused, wondering if this were some sort of setup but finally his cowardice won out. He dropped the weapon back into his pocket and spun about, his legs churning as he bolted from the alley.
The Black Bat, meanwhile, slid to his knees. His head was pounding and his senses, enhanced beyond those of a normal man’s, were being overwhelmed by a baffling array of sounds and smells. He gasped as images began to fly past his mind’s eye. He saw a man with a fleshless face holding a glowing crystal ball… and he saw a woman clothed in red and black, struggling to get to the obvious madman. A cacophony of screams made The Black Bat realize that somehow the terrifying figure was using the crystal ball to absorb his own madness and then share that with the world around him. He was killing innocents with the power of his own insanity!