Fan Fiction: Short Stories

The Zombie Master
by Michael M.

  NEW YORK CITY. It was just after evening. A few dark clouds hung in the sky, stars shining brightly in places. The traffic was still heavy downtown, and Time Square was alive with activity as usual.

  Down near the harbor, a warehouse was the scene of some activity. A truck was backed up to one of the building's three loading docks, and five men in dark clothes were moving about. Three of them carried wooden crates from the inside of the building into the truck's trailer, and the other two stood watch near the front of the truck, each armed with a shotgun.

  "Man, these things heavy," one of the men, Roy, said as he and another carried a box into the trailer.

  "No kidding," the other, Mitch, replied.

  They set the crate next to several others and took a moment to catch their breath. "I didn't know there'd be this many," Roy said, running a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat from underneath the bill of his cap.

  "Come on. Let's get the rest loaded so we can get out of here." They stepped out of the trailer and walked back through the loading dock.

  Up at the front of the trailer, brothers Max and Willy Evans kept a sharp watch. Willy pulled his jacket tighter around him. "Is it cold or what?"

  Max made a dismissive wave. "Ah, quite your gripping. They'll be done soon enough, and then we'll be back in front of a nice big warm fi--"

  He was cut off mid-sentence by a laugh, a loud laugh, a laugh that bellowed and seemed to echo in the still of the night. The entire gang stopped and looked around in a panic.

  Mitch said, "What the hell--"

  "--was that?" Roy finished.

  The third man, Mikey, came running out from the building. "What's going on?"

  The laugh continued as Max and Willy ran to the back of the truck toward the dock, cocking their shotguns. "Shut up!" Max shouted. "Listen."

  The laughing ceased, and a moment of unease fell upon the night before a sinister voice suddenly said, "You didn't think you'd get away with it, did you?"

  All five of them were spinning in circles, looking everywhere. Mitch and Roy drew pistols from inside their coats, while Mikey grabbed his tommy gun from where he had set it against the wall.

  "Who's there?" Max demanded.

  "Did you think I wouldn't find out about it?" the voice asked from the night.

  "Show yourself!"

  Willy added, "Or we'll pump you full of lead."

  Another brief burst of laughter, then the voice returned. "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay."

  Mikey looked terrified. "Who is that?"

  "I said shut up," Max snapped.

  Roy suddenly doubled over, as if punched in the stomach. Everyone gasped as he stumbled back. Then his gun seemed to be wrenched from his fist and thrown away into the darkness. His head snapped back with the sound of an upper-cut, and he landed in a pile of garbage bags.

  "What in the hell?" Mitch said. "Who did that?"

  Mikey looked down at the brothers. "I don't like this."

  Standing back-to-back with Mikey, Mitch thought he heard something and started to raise his gun. He never got the chance. Their heads were suddenly slapped together, and they fell to the ground unconscious as the sinister laugh returned.

  Max and Willy slowly looked at each other, then brought their shotguns up and opened fire. They shot at everything, shattering lamp posts and windows, splintering wood crates to shreds. Both men went at it until they were out of ammunition. They stood still, heads tilted slightly, listening for the fainest sound that would tell them if they had hit their unseen target. The cold breeze rustled their hair. The dead silence of the night seemed to close in around them.

  It had been a whole two minutes when Max looked at his brother and said, "I think we got him."

  Willy smiled, laughed. "I think so," he said.

  A loud crack, and he was flying back through the air, crashing to the ground. Max stared in horror as Willy, back on his feet, was steadily driven backwards, step by step, by the sound of punches, until one final punch sent him reeling into a stack of crates.

  "Oh my . . ." He never finished his words.

  Before his eyes, a mysterious figure seemed to emerge from of the darkness before him. A pair of black boots lead up into a long black coat, which stretched up the tall figure to a hawk-nosed face half-covered behind a scarlet scarf and donned by a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. A large flowing cape seemed to move by itself behind him.

  "I don't believe it," Max said slowly, barely audible.

  A beat, as if the creature of the night had waited for affect, and then The Shadow said, "Believe it."

  Eyes wide, Max broke into a sprint, dropping the shotgun as he made toward the front of the truck. He threw open the door and pulled himself behind the wheel, reaching for the keys already in the steering column. The engine fired up, and he wasted no time dropping the vehicle into gear and stomping his foot on the accelerator.

  The Shadow ran for the truck, following it as it pulled away from the building and turned onto the street. One of the trailer's two doors was latched shut. The other was swinging open. Doubling his speed, The Shadow leapt forward, arms outstretched, and grasped one of the door's latches. His feet dragged against the asphalt for a moment before he could pull them up and secure his footing on the rear bumper.

  Max was driving frantically, throwing glances into the side mirrors, thanking his lucky stars that he was a faster runner than The Shadow.

  The Shadow clung to the swinging door as some of the stacked crates inside fell over, knocking two of them out the opening and threatening to take him with them. The first crashed by him, but the second caught his leg and made him swing out. When the door came back, he reached out and grabbed hold of the second door. Getting some leverage with his feet, he began to climb. Near the top, he reached over with his black-gloved hands and struggled to find something to grab on to.

  Max reached down with one hand to buckle his seat belt, looking back up in time to see he was coming up fast on a slow-moving car. He yelled out and jerked the wheel. The Shadow lost his grip and was nearly thrown away, but managed to grab onto the open door.

  Max threw a glance into his side mirror and did a double-take. When the back door swung into view again, he saw The Shadow clinging to it. "Son of a--" He yanked the wheel again.

  The door swung back, and The Shadow, clinging to the edge of the door, grunted in pain as he was slammed against the other door. The door then swung back out toward the road as the truck swerved from lane to lane. He reached out as the door came back in, but the truck changed lanes again violently, swinging him back out. The door swung out all the way around, and The Shadow's back hit against the side of the trailer. Doing his best to ignore the pain, he bent his knees, planted his feet against the side, and pushed off.

  His momentum was enough to swing the door around the back of the trailer again, and he was able to reach out and grabbed onto the other door again. Pulling himself over onto that door, he paused for just a moment to catch his breath, then began climbing.

  Max straightened the truck out and took another look. The door swung into view, and he saw that The Shadow was gone. He laughed to himself and smiled. "That'll teach him to mess with Max Evans."

  The cape whipping and snapping behind him, The Shadow was crouched low on the roof of the trailer, nearly crawling on hands and knees. He reached the front of the trailer and peered over, seeing the roof of the cab.

  Max was driving a bit more carefully now, whistling a tune to himself. He took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard and tapped one out, putting it between his lips. He was reaching for a match when he heared a thump above his head. He looked up. "What the hell?"

  Leaning forward over the wheel, he strained to look up, and got the shock of his life when the partially-masked face of The Shadow suddenly appeared upside-down outside the windshield. He yelled out, a combination of fright and surprise, and slammed both feet onto the brake pedal.

  The tires squealed loudly as the truck braked hard, tearing The Shadow's grip free and throwing him off the roof of the cab. He hit the hood with a grunt and disappeared over the front in a cloud of cape. Max seemed shocked at first as he kept driving, then smiled and began to laugh hysterically. "I did it," he said in disbelief. "I can't believe it. I did it. I killed The Shadow."

  Unbeknownst to Max, The Shadow was clinging to the front grill of the truck with both hands, lying nearly sideways on the extended bumper. He hoped his cape didn't sweep down and get caught under one of the tires. Tightening his grip with one hand, he reached under his cape with the other and drew one of his silver .45s, then lowered himself slightly, bringing the driver's-side tire into view. He took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  Max heard the explosion, and the truck seemed to shake around him. He gripped the wheel as he struggled to keep control. The vehicle veered violently out control and shot across the empty lanes. Max whipped the wheel too hard and fast to one side, and the truck turned over onto it's side, crashing with a violent jolt and sliding along the pavement.

  Gun holstered, The Shadow clung tightly to the front of the truck. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the vehicle was approaching a brick wall. The truck began to slow, ultimately stopping with The Shadow's back mere inches from the fall. Climbing off the front of the truck, he walked around the side. Through the shattered windshield, he saw Max lying against the passenger's-side door, wriggling about in pain. He opened his eyes and gasped at the sight.

  "The Shadow said crime doesn't pay," the mysterious figure said.

  A Sunshine taxi cab pulled up beside the overturned truck as police sirens began to sound in the distance. The rear passenger-side door seemed to open of its own accord, and The Shadow quckly slipped in, the door shutting behind him. "Drive."

  The three half-sun shapes on the cab's roof lit up, and the Cord raced away down the street, hanging the first corner. Moe Shrevnitz straightened up and cruised at the posted speed limit, throwing his right arm over the back of the seat as he usually did. As he drove, Shrevy, as he was often referred to by the dark figure in the rear seat, or rather, the man who disguised himself as him, glanced into the rearview mirror. He could see his boss moving about.

  The face returned to the light, and it was the face of Lamont Cranston. The wide-brimmed hat, red scarf, and dark clothing were gone, and he had changed into a clean suit and tie.

  "Rough night, huh, boss?" Shrevy asked.

  "Three heists in two hours," Lamont said, almost matter-of-factly, as if it was a nightly occurance he had grown tired of.

  Finishing tying his shoes, he placed his boots into a drawer protruding from beneath the seat, which he then slide shut and locked, then covered with the faux-front. The transformation from The Shadow to Lamont Cranston complete, he sat forward on the seat, using the rearview mirror to check his hair. He brushed a few strands back into place.

  Shrevy looked back over his shoulder. "Where to now, boss?"

  Lamont sat back and pulled on his over-coat. "Home."