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Fan Fiction: Short Stories
Chapter 7:
The Warehouse District LAMONT CRANSTON was looking through the contents of a manila folder. "Miguel Gustavo," he said, closing it. Margo Lane stood beside him. "Immigrant from Haiti.
Arrived in the United States one year ago." The warehouse district had been abandoned some six or seven years ago, left to overgrowth, the homeless, and the occasional criminal act. Just a few months earlier, The Shadow had busted up the attempted murder of a man and woman on the roof of one of the buildings, and they had in turn become his agents, two more in a list that seemed to never end. Lamont Cranston often enjoyed taking on another persona. It allowed him a chance to further distance himself from the man he had used to be. Right now he was making his way down one of the sidewalks, moving among other homeless people. He was dressed in a ratty old trench coat with a couple missing buttons, fingertip-less gloves, and a hat pulled low over his face to protect against the cool breeze. A single match dangled between his lips. The sky overhead was dark, despite being in the afternoon. The storm would surely be there by nightfall. He spotted a group of men gathered around a barrel with a fire in front of one of the buildings and headed over toward him. They nodded to him as he approached, making a gesture toward the barrel as if to ask if he could help himself. "Go right ahead," one of them said. Lamont held his palms out to the fire, nodding his thanks to them. "If you fellows don't mind," he said, "may I ask a question?" "Of course," another said. "I'm looking for someone. Was told he hung out in this area." "What's his name?" the man to his right asked. "Miguel." They all seemed to be thinking, then shook their heads. "Don't recognize that name," the first one who had spoke replied. "Sorry. But most of us here haven't been in this area for very long. Might want to ask someone else who knows the people better." "And who would that be?" Lamont asked, rubbing his hands together. "Charlie. Ol' Charlie usually hangs out about two blocks down, in front of the place with a big red star on the front. If he's not there, check the alleys on either side. Chances are you'll find him at one of those places." Lamont nodded with a smile, said, "Thanks," and moved off. Two blocks down, he found the building with the red star on the front. The paint, which had at some point most-likely been very bright and vibrant, was now well-faded and barely visible in the darkening light. He stood looking up at the building. Like most of the others in the area, it was an all-brick structure, with countless shattered windows. Two men were sitting on the steps of the building, playing a game of cards. "Excuse me." They looked down at him. "Is one of you Charlie?" They both shook their heads. "Check the alley," one of them said, and they returned to their game. Lamont moved down the left alley first. The tall buildings on either side made it darker. Cardboard boxes and wooden crates lined both sides of the alley, fashioned into make-shift homes. Several people were in the alley. "Excuse me," Lamont said, loud enough for all to hear. "I'm looking for a fellow by the name of Charlie. Anybody here know where I can find him?" "I'm Charlie," a voice said behind him. He turned to see an older man getting to his feet. "You're Charlie?" "That's what I said, ain't it?" He wiped his hand on his pants and stuck it out. "Charlie Malone." Lamont smiled. "Matches Malone," he said, shaking his hand. "We must be related somehow." Charlie smiled. "Well, I hope the rest of the family's better off than we are. What can I do for you?" "I'm looking for a guy that might live in the area, name of Miguel." Charlie looked up, thinking, repeating the name quietly to himself. "Sorry, mister, but I don't know anybody in the area by that name. And I know everybody." "Maybe he goes by a different name," Lamont said. "He may have caome into the area anywhere from a couple months to a year ago." Charlie went back to thinking. "Sorry, but--Oh, wait a minute. I think I know who you might be looking for." "Really?" "Yeah. Black, pretty tall, long hair?" Carnston nodded. "That sounds like him." "Yeah, I know where he is. Don't know him by his name, but then again, I've never even met the guy. None of us have. But I think I can show you were he's at." They walked for about fifteen minutes, clear across to the opposite side of the area, until they were standing on a corner across the street from a five-story brick building with shattered windows, boarded up front doors, cracking concrete steps, and an awning hanging down onto the sidewalk. "I've seen him come and go from there on occasion," Charlie explained. "Has a car, too. I mostly see him in the evenings and such. Some of the other folks claim they've head some wierd things coming from there at night, so we all pretty much just stay away. You sure that's the guy you're looking for?" Lamont looked at the building. "I'm sure," he said, then added more to himself, "That's where he is." Miguel Gustavo opened the door to the room full of slaves and flicked the lights on. Those sitting at the foot of their beds attempted to shade their eyes from the sudden brightness. "We have one more job to do," he said. "Tonight, at midnight. Then you're done, and I will no longer require your services. You may choose to stay and attempt to recover, or you may choose to return to Haiti with me where you can work on a variety of plantations. I will leave at two A.M." The slaves seemed to be listening, heads straining to stay up. They looked at him with tired eyes, breathing shallowly. "Those who wish to accompany me"--he dropped a handful of coins onto the floor--"take one and place it on the foot of your bed. Those who wish to stay, do nothing. You may leave once myself and the others have gone. You have until midnight to make your decision," he said, and shut the door behind him. Darkness had closed in over the city. The storm was brewing. Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed in the distance, and the rain was beginning to fall. From a rooftop across the street, The Shadow sat perched on an old stone gargoyle, looking down through the rain at the ramshackle warehouse were his opponent would be. Then he stood and swirled his cape around him, vanishing into the darkness. Mysterious footsteps signaled some invisible person's approach to the warehouse, splashing in the puddles and leaving wet footprints up the old cracking steps, to a pair of doors that were smashed open. One flew from the hinges, the other barely hung on, some of the wood splintering. The Shadow seemed to emerge from the dark in a cloud of mist and stood looking around. A staircase was barely visible before him, and he headed up the steps with a laugh. Somewhere, Miguel heard the distant laughing and turned. "So. He has come for the final battle." He turned to look at Margo Lane, strapped down to a table and gagged. She struggled to get lose. "Let him come," he said. Moments later, the doors burst open, and The Shadow entered. Miguel turned to face him and laughed, holding his arms out. "You've arrived for the final battle," he said. The Shadow spotted Margo and started forward, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing the heavy pistols from their holsters, aiming them at Miguel. "Wait a minute. Don't you know want to know why I was doing it? I have generations of family in Haiti. The rebellions continue down therebetween the natives and the government. I was using the zombies to steal weapons and ammunition to smuggle back into Haiti, to supply the rebel forces." The Shadow seemed intrigued. "How do you create them?" "Simple," Miguel said, walking around a table atop of which sat a variety of science materials, from beakers to bunsen burners and everything in between. "The person to be zombified is fed fugu. I simply don't allow the victims to recover from the poison. The psychological trauma of zombification is augmented by feeding them additional fugu in the form of a paste-like substance. It accentuates their disorientation. In turn, they remain weak and unable to talk, but they can hear, and since they are not able to defend themselves, they have no choice but to follow my orders. And of course--" "Enough talking," The Shadow said. "You're finished." He realigned his pistols to fire. Miguel spouted something in Haitian, and The Shadow suddenly heard a noise. He glanced around. In the darkness that lined the sides of the room, something was moving. And then, into the light shuffled the zombies. There were at least a dozen of them, and they quickly formed a circle around the center of the room, encircling The Shadow, Margo, and Miguel. The Shadow turned around in place, as if surveying the situation, then spun back to aim the guns at Miguel. "Kill me if you want, Shadow. But you will not make it out alive. They do my bidding, and will not rest until I have been avenged." The Shadow seemed to be torn between what to do. He knew he couldn't start killing the zombies, because they were still people underneath. But, people or not, they would kill him--and possibly Margo--the first chance they got. "Call them off," he ordered. Miguel just laughed, again throwing his arms out. "I can't do that. I told them not to take another order after the one I gave to kill you and the girl." "Call them off!" Miguel stepped back. "Sorry, Shadow. But I have a plane to catch." The Shadow's fingers were inching on the trigger, preparing to open fire on Miguel, when he noticed something. The zombies were moving inward, but the ones behind him split in half to move around him. Miguel suddenly seemed paniced. "What are you doing? I ordered you to attack." Him. They were coming for him. The Shadow watched, weapons still raised, and Margo was straining to see as well. Miguel turned in circles, furious. "Get back! I told you to kill him," he said. "Get back, or I'll kill you all. Back!" They closed in on him. Miguel drew gun from under his shirt and shot one, turned to shoot another. The Shadow almost fired, but didn't want to risk shooting any of them. Miguel dropped two more as he continued to fire. As The Shadow watched, Miguel made it to a back door and disappeared through it. He holstered his guns and hurried over to Margo, quickly undoing the straps and helping her off the table. "Are you okay?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm fine." "I'm going after him. Contact Agent Goldsmith and tell him to get here immediately with his men, to look after these poor victims. I'm going after him." He drew his guns and disappeared through the same door. The roof access door burst open, and The Shadow emerged into thick drenching rain. As he stood looking, he saw the brief flash of light not far away and barely got out of the way before a hailstorm of bullets sprayed the door he had just been standing by. The sound of the tommygun ripped through the night, barely able to overcome the sound of the storm. In a flash of lightning, The Shadow saw only a glimpse of Miguel in the distance, but it was long enough to see plainly where he was. Miguel let up on the trigger and tried to see through the rain, but his vision was limited. He suddenly heard laughter and turned in a circle, straining to see through the rain. "You didn't think you could get away from me, did you?" the familiar voice asked. "Guess you're not as smart as you look." Miguel cut loose with the tommygun again, turning in a circle, spraying the entire roof with gunfire, holding the trigger down until there was nothing but the sound of a hammer falling on an empty chamber. He finally let up and again tried to look through the rain, but knew it was useless. He heard a noise and looked up. The Shadow was dropping down from atop a smoke stack, crashing into Miguel and sending him down to the roof. The tommygun slid across the gravel roof. He scrambled to his feet as The Shadow towered like the Grim Reaper in the night rain. Miguel screamed and came charging with a fist swinging. The Shadow caught it almost effortlessly in one hand and sent a right hook into Miguel's jaw, spinning him away. He charged yet again and tried another swing. The Shadow simply stepped aside as Miguel followed through with the punch. The slippery roof and the change of momentum caused him to tumble forward, and he found himself in a moment of weightlessness as he plummeted over the edge of the room. His arms and legs flailed in the air as his scream trailed down behind him, ending with a loud crash. The Shadow approached the edge and saw he had landed in an old dumpster barely even full of trash. He looked on for a moment longer, then the cape swirled as he turned away from the edge. |
© copyright 2003 - Present
The Shadow: Master of Darkness
The Shadow is copyrighted by Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc. Disclaimer
The Shadow: Master of Darkness
The Shadow is copyrighted by Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc. Disclaimer