Seeing that he had his audience hooked, he began to reel them in. “It was right after the last Great European Conflict, when the King of England turned yellow and gave over control of Quebec, that’s up in Canada, to the Kaiser and his goons.”
Catching the tourist’s eyes with his own, the guide settled back with a roll of his heels and laid into his tale. “Well, no sooner does the Kaiser take over then one of his War Marshals gets a little too big for his britches. This jamoke jumps into his personal Battle Zeppelin with a couple’a hundred of them goose-steeping goons and makes a bee-line for our fair city.”
The twinkle in the limping man’s eyes shone fiery hot as he gazed around at his rapt audience. “Well Sir, let-me-tell-ya, he got a big ol’ fashion howdy-do from our welcoming committee. Not the kind you get when you see you Ma, though.” His smile split his face from ear to ear. “No sir, our welcoming committee says hello from the end of a smoking .45.”
“Now seeing as how I was working as a dock worker at the time, I can give you nice folks the real low-down of what happened.” Rubbing his left thigh his eyes took on a far away look as he continued. “That’s where I got this little souvenir that ruined my days on the ballroom floor. Never mind the bullets flying and the warehouses exploding into raging infernos, it was the smoke that made it hell…”
Feeling a mixture of awe and horror, he witnessed the gas at work, taking those at the end of the panicked mob like a lion culling the weakest of the herd.
The gas, called The Melting Gas by those few who had survived the Rape of Paris, was far more insidious than any pack of predators. Wherever that sparkling, green gas touched, flesh flowed down like thick syrup. The hapless victim would take another step or two before the muscles of his legs lay in a puddle behind him. Falling, the gas would settle over him for a few seconds before continuing on, leaving only a clothed skeleton, stripped clean.
Paragon took all this in as he gazed from his perch atop a parked sedan. He was surprised by this attack by the German Empire. It had only been a few years since the end of the Great European Conflict, in which the United States had remained neutral, and hostilities had officially ceased, although he knew that rebel bases remained in the few parts of France not devastated by the German onslaught.
And while the Kaiser was able to secure Quebec as an Imperial Protectorate, it seemed too short a time for the Germans to extend its Empire into these United States. Yet there, hanging above the City’s docks like the proverbial Sword of Damocles was a Krieg-Class Zeppelin, already transporting down hundreds of the Kaiser’s shocktroopers and even deadlier, the Melting Gas!
Paragon’s revere was abruptly cut short as one of the fleeing herd pointed to the giant hero and shouted, “Paragon! It’s Doc Paragon. He’ll save us!”
“Pargonowski”, muttered Doc to himself. When he first exploded on the scene, a newspaper reporter who couldn't pronounce his name, let alone spell it, came up with Doc Paragon and the name stuck ever since.
“Get used to it, Doc. That's not ever going away”, chided the tall, athletic man standing beside Paragon’s perch. Wearing a finely tailored black suit, which contrasted sharply with his pale skin and snow white hair, he grinned at his leader’s chagrin.
Shaking his head with a frown, Paragon's other aide practically sneered at the other man, his English tinged with a Eastern European accent. "Curb your tongue and show respect to your betters, thief. You know how much Doc dislikes that name."
Smiling even wider now, the first fellow slapped his partner on the back. "Don't worry, Doc. Ruddy and I will make sure these good folks get to safety."
Brushing off then other's arm, 'Ruddy' snarls, "For the last time, address me as Prince Rudolph or not at all, peasant."
Before the two could erupt into one of their classic verbal fights, Paragon's deep voice cut them off. "Rudolph, Edmund...we don't have time for this. Get these people out of here."
With an embarrassed shake of his head, Paragon shouted to the mob, “Follow my two aides across the bridge towards the center of town. The police are massing there. Hurry!”
Edmund Frost waved his arm towards the crowd beckoning them forward. He looked up at Paragon, one last time; “We’ll make sure they get to safety Doc. What are you going to do?”
Paragon’s eyes darkened from the usual light grey to a color much like that of a storm tossed ocean. His eyes remained fixed at the chaos that was threatening to engulf his beloved City. “I’m going to stop this insanity, no matter what it takes.”
As the crowd was shepparded off by his two men, Paragon noted that the wind had shifted back towards the piers. He smiled grimly. “There’s a chance now”, he thought. “The Kaiser would never have used the gas as a weapon without taking into account the possible shifts in wind patterns. Bismarck didn’t plan this attack, that maniac Field Marshal in charge of Quebec did. His lack of foresight may be just the break we need."
Paragon noted that already some of the gas was being pushed back onto the Great Lake. He whistled a strange little tune between his teeth then. An unconscious habit he had picked up during his childhood that occurred whenever he was perplexed or had come to some realization. He did so now because of the strange behavior the gas was exhibiting. As if alive, the Melting Gas was trying to hold itself upon the docks, desperately trying not to fall into the water. As it flowed down off the pier, the water churned and bubbled as it reacted with the gas, leaving only hot steam as evidence of its passing.
The loud staccato of machinegun fire erupted into the sedan Paragon was standing upon. Glass exploded, tires blew and metal turned to Swiss cheese in seconds. But these bullets didn’t come from any Chicago typewriter but from the barrels of the Imperial soldier’s weapon of choice, the submachinegun.
A group of five shocktroopers, resplendent in their freshly oiled leather uniforms that covered them from neck to toe, had surrounded Paragon. Moonlight glinted off their traditional spiked helmets while their gasmasks covered faces gave all five the same wide-eyed automaton look as they rained destruction upon their foe.
Bullets continued to stitch across the sedan, with smoke and sparks obscuring the ‘trooper’s view. Seconds after the first trigger was squeezed, Paragon had leapt for safety, but to no avail. Before he was able to land, a shot penetrated the gas tank and ignited the fuel. The sedan mushroomed in a fireball, flipping over on its side while the explosion grabbed Paragon like a rag-doll and sent him slamming against the brick wall of a warehouse.
Wiping away a red smear from the corner of his mouth, Paragon shakily managed to get up on one knee before being surrounded by the invaders. His vision cleared in time to see the lethal weapons leveled at him, preparing to fire.
Stitchface half carried, half pulled the injured man, the only other surviving participant of this night’s debacle.
The job was supposed to be a cinch. He and his gang had been contracted to put the screws to that new judge that blew into town. This judge not only wouldn’t play ball with the Bosses and politicos of the City, but also had decided to clean up shop to boot. That didn’t sit well with the Mob Bosses, so they hired the best buttonmen in the City, namely “Stitchface” Brogan and his gang.
A fin in the hand of the doorman let them up without a peep. By the time the judge knew what was up, Brogan and his men had him trussed up and ready for a little face wash, in an acid bath that had become Brogan’s trademark.
Just as they were about to silence the judge’s pleas for mercy, all Hell broke loose. He smashed in through the window and shot three of Brogan’s men before anyone could react. Within moments, “Stitchface” Brogan’s gang was reduced to an undertaker’s delight leaving him and a wounded Wiley to hightail it out of the apartment building.
Wiley’s gaping bullet wound left his shoulder feeling cold and wet. He ran in a daze, barely aware where Brogan was leading. He shivered from fear as he looked around nervously. “He still behind us Boss?” he asked through chattering teeth, “I don’t see nuttin’.”
“He’s there, I can feel it in my bones, “Brogan yelled to be heard over the Hell that reigned on the docks. “Our only chance is to loose him here in all this confusion. If we’re lucky, maybe the bastich will get blown to Kingdom Come.”
Ducking into a shattered building still smoking from the fire that gutted it earlier, the two men paused to catch their breath. Stitchface unconsciously stroked one of the many scars that littered his face, from whence he got his name. His eyes darted to and fro trying to make out the form of his nemesis.
“Boss, ya gotta get me to a doctor, “whimpered the smaller man, “I can’t feel my arm no more.”
“Shaddup Wiley, “barked Stitchface, “I hears sumpthin’. “
The steps, at first, were faint, being drowned out by the intense fighting nearby. But with each passing moment, the steps grew louder and louder. Not hurried but purposeful and as relentless as the death they heralded.
Peering around the corner, “Stitchface” Brogan strained to pierce the darkness that had settled over the area. At first, he saw nothing that indicated where the echoing footsteps were issuing from. But slowly, emerging from the darkness came the faint outline of a man’s shape, topped by what appeared to be a ghostly pyre where his head should be.
As it came closer, a flash from the bombardment cast light upon the area and showed the demonic horror that was descending upon the two hitmen.
Tall and gangly, dressed in a dark suit and trenchcoat, he did not look like the kind of man who had become the scourge of the underworld. Even the twin .45s, which were now held downward in gloved hands, did not alone strike fear. Brogan had faced countless of armed men such as this and still come out the victor. No, it was the sickly, pale yellow smoke that rose from above the collar, completely obscuring the head that gave him such a fearful visage as well as his name: The Mist.
“Stitchface” Brogan”, its voice eerily echoed, piercing even the din of the nearby battle. “You have mocked the law for the last time!”
The footsteps never wavered from their steady, hypnotic pace. “There will be Order, “the Mist’s voice rang out like a death sentence. “Justice will be served!”
Never one to waste words when a bullet can say it for him, “Stitchface” Brogan brought up his nickel plated gat with one hand while grabbing Wiley and pushing him to the forefront with the other.
Horror dawned in Wiley’s eyes. Now he understood why his boss had shown concern for him and not let him die there with the rest of the gang. Brogan meant to use him as a living shield against the Mist.
Brogan’s first shot deafened Wiley’s right ear while the flash blinded him. He squealed in equal parts pain and terror, knowing that at any moment the Mist’s guns would thunder, spelling his doom.
Instead of returning fire, the Mist seemed to vanish from sight. Only his haunting voice continued to mock. “Hiding behind a cheap hood now, Brogan? Do you so fear to meet your reward?”
Whatever snappy retort was forming in Brogan’s mind went unspoken as an errant projectile from the Krieg-Class Zeppelin chose that moment to strike the burnt out shell that “Stitchface” had chosen for his last stand.
As the ear-piercing explosion receded, the Mist picked up his form from the ground, appearing like a miniature shadow budding from a greater one. Calmly, he walked over to the blast area left by the bombardment and kneeled to peer into the waters below. Only burning debris and flotsam bobbed on the murky waves. No sign of life was visible at all.
He waited a few moments before rising. “Justice has been served”, issued from his shrouded face and with that he adjusted his slouch hat, turned and stalked towards the raging battle.
Chaos reigned in the streets of his City.
Order will be imposed.
So swears the Mist!
Her vacation had quickly turned into a reconnaissance mission. The squadron had chosen the City as their choice of leave. Given its reputation of technological wonders mixed with ancient mysteries from its Chinatown, the City had seemed a wonderful choice.
The Underground command had thought so too. Field Marshal Kimmel had recently entrenched himself in Quebec, quashing all resistance to Imperial benevolence. Wresting the province of Quebec from English control had been a diplomatic coup; convincing the people of Quebec that they were now a German Imperial protectorate was a slaughter.
The Underground cells in the former Canadian province were in disarray, giving the Underground command unreliable and at times conflicting intelligence reports. Given that the City was just across one of the Great Lakes from Quebec in the neutral United States, Command wanted Chase and her team to snoop around and see what “Krazy” Kimmel was up too.
Frenchie, her crack mechanic and genius engineer had just uncrated his latest designed Spads for Chase and the team as dusk fell. “Bulldog” Masterson, one of her team, had cheerfully recommended that they take up the birds for a quick ring around the City, saying that the night air would do them all a world of good.
“Right”, grimaced Chase through clenched teeth as she turned the unfamiliar Spad into a corkscrew dive. “Just a stroll through the park. When am I going to learn not to listen to you, Bulldog!” Tracer rounds from the Fokker Mk. V whizzed passed her biplane as she straightened out from dive.
The Fokker pilot was so intent on his target that he failed to notice the enemy Spad rise from a low lying cloud bank like the squadron’s namesake behind him. That mistake cost him his life.
Deirdre “Didi” Summers, the Ace of Hearts, slipped in the wake of the German pilot, lined up her sights, and fired her machine guns with deadly precision. One long burst from her Vickers riddled the Fokker with so many bullet holes, you could see through it. The tell tale sputtering of its dying engine and trailing oily black smoke left no doubt as to its fate.
Flashing her pearly whites, Didi Summers waved at her leader and turned to engage more of the enemy.
Chase Morgan couldn’t help but smile at her comrade’s nonchalant attitude. She gazed up through her cracked windshield and the smile suddenly died on her face. There were so many enemy aircraft that they reminded her of the locust swarms on her Uncle Ted’s farm. No matter how many they shot down, the odds were against them. Her squadron numbered only five pilots against the multitude of the Kaiser’s airforce and to make matters worse, that Krieg-Class Zeppelin would be within striking distance of the heart of the City in no time.
She straightened herself in her seat and adjusted the goggles over her dark eyes. If this was to be the Card Shark’s last stand then so be it! With one final “Whoop”, she dove her craft back into the fray.
Sheathed as the shocktroopers were in their leather armor, Paragon knew that the weapon now holstered at his side was useless. Having foresworn the use of deadly force, for he believed foremost in the sanctity of life, Paragon had developed a gun that fired thin tipped rubber bullets that were specially designed to break the skin and deposit a strong sedative to its target. Nicknamed “Peacekeepers” by Edmund Frost, the ingenious weapon was not powerful enough to penetrate the shocktrooper’s field uniforms and thus afforded Paragon no avenue of escape.
Determined to take as many of his executioners down before being gunned down, Paragon made to leap at his assailant when three loud successive shots erupted from behind the ‘troopers. Before the first boom had stopped echoing against the line of warehouses, two of the invaders lay crumpled before Paragon, huge exit wounds above their hearts testifying to the terrifying skill of their attacker.
“No!” yelled Paragon, “No more killing!” Leaping and tackling two of the ‘troopers as they turned to face the attacker behind them, Paragon’s fists fired like steel pistons, smashing through their protective masks and shattered bone beneath.
Heedless of his entreaties, the last of the shocktroopers fell like cordwood at Paragon’s feet, a single shot expertly placed between the eyes. A few feet away stood a dark figure, trenchcoat billowing, guns still smoking and a horrific pyre smoldering beneath a slouch hat.
The Mist!
In the blink of an eye, Paragon covered the distance between them and gripped the firing hand of his rescuer. Before he could grapple the other, the Mist’s free hand snaked out and entwined gloved fingers with Paragon’s own. The giant marvel towered over the thin, gangly man but instead of instantly overpowering the smaller figure, Paragon was astonished to find his own prodigious strength matched by the Mist’s.
“You maniac” swore Paragon through clenched teeth. “Hasn’t there been enough murder and mayhem this night? The pier is awash with blood and your solution is to add even more?”
Eerily, his voice showing no signs of strain at being locked in physical competition, the Mist responded, “I haven’t murdered here Dr. Pargonowski, I have saved the lives of their victims. Of which you, I might add, were the most immediate. Do you have any doubt that after leaving your cold corpse, they would have not gone on and killed every man, women or child that stood in the way of their objective?”
Locked for what seemed an eternity, the two modern titans waged a war of nerve as well as might and just as quickly as it started, it ended. There was no final show of force, with one pushing back the other, nor was there the usual bravado before one acceded to his better; only the simultaneous release by both combatants and a single nod of the head.
The Mist was the first to break the many seconds of silence that prevailed as both men took the measure of the other. “I am amazed that a man of your intellect can be so naïve. Order must be imposed when chaos reigns. Justice must be served!”
“There are other ways to restore order, Mist,” Paragon calmly intoned, “Killing should be a last and final resort. These men who you just slaughtered may not have been the savage animals you make them out to be. Misguided loyalty and sense of duty may be the only reason they are carrying out this attack. There are ways to change even the most violent of criminals.”
Hefting his .45 automatic, the Mist smiled beneath his smoldering mask, “This is the only way to make sure that criminals change, Pargonowski. When madmen unleash their apocalyptic designs and the streets run red with the blood of innocents, this is the only chance some have to live another day.
“But while we stand here and banter about our philosophies,” continued the Scourge of Gangdom above the shattering sounds of the incessant bombardment, “the citizens of this metropolis remain in peril. And while I can deal with the body of the beast,” the Mist pointed upwards, “the head remains beyond my reach.”
Paragon gazed at where the Mist indicated and saw the bloated shape of the Krieg-Zeppelin inching its way forward towards the heart of the City. “Then you go on and help save as many lives down here as you can. I’ll handle the Zeppelin.”
The Mist smirked at the other’s strident pronouncement, laden with a confidence that brooked no chance of failure. “Do your many talents now include flying unassisted, Dr. Pargonowski?” he asked wryly.
Doc Paragon began to move towards one of the buildings still standing and cried over his shoulder, “Hardly. But I think I see my ride coming!”
She took a quick account of the battle thus far. Her squadron was intact and in about the same condition she was in; battered but unbowed. Though the Fokkers outnumbered them three to one, the element of surprise had proven a valuable ally. None of the German pilots had expected any major opposition in their quest for dominance of the sky. They planned to strafe the airfield with impunity, keeping any American fighters pinned to the ground. It was sheer luck that the Card Sharks were aloft at the time of the attack and it had taken the Huns completely unawares.
The Spads had attacked at will, coming at the Germans from all angles and scattering the Fokker formation. Before the pilots could react, a half dozen were already disabled and limping back to Quebec or had splashed down into the Great Lake.
Yet the formidable Prussian training and mentality quickly overcame the momentary confusion and had begun to turn the tide on the valiant American fliers.
Chase Morgan turned her plane into a full chanterelle, a full roll, as the tracer bullets from a Spandau machine gun broke her brief respite. A pair of Fokkers were hurtling towards her, trying to get her in their sights. Banking, she turned wide and hurtled over the docks and into the concrete canyon of the City itself.
These Mk V Fokkers had greater speed and armor than her Spad, but the extra weight forced it to lose a bit of maneuverability. The Ace of Spades was counting on that as she tipped sideways to split the space between two towering buildings, knowing that the overconfident pilots would follow her in. They viewed it as a challenge and Prussian pride could not that challenge go unanswered.
Having lived in the City during her college years, Morgan was betting her life upon her memory and familiarity of the City’s layout. Her plane roared down the main thoroughfare, Beacon Way, heading straight towards City Hall. Below her, she saw the main line of defense that the police had erected to stop the Hun push into the heart of the City.
Weaving from side to side, avoiding the determined fire from the chasing planes, Morgan made sure that they were close behind as she cut abruptly to the right, down a side street.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled up on the stick as a large office-building rose up suddenly before her. Rolling left and up, her wheels missed a jutting flagpole by scant inches. Only Morgan’s foreknowledge that the Jefferson Tower was down this side street allowed her to narrowly avoid collision. The German pilots, to their regret, could not react in time and rammed their planes into the office building.
A huge fireball erupted as the lead Fokker crashed into the building while the trailing one smashed into the first. Burning shrapnel and debris rained down on the panicked pedestrians below.
“I hope no one was working late, “ lamented the Ace of Spades as she gained altitude and looked back on the raging battle.
Although the police below were sure to make a valiant stand, the outcome was a foregone conclusion as she watched the Krieg-Zeppelin disgorge an endless stream of shock troopers. Even if the Card Sharks swept the sky clear of enemy planes, the war would go to the Germans. The true threat here was the Zeppelin.
Using some new technology that she hadn’t yet seen, the Zeppelin’s gondola emitted some sort of beam that allowed the invading forces to float gently to earth as the mighty blimp grinded inexorably forward.
A mad idea flashed in her mind. Not knowing her chances of success and caring even less, Morgan aimed her Spad towards the floating War machine.
As soon as she began to approach the Zeppelin, an alert gunner spotted her and trained one of the massive cannons that festooned the blimp in her direction. Madly pulling on the control stick, Morgan franticly began to evade the flak that the cannon was pouring into the sky.
“Bad enough that they’re armored like a battleship”, Chase complained as she was battered to and fro by the concussive blasts, “but they’re armed to the teeth to boot!”
Finally inside the firing arcs of the cannons, Chase made a quick roll below the beast. “Hope this Dragon’s got a soft underbelly.” Training her Vickers at the gondola, dozens of rounds fired and found their mark but bounced harmlessly off the steel carapace that sheathed it.
Biting her bottom lip, Chase grimaced. “OK, time for Plan B!” With that, she circled back towards the hot white landing beam with its deadly human cargo within. Bracing for impact, her Spad cut through the beam as if it were mist.
The yelling and the thud came simultaneously.
The shouting came from below as the dozen or so shocktroopers in transit found their safe mode of transport abruptly cut off and plummeting to the hard pavement below.
The thud came from her right wing. “Just my luck to pick up a stowaway”, she smirked.
Hanging on to her starboard wing was one of the Kaiser’s so-called Firebugs. Outfitted in a bulky flame-retardant uniform, these elite soldiers carried miniature fuel tanks strapped to their backs that were connected by hose to a flamethrower apparatus attached to their left hand.
Stunned by being rammed by the speeding plane, only its bulky, padded suit saved him from being broken in two. Instinctively, the Firebug had grabbed on to the wing and hung on for dear life.
Before Chase was able to shake her unexpected passenger off, she stared incredulously at the scene being played out behind her.
Apparently her little stunt had not gone unnoticed as Colette, or Lil’ Deuce as Bulldog insisted on calling her, had penetrated the flak field and was barreling towards the Zeppelin’s gondola.
Heavy black smoke trailed from the sixteen year old firebrand’s engine, indicating that she had not come through unscathed. “Colette, you little hothead”, Chase said under her breath as she stared at the surreal tableau resolving before her unbelieving eyes, “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Chase gasped as she realized that Colette was not firing her Vickers. “No!”, she yelled as she turned her plane back towards her teammate. “She’s going to ram it!”
Colette’s Neuport shot up towards the gondola, eating up the distance in seconds. At the last possible instant, she leapt from her plane, still struggling to put on her parachute. The sudden rush of wind combined with the force of the blast, ripped the ‘chute out of her tiny hands. So great was the explosion that even the floating leviathan shuddered.
Chase spun her plane down towards Colette, getting below her and then up parallel to her. Ignoring all else, focusing only on her youngest teammate, the Ace of Spades lent all her formidable piloting skill to doing the impossible.
Flying at a gentle angle, she pulled back on the throttle, almost stalling the plane and brought the fuselage just below Colette.
Lil’ Deuce hit with bone jarring force and began to slide down the body of the plane, her hands franticly searching for some purchase. A glove hand reached down and grabbed hers just as she was about to launch back into empty space.
With half her torso out of the cockpit, Chase Morgan held Colette’s gloved hands in a death grip. The two sky gladiators smiled reassuringly at each other, just seconds before the flames hit.
Down on one knee, holding on with his right hand, the Firebug pointed his deadly left fist towards the rudder. Flame shot out and over the Ace pilot, striking the tail section of the Spad. Chase immediately felt her stick violently shudder and fought to control the plane.
The Firebug’s eyes shone through the cyclops lens of his mask and nodded downward, clearly indicating with his flamethrower the consequences of not landing as quickly as possible. Chase began to slowly descend towards the City and the airfield beyond it. She looked down at the dangling Colette with a look that said that she had run out of options.
Colette nodded her head, indicating the .38 holstered at her side. Chase knew that Colette would have to let go one of her hands to reach the gun, perhaps slipping out of Chase’s grip and plummeting to her death.
She took one last look at the elite soldier and then beyond him. With a fierce smile the Ace of Spades shook her heard and looked down at Colette. “Don’t worry”, she mouthed, “It looks like we’re about to get some help!”
Soon it would have another.
The plane roared low through the streets, almost at the same height as the warehouse building. Starting at the edge of one side of the roof, Paragon ran towards the far corner, calculating the plane’s rate of speed as well as its distance from his jumping point. He was a blur as he raced to the rooftops ledge and launched himself into space.
A shock ran through his body as his steel cabled sinews wrenched from the strain of grabbing and holding on to the wing’s guide wires. Swinging his leg up and over, he crouched on the lower wing and prepared for the Firebug’s assault.
Alerted by the tipping of the wing due to Paragon’s additional weight, the Firebug crouched down and fired on Paragon’s position. Instantly, the bottom wing was engulfed in a raging inferno. Any man caught within that firestorm would have been ash within seconds.
But Paragon had acted swiftly and had anticipated his foe’s fiery assault. Grasping the edge of the top wing, Paragon swung his body up and over, slamming his legs into the elite soldier’s back. Both fell in a jumble on the sturdy canvas, the plane shuddering as more of its structure suffered damage.
Wind whipping past them, both combatants readied themselves for a final assault. A battle in these conditions would have to be fast and brutal.
Paragon threw himself at the Firebug who crouched, readying himself for the attack. Flame shot out at Paragon, seeking to engulf him in its lethal embrace. Doc twisted his body madly, feeling the hot jet stream past him, but still hot enough to leave the side of his face agonizingly singed.
The searing pain did not stop his rush forward and the two locked in crouched combat. Paragon’s left hand shot out, grasping the deadly flamethrower apparatus, while his right fist slammed into the steel helmet, cracking the lone viewing lens. Spider web cracks spread out over the glass, then shattered in a shower of crystalline shards.
Roaring in pain, the Firebug grabbed Paragon bodily and savagely tore him up over his head. Still on one knee, he held him momentarily before throwing the marble giant out into space. Shaking his head to clear his vision from both blood and glass shards, the Hun stared in disbelief then growled in fury.
Holding onto the forward section of the wing with one hand hung Paragon.
Snarling, the soldier swung his flamethrower to point directly at Paragon’s head. With a final nod to a worthy opponent, he depressed the trigger on his lethal appliance.
That was the moment that Paragon held up his other hand, holding a still leaking piece of tubing ripped from the Firebug’s back.
Horror widened the German soldier’s eyes as he realized he was doomed.
The spark that was created from depressing the trigger within the mitt of his left hand had ignited the dwindling fuel that leaked from the nozzle. The whipping wind caught a flaming ember and sent it towards his back, lighting the fuel that covered him. The hot, flaming tendrils shot their way down to the waiting fuel tanks strapped to his waist.
Chase Morgan saw the danger and reacted instantly. Jerking hard on the stick and hoping that Paragon was holding on tight, she sent her Spad into a side roll, spilling the Hun soldier into thin air.
A loud explosion marked a new shooting star leaving its fiery trail across the night sky.
Paragon’s sad expression spoke volumes for the silent man. He had told the Mist earlier that the taking of a human life was a last resort. He would spend many days wondering if he could have resolved the situation without causing such a horrible death.
Flying low and as slowly as possible over a tall rooftop, Chase let go of Colette. The youngest of the Card Sharks rolled and came up with a quick thumbs up.
Yelling to be heard over the drone of her engine, Chase turned to Paragon, “Thanks for the hand. Can I drop you off any place special? This crates not going to last long.”
Paragon cupped his mouth and his powerful voice reached her ears. “The Zeppelin”, he said simply and waited for her response.
Chase stared at the man as if he had grown a second head. “The Zeppelin? That’s crazy!” Then she smiled as she turned her damaged plane skyward.
“A man after my own heart.”
Doc counted on the meticulous German mindset and its fastidious nature and he was not disappointed. Swarming over the massive dirigible like an angry hive of insects, engineers were scurrying along guide wires trying desperately to repair the damage done by the suicide attack on the gondola.
Hitting with a hard jounce, Paragon’s form skidded along the elastic skin of the Zeppelin. His hands sought feverishly for one of the lifelines used by the industrious engineers. The side of the blimp was fast approaching when his powerful hands came in contact with a thick steel cable, stopping his quick decent. He began searching for one of the air hatches that littered the side of the craft.
A whizzing by the side of his head made him take a quick glance downward.
An alert engineer had seen Paragon’s mad gamble and was taking quick shots at him. The Luger fired twice more, missing Paragon by scant inches as he propelled himself in a wide arc and lunged at the German attacker. Wrapping his brawny thighs about the waist of his assailant, Paragon swung a hard right cross to the engineers jaw. Feeling like a sledgehammer had hit him, the German hung limply in his protective harness.
Still clinging to the now unconscious German, Paragon shimmied the harness and himself towards an air hatch. Moments later he was laying the engineer down on the catwalk floor and peered about.
Pandemonium reigned inside. A loud klaxon was blaring and soldiers and crew ran madly about. He crouched low to avoid detection and made his way aft to the engineering section of the craft.
A locked steel door barred his way into the engine room. Given that at any given moment he could be discovered, he knew that the time for subtlety was past. Reaching into a wide web belt he wore at his waist, Doc tore through the contents of one of the copious pockets.
Spreading a dark gray putty, which he had pulled out around the door handle, he lit a small wick he had placed in it with his lighter. As soon as the flame touched the putty a light brighter than an acetylene torch sprang into being. Seconds later, the putty had eaten a round moat around the door handle which promptly fell to the ground with a deep thud.
Paragon wasted no time in kicking the door sharply, sending it flying open. Shocked faces turned to see who had intruded upon their sealed chambers. Wordlessly, they began to go for their holsters but were too late.
The Supreme Adventurer had drawn his “Peacekeeper” and fired on full automatic. A deep thrumming echoed through the chamber as the rubber tipped bullets broke through the uniforms of the Germans and introduced its powerful soporific into their systems.
Holstering his firearm once he was sure that no opposition lay awake, Paragon went to work quickly. His mind tried to memorize as much detail as he could from the wondrous mechanism that worked before him. For many years he had hoped he would get a chance to examine the unique machines that propelled these monstrosities.
Now, he would have to destroy it.
Sabotaging the pipe that bleed off the excess heat from the engines, Paragon created a deadly feedback by closing the venting pipes. He estimated that in less than ten minutes, the pressure would build to dangerous levels and would destroy the Zeppelin in a tremendous explosion. Finding a button that would sound the “Abandon ship” alert, Paragon smiled grimly as he depressed the button. As he had stated before, the taking of a human life was a last resort. There was no need for the crew to lose their lives when the Zeppelin exploded.
Yet, instead of seeking to exit this floating time bomb, Paragon raced further inward, seeking the dirigible’s bridge.
If pandemonium reigned when he had first entered the Zeppelin, then mad chaos was the sole ruler now. Dozens of soldiers and crewmembers dashed wildly to the airlocks, shrugging on parachutes as they raced to evacuate the crippled craft. Even those crewmembers that noticed Paragon, failed to even attempt to detain him, so intent were they on leaving the blimp.
Doc Paragon made his way to the stern of the ship where the bridge would be found. Crippling the mighty Zeppelin was not enough to stop the carnage below. If it blew while over the City, the death toll and devastation would be incalculable. The only hope the citizens of the City had was if he could pilot the blimp back over the Great Lake, where its destruction would do minimal harm.
When he found the bridge it was all but deserted except for the Captain who was trying desperately to gain altitude from the chocked engines. Sliding silently behind him, Paragon dug his powerful fingers into a nerve center located on the side of the man’s neck. Unconsciousness was instantaneous and the Captain fell weakly to the ground.
Working quickly, Paragon turned the old-style piloting wheel and headed back out to the lake. He scanned through the cracked windshield and realized how dangerously close he was to the City’s rooftops. Before he could correct his course, a building’s dirigible mooring spire snapped as the Krieg-Zeppelin collided with it.
Holding the wheel steady, Paragon saw that no more obstacles stood in his way. Within minutes the Zeppelin would be crashing onto the waves of the Great Lake, of no further danger to anyone else. Taking off his belt, he tied it to the wheel, making it fast so that it would hold this course and he turned to leave.
A brutal blow to the injured side of his head dropped him to the floor and left him dazed.
Looming in front of him was the largest Hun he had ever seen. The man was massive, even more so than Paragon himself.
“I have heard many stories about you Paragon”, the German snarled. “I have always wanted to test my mettle against yours. But for what you have done today, I will relish hearing the sound of your spine snapping.”
With that the hulking brute snapped a deadly kick aimed at Paragon. Had it connected it would have surely caved in the side of Doc’s head, but the marble giant deflected the blow with his corded forearm and followed through with a punch to the abdomen.
A heart punch followed, with such force that a gorilla would have been doubled over in pain from it, but the Hun grunted deeply and strove to close with Paragon. Arms made of steel enwrapped Paragon’s midsection. Its vise like grip began to enclose around him, forcing air out of his lungs. Paragon heard one rib snap, then another as the German threatened to do what he promised and break his back.
Paragon realized that he had to break the grip by any means necessary or he would be dead in seconds. With a bit of disgust, he jabbed his thumbs deep into the human beast’s eyes, eliciting a deep yowl of pain and, more importantly, a slackening of the bear hug.
Not allowing his attacker a moment to recover, Paragon pushed back on the monster’s chin, exposing his neck. Worming his legs up through the hug, so that his knees were even with his chest, Paragon pushed back with all his considerable might. The German’s grip failed and he flew backwards just as Paragon fell across the control console. His already bruised back taking the brunt of the fall.
The German beast, however, was already on his feet and leaping at Paragon. Rolling desperately off to one side, Doc evaded the Hun’s savage attack, allowing him to smash face first into the electrical console. Sparks flew and instruments exploded and still did this creature not fall. Grabbing his short-cropped hair, Paragon smashed the German’s head repeatedly into the console, over and over until at last, the German ceased his struggles and fell in a bloody lump to the deck.
That was when, through bloody and swollen eyes, Paragon realized just how very close the waves of the Great Lake were…
“I saw Paragon do the impossible and land on a flying Zeppelin and turn it out back to sea where it would do no harm. But I never saw him get out of there.
“Even when them ambulance doctors came to take me to the hospital, I made them wait to see if Doc Paragon would turn up like he always does, but after an hour of waiting, he never did.”
The Tour Guide shifted from one foot to the other. He looked at his charges through misted eyes and was gratified to find that not a dry one looked back at him.
“Now the Mayor spun this big story on how all the damage was from a Dock workers strike that went bad and how Paragon died when his experimental plane collided with an Imperial German Zeppelin that was patrolling its border.”
His face twisted in disgust. “To that I say ‘Hooey!’. I was there and I know what I saw with my own eyes. So do a lot of other people, but they’re too scared of the Mayors strong-armed public relations goons to say anything.
“But I know the truth. And now, so do you good people.”
With a final tip of his hat, the Tour Guide turned and began to lead the crowd out of Centennial Park.
“Thanks Doc”, he whispered looking up at the marble statue, “but now that you’re gone, who’s gonna look after us when the crazies come around?”
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