Issue #2, Volume 1
"The Beckoning, Chapter 2: If I Die Before I Wake...."
Written by DoomScribe
Out of the darkness, a shadow of movement caught the
attention of the two gypsylookouts, standing uneasy guard over the entrance
into the cavelike Hidden City. Underneath the mountain of sand
behind them lay a shining crystal dome, formed long before either of these men
had been born, created by an unrecorded and unnatural event that had sealed
within all that remained of the once-thriving metropolis. Now, her
cavernous interior under that glass ceiling served as a sanctuary to the gypsy
caravan. These were the seeming sole survivors of the
"cleansing" of their homeland of Latveria, by an
indiscriminate necrovirus, launched by a madman they would never know.
Other madmen, closer to home, now threatened the gypsies' tribe. To the
east, the Collective Guardsmen, once the police force that zealously enforced
the will of their enslaver, Tiger Wylde. To the west, the feral tribe of
men that called themselves the Crow, bowing to no law save the survival of the
fittest. Hence, the unease of the two gypsy guards as the shadow in the
darkness crossed the sand field ahead of them, until one of the shadows called
out a weary greeting in their native tongue.
"Help, please!" the voice pleaded, "he's been hurt!"
One of the guards moved forward. The shadows approached the camp lights
and began to take shape. Two men, with weapons slung over their
shoulders, carried between them a third, who did not walk but dragged legs
limply behind. The two gypsies struggled up the sand under their unmoving
burden, a large man with a face hidden by a heavy cloak. As they reached
the entrance, they dropped the cloaked one on the sand in front of the
guards.
"We were ambushed," one of the two men explained between heavy
breaths, as the guard examined the injured one. The wounded man's life
spilled out of a gaping hole through his ribcage and stained the sand
where he lay. The guard turned him over. The eyes were fixed and glazed.
"This one is dead," he said quietly. "I am sorry,
Andros. There is nothing we can do."
Andros, the youngest of the two patrolmen dropped to his knees beside his
dead brother and covered his face with his hands as he silently wept. The
other man looked away in anger, and spoke to the guard with fierce
resolve. "I must speak to the council."
The guard shook his head. "They are in chambers now, Tobias, and not to be
disturbed."
"Enough with the closed doors!" Tobias shouted, "our patrols are
being wiped out every day! There will be none left to lead to safety if
we remain here much longer!"
The young man on the ground lifted his head and spoke with frightening calm to
his commander. "Where will we go, Tobias? There is no passage
through the Dinaric to the sea. We are trapped here. We are all
going to die."
The three men looked at the boy who cradled his dead brother's head in hands
that should be passing time with school books and young girls. Instead, his hands were worn by the death he had touched, and his face was ghostlike
with the burden of endless suffering. In the flickering light of the
portable lamps, the three gypsy men felt the weight of that fearful prophecy
fall upon them like a blanket of frozen air, and the fear was reflected in
their faces. They were silent, and there was all around them the cold
quiet of the shifting sands and the distant flickering of stars.
Inside the Hidden City, no stars showed through the sheath of sand that covered
the crystal dome above. Underneath that distant ceiling, artificial lights and
small campfires lit the musty darkness, shedding some small comfort onto
groups that gathered together to sing quiet songs or tell stories passed on
from generations past. Some of the gypsy children were laughing playfully
as they made a broken-down old car with rounded features and bug-like eyes the
object of a new game. Although many of the buildings left in the city
were perfectly habitable, most of the gypsies gathered their belongings upon
the wide, barren open spaces that had once been parks of grasses and flowers
and tall trees. It was their way, to sleep where they stopped, needing no
roof or walls to separate them from their comrades. A short distance from
the open courtyard where most of the gypsies gathered, down a broken stone
road, past a low wall pockmarked with mortar fire and ancient, faded graffiti,
there was a small stucco house, nondescript and unassuming except for the warm
light that emanated from it's glass windows. Inside, the gypsy council
was meeting to discuss their plans and weigh their options.
"The water won't last," Gavriil emphasized his point with sharp jabs
of his pipe. "There is little enough to go round as it is, and no
telling when the pipeline will run dry."
Marissa sat quietly in the far corner of a plain kitchen, cross-legged on the
tile countertop, and absently chewing her fingernails as she watched and
listened to the verbal wrangling of the elders. The elder council, twelve
in all, gathered around a small wooden table, drinking coffee and chewing on
stale bread as they quietly discussed the future of the tribes. Larinda,
the seer, was there, calmly swirling the last remaining drops of tea in a fine
china cup. The old woman wore a ragged gingham dress and a plaid scarf
wrapped tightly around her grey hair. She was a small woman, her feet did
not touch the floor from where she sat, but her presence in the room was
enormous. A faded bar code tattoo on her neck marked her as one who had
lived through and escaped the gypsy internment camps that had almost decimated
their population, along with half of Italy, in the frightening genetic
purification of forty years past. Her chief adversary at the other side
of the table was Gavriil, a gaunt and hunched old man whose fierce jaw chomped
defensively upon an equally aged corn cob pipe. Gavriil was equal parts
smoke and steam, for despite his coarse talk and gruff attitude, his eyes
glowed with a mischievous twinkle and his mouth turned easily at the corner to
a smile. He turned his charm briefly to Marissa with a smile and wink
before he returned to their discussion.
"Before that, there will be no food," another woman added.
"If we slaughter the cows and goats there will be some meat for a while,
but no milk for the children."
"Where will we go?" a tall man, one of the youngest of the council,
asked. "The patrols have found no passage through the mountains. When the
rains come, the alps will be covered in snow and ice. If we are trapped
on a pass there, we will never escape."
Marissa gazed out the window at the distant campfires as she remembered what
Jake had told her about the mountains to the southwest that now barred their
passage. The Dinaric Alps, rising to nearly 3000 meters, were a massive
range of cold and inhospitable limestone peaks, not at all like the granite
mountains of her native Latveria. Where the familiar peaks of the home were
softened by tall pines, grassy meadows and cascading waterfalls, the
mountains of the Dinaric range were as inhospitable to the plants as to man,
and few trees grew in its thin soil. The length and breadth of the range
were such that they lifted like an enormous wall above the sandy plains
below. There were few if any passages across the Dinaric to the Adriatic,
and formidable though they were, the mountains were not the only barrier
between the gypsy refugees and safe haven.
"More reason to go now," Gavriil was arguing pointedly.
"There must be a way through, it has been done before. And we will
find it! But the longer we wait the more dire are our chances."
Before another word could be spoken, the young commander of the patrol burst
without warning into the room. "Haris is dead," Tobias
announced sternly. He slammed his rifle down onto the table in front of the
council to emphasize his frustration. "Ambushed by the Crow not more
than 2 klicks from here. That is three this week and soon there will
more. They will find where we have hidden and we will be trapped in this
stinking hole like roaches in a drainpipe!"
For a moment, everyone was shocked into silence. Marissa jumped down and
stepped close behind Larinda. "Jake is out there . . ." she
whispered. But Larinda quietly shushed the girl and patted the nervous
hand on her shoulder comfortingly.
"Tobias now is not the time . . ." Gavriil began sternly.
"The shock isn't!" Tobias argued. "Andros is without a
brother now, and Petrovna is without a son! How many more mothers have to
lose their sons before we do something!"
"You must trust us, Tobias," Larinda didn't raise her voice,
but everyone stopped and listened. Her eyes glazed over slightly, and she
began to speak in a strange sing-song harmony that rose and fell in pitch and
tone. She was having a vision. "Doom has crossed into the plain
of Banat. He is searching for the People now. He will face great
trials, and enemies without and within, but he has heard the call. Soon he
will join us, and he will lead us to freedom through a great fall of water to
the sea." Larinda sighed deeply, and smiled, always amazed by the
clarity and calmness of the visions that took her. Her eyes returned to
normal, and she fixed Tobias with a penetrating stare. "You must have
faith, commander, Doom is coming."
Marissa felt her heart skip a beat at the mention of Doom, the legendary
leader of the gypsies from an age long past. Was he really coming here?,
she thought, then quickly dismissed her doubt. Larinda's visions were
rarely false ones.
"Doom!" Tobias shouted. He was not entirely swayed by the
seer's striking visions. "What do I know of Doom? Where was our savior
when the spiders struck? What compassion has he shown the gypsies when we stood
in the way of his ambition? How do we even know that he is the true
Doctor Doom of Legend?"
"He is, Tobias," Marissa almost shouted back at the commander.
"If you'd seen him, you'd know it!"
"Star-struck girl," Tobias countered, "you're daydreaming
again! Go back to your
fantasy books! What use has Doom for us now?"
"Enough!" Gavriil raised his voice in controlled anger and stepped
between the two. "The council will decide if we heed Larinda's vision, and
wait for Doom. Meanwhile, you two will take your shouting outside!"
Marissa hung her head and shuffled out of the room as ordered. Tobias
followed, snatching up his weapon defiantly as he left. Once outside in
the darkness, he caught up to Marissa and fell into step beside her. He
cleared his throat, but she paid him no heed. "I'm sorry for
shouting at you in front of the council," Tobias said softly.
"I just wanted them to listen to reason . . ."
Marissa didn't answer, turning away from him to run her hand along with a broken
wall.
"Look," Tobias continued, "it's not as bad as it seems.
We'll get out of here soon, and we'll cross the mountains and then we'll be
free again. Maybe one day we can even return to Latveria." He
pressed closer to her, intoxicated by the honeysuckle smell from her long black
hair. "We don't need some dead king to save us . . ."
Marissa turned on him angrily. "You don't believe, Tobias," she
glared at him through the darkness of the cave with a fluorescent heat.
"After all that's happened, you still don't believe! You have
forsaken the gypsy way and put your faith in nothing but technology. What
problems can you solve with guns, that won't end in bloodshed? You don't
believe the visions, you don't believe the dreams, and you don't believe in
Doom! Well, I do! I've seen him, and I know he cares for
us! We're his kin, and he's bound to us by blood! That's why he's
coming, and that's why he'll save us!"
"He's a man, the same as any man!" Tobias argued. "And he'll
cheat and lie and steal and bleed the same as any man! He's not a god,
Marissa! He could be killed out there the same as us! And even if he
does come, who's to say he comes to save us? We've got to learn to face
this on our own, and to fight if we have to! That's all I'm saying, we
can't put all our hope into one man!"
Marissa looked at him with new eyes, startled now that she was ever attracted
to this swaggering young soldier. "I can," she said defiantly and turned quickly to disappear into the darkness of the strange and silent
buildings.
--------------------------------------------------------
On the plains of Banat, the rocky lowlands of the mountains gave way to rolling
hills carpeted by the brown grass and dotted with a few sickly trees.
Outcroppings of giant rocks provided some shelter from the fierce wind that
blew down from the mountains, and better cover for the weary pair of gypsy
travelers that carefully watched the road below. The dirt road in the
valley below them followed the path of an old river, long since diverted
elsewhere. The road was frequently used by trucks and old army jeeps,
still driven out here in the wilderness where the mag-lev tracks of the
cities did not reach. In the distance, the dust from a convoy of those
ancient transports signaled their approach long before the vehicles themselves
could be seen, and the ragged pair waiting on the hill above the road sank
instinctively lower into their rocky shelter as the convoy came closer.
"How many are there?" Uriel asked, whispering even though they were
hundreds of meters from the approaching vehicles. He clutched his wounded
arm as he spoke, still violently painful from where the wave spider had sliced
him. The wound was infected, and the poison in his blood was making him
weaker by the hour. The injured limb hung limply at his side, and his
face was ghostly pale beneath his dirty brown hair. Still suffering from
hunger and dehydration, Uriel had made it this far on sheer
determination, and the strength of his faith in the Master.
"Twenty trucks, maybe more," Marcos answered, peering through a pair
of old, battered binoculars at the road below. "Plus flyer escorts,
a patrol, seven or eight, can't tell for sure."
"And Doom? Can you see him?"
"No, but he's down there, somewhere . . ." Marcos's voice trailed off
as he scanned the road in front of the convoy for some sign of the Latverian
monarch. They had diverted their path eastward, in the hopes of pilfering
supplies or transportation from the outposts of the Collected Guardsmen. When
they happened upon the river road, Marcos had recognized it as one of several
possible supply routes between the westernmost CG outposts. How Doom had
known that it would soon be used, was a mystery to the two weary gypsies, but
known he had and had ordered them to wait on this rocky, windswept
knell. Now, less than a day later, any doubts they may have had vanished
into the wind. He had earned their respect, but what chance did one man
have against a well-armed and battle-trained patrol of mercenaries like the
Guardsmen?
The trucks moved steadily across the scorched earth, big tires bouncing over
the rough cut road. They were ancient army trucks, gasoline-powered, smoky
exhaust, internal combustion, big lumbering beasts from an age past that had
seen many wars and been driven across many roads such as this one. Their
paint was peeling, huge dents and bullet holes marred their once pristine
finish. Rust was all that held together some of their parts. But
their engines were carefully maintained, for they were useful tools in this
remote, war-torn wilderness. Underneath their green canvas canopies, the
essential supplies to fuel their war against the Crow would soon find their way
to the waiting Guardsmen at a lonely outpost. Alongside the
trucks, at a distance far enough to not be affected by the huge clouds of dust
thrown up by those massive tires, were the flyers. Sleek, modern,
single-person patrol aircraft that could dart in and around the less elegant
vehicles they escorted. The flyers were well-armed and bristling with the
latest detection technology. Infrared scopes and motion sensors swept
over the ground before and beside the road. Hands were ready at the
triggers of forward-mounted plasma rifles. They kept in constant radio contact
with the convoy leaders through integrated headsets inside their shiny helmets,
and they moved their position along with the armada in a dynamic rotation designed
to confuse their enemy. The well-seasoned combat pilots scanned the rocky
terrain ahead with dogged intensity, trusting eyes and instinct as much as
their high tech instruments, but they were confident that no ambush could
pierce their formidable perimeter, even here in this deep gorge so close to
enemy territory. High above the road, Uriel and Marcos were motionless in
the
rocks, waiting the Master's signal.
One of the trucks moving along with the convoy suddenly sputtered, coughed,
rattled a sick death knell, and then died altogether. It rolled to a stop
at the bottom of the grade, the driver easing it gently to the side of the road
away from a precipitous drop into the rocky riverbed. Inside the truck's
cab, the driver beat his hand against the wheel as he tried, again and again, to
turn over the engine. Finally, he shrugged and popped the latch to the
hood, waving the trucks behind him to go on around. His riding companion
laid down his weapon and got out, moving to the front of the vehicle to lift
the hood and inspect the malfunctioning motor.
As the trailing ends of the convoy moved past, two of the flyers moved in to
take up positions on either side of the truck, one close to speaking to the
occupants, one high and behind to look out for trouble.
"What's the problem?" the flyer asked impatiently.
"I don't know!" the driver shouted back at the hovering patrolman.
"It just died! Come-on Bessy old girl, don't give up the ghost on me
now!" This he spoke to the engine as he again tried to turn it over, to no
avail. His companion poked around inside the engine compartment, and
yelled back "Try it now!" but the results were the same.
The flyer backed away and communicated to his commander. "It looks like we
got another dead one," he stated, "shocking lousy place to go belly
up, halfway between hell and nowhere." He cupped his hand over the
earpiece as he listened to his instructions, and then motioned to the other
trucks to move on. The last of the trucks passed their fallen comrade and
continued their laborious march down the road. When the dust had cleared,
there was only the one truck left on the lonely road, with the two flyer
escorts strategically placed at 6 and 9, hovering expectantly behind it.
"You got 20 minutes to make it work, or we're burning this load and moving
you back to base," the flyer shouted at the driver.
"I'll get it! I'll get it!" the driver cried back anxiously.
"Shock if they're gonna dock my pay for this load just cause some
lousy flyboy is pissin' his pants . . ." he mumbled to himself, "c'mon
Bessy . . ." He cranked at the starter once again. The engine
groaned unresponsively. He leaned out of the driver's window and tried to see
what his companion was doing, but he didn't seem to be doing much of
anything. "Hey, Leonardo! Get the lead out man and let's get this
heap moving! Leo? Leo?!"
Leo, however, was far from being able to respond any more. His neck
broken, the lifeless body was collapsed under the hood, hanging limply halfway
out of the engine compartment. Doom had indeed found them. Moments
before he had lain just beneath the surface of the road, holding his breath and
maintaining his form in a state of physical intangibility as the trucks passed
unknowingly over him. When his selected target arrived, he had latched onto
the undercarriage, surreptitiously lifting himself from the dusty
roadbed. By phasing through the vehicle's electrical system, he had
disrupted those ancient circuits just enough to kill the engine. When the
time was right, he had risen up out of the engine compartment in front of the
amazed guardsman, and with one armored glove snapped the poor man's neck before
he even had the chance to draw a breath to scream. Now Doom slipped
silently between the rocky wall of the cut road and the passenger's side of the
cab, neatly hidden from view of the flyers watching the road overhead.
The cowl of his cape shrouded his mask, and his eyes glowed with the
anticipation of battle. He leaned slightly in through the open window.
"Step out of the vehicle if you want to live," his cold, mechanical
voice snapped the driver's attention directly back to the cab.
The driver's eyes went wide as he stared into the cold mask of Doom, but to his
credit, he did not panic. "Shock me!" the driver cried out. Quick as
a snake he reached for the laser weapon his companion had left on the seat
beside him, pulling the trigger as he hastily pointed it in the direction of
the door. The blast blew a massive hole in the metal door, literally
ripping it from its hinges and scattering shrapnel into the rocky wall
behind. But Doom was not there, and the driver brought the weapon back to
his shoulder as he stared at the place where a body should have been.
Doom rose up through the floorboard in front of the driver, and as he became
tangible again he grabbed the muzzle of that deadly weapon. Pivoting it
easily around the driver, he pointed it out the door. The driver instinctively
pulled the trigger, but as the weapon was now pointed away from Doom, this
action succeeded only in blowing off the driver's side door and sending a
shearing hail of superheated shrapnel into the flyer who had descended to see
what the hell was going on down there. The flyer went down, his vehicle
irreparably crippled and his face and chest half tore away from the laser
blast.
"Mayday! Mayday! We're under attack!" the remaining pilot hastily relayed his message to his companions in the retreating convoy, but all
he got back was static. "Mayday!" he repeated anxiously, keeping his
distance as he circled above the truck. "Oh my God, Ferguson's down, he's
dead . . .somebody answer me!"
In the cab, Doom was locked in a struggle with the driver, who was holding onto
the laser weapon with all his might. In the cramped quarters of the truck
cab, there was little Doom was able to do. Additionally, although he had phased
through the floorboards of the cab to reach his adversary, his right foot had
remained trapped underneath the truck. Two nights prior and unknown to
him at the time, a virus had attached itself to the nanites, the microscopic
computerized lifeforms that formed a link between his nervous system and the
command codes of his wondrous armor. That techno-organic interface
provided him with control over his outer form that was as smooth and as
seamless as thought. But when he had phased through the wave spider that
attacked their camp, something had been transmitted between the alien
genetically engineered lifeform and his internal nanotechnology.
Something: a virus, a glitch, a shudder of unknown consequences, had
somehow communicated across the borderless barrier between those disparate
lifeforms, and he was only now beginning to realize how far his systems had
been contaminated. He could feel his foot beginning to coalesce back into
a solid form, and the first faint pinch of the metal floorboard resisting his
flesh. If his leg reformed completely now, it would be severed at the
ankle, leaving his foot in the dusty earth beneath the truck. Mentally he
struggled to maintain control over the phasing aspect of his armor.
The driver noted the armored attacker's plight as they fought for control of
the deadly weapon. "Ahah!" he shouted, thinking that Doom was
incapacitated. Still holding onto the laser rifle with one hand, he reached for
the pistol at his belt.
--------------------------------------------------------
In the dusty ruins of a walled city many miles away, a massive settlement of
native peoples scratched a meager existence from the polluted earth. They
were the Crow and forsaken by the forward march of civilization, they
had rejected all things of the modern world. A giant garbage heap outside of
the city walls was witness to their contempt. The mile-high mountain was
a stinking pile of rusting cars, smashed computers, melted phones, and
disassembled holographic projectors. Inside the walls, buildings of glass
and metal had also fallen to the whims of entropy and were pointedly ignored
by the milling populace below. The seats of government power from the
past were empty shells of ruined brick and mortar. The real power here
lay in the centuries-old mosque at the center of the city. Golden spires
reached towards the heavens, and walls damaged by years of warfare were
carefully propped up by wooden beams. The crumbling facade of the once
ornate edifice struggled to reveal it's grandeur once again to a new breed of
adoring devotees, camped around the place of worship in self-sacrificing
fanaticism, praying five times a day and glancing furtively through the open
doorway at the slim prospect of glimpsing their savior.
Although the huge wooden doors to the mosque had all but burned away long ago,
their blackened shells still hung grimly to massive metal hinges. Two
burly guards stood watch at the gate, barring entrance to all but the most
devout followers. Up the stone steps, two lean warriors bowed respectfully and
silently passed their primitive weapons to the guardsmen. Their legs and
arms were bare, and their deeply tanned skin glistened with dirt and
sweat. Through that gate and inside the revered structure now, they
forego even quenching their burning thirst at the bubbling fountain to kneel
and bow on the cold tile floor. Across the immense open hallway, shards
of yellow sunlight flickered over blue and white tile through tall, slender windows
high up on the walls. Flowers and ornamental wreaths adorned the walls or
were scattered about the floor, lending their aromatic fragrance to the sacred
place. There was no sound inside save the tumbling water of the fountain,
and white-robed attendants floated silently along the edges of the hall, their
trailing cloaks whispering through the dried leaves that littered the
floor. At the altar was a single throne on a raised dais. Two
cisterns on either side of that throne burned with smokeless eldritch fire,
glowing green but shedding no light upon the dark and massive form that rested
there. A single hand raised out of the darkness and motioned to the two
petulant warriors.
"Enter." The voice was not raised but boomed across the hall
with unmistakable authority. The two warriors scrambled forward, bowing
as they came, daring not to raise their eyes to their fearsome leader.
The knelt in front of the altar and bowed their heads once again to the ground.
"Speak," the deep voice commanded.
Without raising his head, one of the warriors answered in a hoarse
whisper. "We saw the armored one, traveling across the plains with
two of the gypsies. He is searching for the others."
"Hmmm," the dark one mused. "The spirit of the crow has
found his companions in the sand. The others will soon be converted to
the way, or they shall be dead. His quest is for naught."
"There is one other thing, Lord," the warrior offered. "He
battled the spider's hand to hand, and killed two of them outright. The
third was wounded but escaped."
The dark one stood from his throne in amazement. Bits of sunlight washed
over him now, and his form was silhouetted against the whitewashed walls of
the temple. He was a giant of a man, thick muscled and massive of chest
and limb. His skin was as black and as taught as granite through and
through, his head was shaved clean and the whites of his eyes glowed within his
blackface. He wore a vest of glittering beads and jewels that jangled
delicately as he moved, swinging across his bare chest. A headband of red
and gold adorned his forehead, and three large black feathers were sewn into
this crown. Similar bands circled his bulging biceps. He reached
for his staff, a golden scepter with rubies and diamonds inlaid along the head.
He turned it to his loyal followers.
"Say to me the magic he wielded," he commanded, "or expose this
Lie and be
condemned!"
"It is true, Lord, I swear it!" the warrior's eyes were wide with
fear and he bowed deeper.
The other warrior spoke, "The magic was in the gloves that he wore, Lord,
and the green cloak that made him as a ghost. We saw this truth, he spoke
no spell to slay the beasts!"
"His power is indeed as great as legend has foretold. Find
him!" he commanded forcefully, his voice rippling through the supplicants
like a tidal wave. "Take all the warriors from the fields and the village
and find him!"
"Lord Corbeau," one of the white-robed attendants stepped close by
his master's elbow. "The warriors have gathered at the eastern
border where the guardsmen are fortifying their position. We must strike
their outpost now before they have the opportunity to replenish their
supplies. Surely that is of more importance now."
Corbeau's bright eyes turned to glare at his attendant with malevolence.
Striking swift as a snake, he bludgeoned the servant's face with the bejeweled
scepter, spraying blood as he broke the man's nose and brought him quivering to
his knees. "I will say what is of importance!" Corbeau
shouted. "The guardsmen are of no consequence! The gypsies
will soon be buried! It is Doom who will decide the fate of the
desert! Slay the armored one called Doom and bring me his heart so that I
may feast upon his power and make his magic my own! Hear all ye warriors
and spread the word!" He pointed to the beaten servant.
"Let no one question the will of the Lord! Take him to where he may pray
for guidance and enlightenment." Two other servants carried the
beaten man away, and Corbeau faced the exhausted warriors. "Go now
and do as I say. Find strength in the Lord, and let no man stand in your
way!"
"Yes, Lord," the two warriors bowed again, foreheads touching the floor at their leader's feet.
--------------------------------------------------------
On the plains of Banat, Doom had quite enough of the tenacious CG truck driver
that battled him in the cramped cab of the disabled truck. For a moment,
his anger was laid bare. As the driver reached for another weapon, Doom
reversed his tactics and hurled the driver through the windshield and onto the
raised hood. The driver's body crashed in a hail of broken glass against
the metal hood, denting it and stunning the driver. Doom was about to
turn his attention back to freeing his trapped foot when the other patrol flyer
hovered low into view. Having ascertained that the comlink with his
patrol further down the road was somehow severed, he dropped down to face their
attacker. He recognized Doom, and for a moment their eyes met. Doom
was quicker only by a fraction, blasting lasers from his gauntlet as the CG
pilot peppered the cab of the truck with plasma fire, forcing Doom to duck down
or risk damaging his already compromised defensive systems. The pilot's
ship was winged by Doom's weapons, and he quickly retreated to better mount a
counter-attack against this formidable foe.
"Master!" breathless and dirty, Marcos appeared alongside the truck,
crouching low to avoid detection.
Instantly, Doom directed the gypsy blacksmith to the fallen laser rifle.
"Shoot down that flyer," he ordered. "He must not be allowed to
report back to the rest of that patrol!"
Marcos scrambled for the laser rifle on the ground beside the truck. As
he picked up the weapon, he raised his eyes to find he was looking into the
sneering face of the driver, bloody but still alive as he writhed painfully
atop the hood of the truck. The driver had a pistol in his hand, and he
was aiming it at the gypsy's head. His eyes wide with fear, Marcos
held his breath.
Then Doom was once again upon the driver, having, at last, freed his foot from
the
floorboards through a focused effort. As he knocked the driver's gun
away, the flyer came around to the front of the truck once more. Marcos
aimed for the flying ship, but the shot went wide. It was close enough however
to cause the pilot to back off, and as he did he was grim witness to the brutal
incineration of the CG driver at the hand of Doom. As the scorched
carcass fell blackened and smoking onto the earth, the pilot decided upon
another tactic. Gunning his engines at full throttle he rapidly
retreated, dodging a hail of weapons fire from Doom and the laser rifle in
Marcos's hands as he fled. Doom stood atop the hood of the truck as he
watched the flyer disappear in the distance, retreating fast and out of range.
His green cape swirled like his anger around him.
"Can you at least drive?" he proffered angrily, snatching the laser
weapon from Marcos's hands.
"Yes, Master," Marcos offered sheepishly as the master cleared the
rubble and bodies from the truck. Behind them, Uriel limped weakly
towards the truck to join them.
"Then drive like a demon-possessed," Doom ordered, reaching into the
engine
compartment to quickly undo the damage he had done. The engine started
smoothly and he closed the hood with a resounding thud. "It won't
take long for that patrol to track us down, once they find the courage to do
so, and then we'll need all the weapons at our disposal to turn them
back." Doom reached behind the cab and ripped off the green canvas
that shrouded the contents of the truck bed. Inside were boxes of laser
rifles, tri-phasic plasma weapons, rocket launchers, personnel armor, ammo,
food, water and one big mother of a swivel-mounted, long-range
multi-pulse laser cannon. Doom helped Uriel into the back of the truck as
he locked down the cannon's mounting plates and began to charge up the systems,
using a power source scavenged from his own armor. Marcos quickly moved
the truck off the road, maneuvering down a narrow path barely visible through
the brush. The path turned into a passable road, and they escaped in a
cloud of dust. As they hurried away, Uriel began to look increasingly
feeble.
"Master," Uriel spoke quietly over the rumble of the truck, holding
on to the sides for dear life with his one good hand.
Doom offered him a glance as he worked. He wondered to himself of the boy
was going to make it. "We'll be there soon," was all he said.
"But, what happened, it was very strange," Uriel continued dreamily,
"I've never known Marcos to miss . . ." His voice trailed off as he
slipped into unconsciousness.
Whatever was the meaning of that half-conscious muttering, it would have to
wait, for no sooner had they begun to travel down the rough side road, then
Doom heard the distant hum of the returning flyer patrol. The road they
were on quickly broke through the canyon and began to descend into the valley
flatlands. In the distance ahead of them, the horizon shimmered with the
glare of a great field of shifting white sand dunes. Facing back to the
rear, Doom readied the plasma cannon. He aimed at the notch through which
they had passed. Sheer cliffs rose on either side of the cut road as it
exited the river canyon road from the other side, and as the flyer patrol
followed the path of the stolen vehicle, they were neatly framed between those
rocky walls. They knew it almost as soon as they appeared there. A
relentless barrage of cannon fire blasted into the flyer patrol from the
fleeing truck, forcing an immediate retreat. Some of the patrol that
escaped the initial assault were crushed by tons of rubble cascading from the
rocky walls. The cliffs collapsed, covering and blocking the old road
behind them. Explosions echoed across the valley, matched by the sound of
screaming metal and billowing black smoke.
Doom looked up from his weapon, puffs of plasma heat trailing from the barrel
of the cannon. In the distance, he could see some of the flyers darting
back and forth across the mess he had made, but they did not follow. He
eyed them with contempt as he methodically disconnected himself from the deadly
weapon. Satisfied that they would not follow for some time, he pounded on
the roof of the cab for Marcos to continue. Marcos stole a brief glance
back at the destruction, and then ground the old truck into gear as they drove
onward towards the shimmering sea of sand.
--------------------------------------------------------
In Latveria, the day was once again ending but the night was just beginning for
the new inhabitants of that storybook country. The wave spiders had
gathered in a strange ritual, facing the middle of a circle they created with
their bodies. At the center of that circle, a lone female spider spun and
shook, tapping her forelegs and buzzing translucent wings. She was the lone
survivor of an earlier attack upon Doom and his gypsy companions, and her dance
was a means of communication. In this way, she told the story of how her
mate had been killed by a human in glistening armor. She touched the
other spiders with hairy mouthparts in an emotional caress, pleading for
revenge. The soldier spiders buzzed among themselves, and that buzzing
spread throughout the circle and soon infected the entire colony. In
moments, a massive black armada of alien creatures filled the night sky above
Latveria with an unnatural roar of buzzing wings and clattering exoskeletons.
END CHAPTER 2
"Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell . . ."
Alfred Tennyson, from "The Charge of the Light Brigade"
DS
June 30, 1996
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