JSA: Atrocity
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit
by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 19
False-Face walked along the platform. His men were long gone aboard the train now. The timer was set. All was in readiness. He saw a young black man trying to steal the purse off an older black woman. True to his role, False-Face started toward them, shouldering the young black man aside, "Get outta here before you wind up in the slammer, kid," he snarled. The young man's eyes were angry black dots, with yellow where the whites should be. False-Face guessed that he used drugs.
"Hey, man, I'm not doin' nothin', so take it easy, Officer, huh?"
False-Face smiled, glancing from left to right. No one was watching yet. He rammed his knee into the young black's crotch. The kid doubled toward him. False-Face grabbed him, asking in a louder-than-normal voice, "Hey, you all right, kid? Want me to call an ambulance?" Then he shoved the young man back against a pillar that supported the roof over the train platform.
"Nah, but you ain't seen the last of me, man," said the young black, starting to run across the platform.
False-Face turned to the older black woman, tapping his right index finger to the brim of his cap like a salute. "Everything okay, ma'am?"
"Thank you, Officer. I'm all right now," she said.
He gave her his best police officer grin and continued along the platform. In the distance he heard the whirring beat of rotor blades. He looked up and saw the helicopter moving in. It would be Flyboy. He started down toward the parking lot, walking quickly.
The helicopter was coming in fast, hovering, gliding downward now into an open area between parked cars.
False-Face started to run toward it, holding the butt of the revolver in the hip holster. The chopper was less than ten yards away now. He could see Flyboy switching seats in the helicopter. He could hear him shout as False-Face narrowed the distance to five yards. "F.F., there's somebody after me!"
The voice was inflected in a pleading tone, like a whining child asking for help.
False-Face stared at Mason for an instant, then looked skyward. Another helicopter was closing rapidly.
False-Face started to draw his service revolver. Kill Flyboy and leave no leads? He hesitated. Leave Mason alive and the occupants of the helicopter would be busy chasing Billy instead of him.
He smiled broadly, shouting, "Get out of here quickly!" He turned, pushing past the crowd that started to ring itself around the chopper. Suddenly he felt something jab into his left side, burning him, tearing the flesh.
False-Face shouted in pain, stumbling to his knees, falling, turning his head. He saw the young black he had hassled on the train platform, a cheap-looking switchblade in his right hand.
"Honkie mother!" the kid shouted.
False-Face stared, then drew the revolver and emptied half the cylinder into the young black's torso. Screams punctuated each shot as the body lurched back off the platform onto the tracks.
False-Face struggled to his feet, his left hand clamped over his left side, his right hand holstering the gun.
He began to run. There was a pain, a swimming feeling in his head, but he ran fast. He had looked at his Timex watch a few moments earlier, and he always judged time well. The bomb that was laced with VX nerve gas would detonate in twenty-seven minutes.
He ran faster.
***
Hourman undid his seat restraint. He got up and zigzagged on his feet, moving forward, positioning himself between and behind Batman and Mr Terrific. As the helicopter moved wildly dowward and ahead, he supported himself by holding on to the seat backs. "What are you doing?"
Batman shouted back to him, "Trying to keep that dastardly villian on the ground!"
Hourman's stomach churned as the helicopter dropped suddenly. The Man of the Hour swayed violently left, but he held on, keeping his balance. He looked down now through the transparent panel in front of their feet. The Bell helicopter seemed to hover just a few feet above the chopper skimming the surface below them. The parking lot was jammed with cars. The helicopter below threaded its way through the open lanes. The Caped Crusader kept the other chopper down by hovering almost directly over it.
There was a howling wind rushing around them. The chopper zigzagged again. Hourman lost his balance, and slammed against the bulkhead.
"Sit down, dammit, Hourman!" Batman shouted.
"You'll never get him this way, Batman!" The Man of the Hour shouted over the wind and the downdraft.
The helicopter below them cut right suddenly. Hourman almost lost his balance again as the floor spun beneath him. Below, the yellow-and-white helicopter was moving fast now, but Batman moved faster, stopping the aircraft from rising. The yellow machine started toward the fence line, then spun one hundred eighty degrees. A storm of dust blew along the ground. Batman chased it, keeping the Bell's runners a safe distance above the yellow machine's rotor blades.
"I'm going down after him, Batman!" Hourman shouted as he popped a Miraclo pill into his mouth and swallowed it.
"No!"
"Hell, yes, I am," Hourman shouted, wrenching the door handle on the port side. He pushed the door toward the fuselage nose, holding himself in the doorframe, then waited. The yellow helicopter under Hourman's feet turned violently, heading back toward the fence line of the parking lot.
Hourman spotted a convertible automobile, the top up. He jumped, his boots impacting against the convertible top. He crashed through it, his arms going out to brace himself. The top shredded under his weight as he fell forward, catching himself across the passenger seat. He pushed himself up and climbed out of the car.
The yellow helicopter was turning, boxed in from above by the blue-and-white Bell chopper. It did another one-eighty and started toward him. Hourman jumped aside, throwing himself onto the hood of a Chevrolet, then getting to his feet and climbing on the roof. With the increased strength that was given to him by his Miraclo pill, Hourman jumped across to a vinyl-topped Ford parked a few cars away. The helicopter's runners were less than a yard from him now. He launched himself about 15 feet upward, reaching out. His fingers curled over the yellow-and-white chopper's runners, then locked on them.
The chopper pulled up and left. The downdraft from the rotor blades beat at him, whipping his yellow cape in all directions.
He swung his legs up. Only his left leg caught the runner and hooked his left elbow over it. He looked up, squinting through the eye holes of his cowl against the wind. He stared at the yellow-and-white helicopter's fuselage for an instant. The pilot's door was open ... slapping back and forth.
Hourman reached out with his right hand, getting his elbow over the runner. He moved his left arm forward, catching the forward support strut of the runner. Extending his right hand, he grabbed the door latch. He pulled on it, at the same time pushing up with his left hand on the support strut. Inch by agonizing inch his body slowly rose, buffeted by the downdraft and wildly gyrating aircraft. He got his left leg under him in an awkward kneeling position. Then he placed his right foot on the strut and pushed himself slowly upright. Both feet were now on the strut. His right hand still grasped the handle, his left was pressed flat against the door, edging for the joint between the door and the fuselage.
Hourman moved forward, his right hand on the door handle, his left arm extended into the doorframe of the pilot's door. The door banged shut against his fingers as the chopper angled hard to port in another one-eighty. Luckily, the Miraclo pill increased Hourman's resistance to pain.
Still edging foward, he could look into the chopper now. The blond-haired man sat at the controls, hair blowing in the downdraft. His face was set, a wild hunted look in his eyes as they locked with Hourman's.
Billy "Flyboy" Mason.
The man held an automatic pistol. Hourman heard a shot and his left upper arm burned suddenly, but the pain did not make him loosen his grip.
The trapped helicopter wheeled one hundred eighty degrees again, lurching downward, then shooting upward, then leveling off again. The pilot was trying to shake him off. The pistol was tracking back toward him.
Hourman wrenched his body with the ebbing strength in his left arm as his right leg found the corner of the doorframe. Leaning on the door, he finally threw himself toward Flyboy into the cockpit. The pistol discharged into the transparent panel in the floor, sending a rush of air hissing into the cabin. The panel cracked as Hourman's left fist locked over the autoloading pistol Mason held.
Hourman's right snapped out, but he restrained himself. If he killed, crippled or knocked Flyboy unsconscious, the helicopter would crash.
He slapped out with his right instead, hard across Mason's mouth. The pistol discharged again. Hourman swatted his left down hard onto the pistol and the gun flew out of Flyboy's hand. Then he snapped the right wrist back against the control panel. The helicopter was lurching violently and a droning whistle started -- the rotor sound overheard was uneven.
Hourman clenched both hands over Mason's throat. Flyboy was trying to wrench free. "Land this helicopter!" Hourman snarled in a threatening tone, lifting Mason out of the pilot's seat by the throat, tensioning him against the seat restraint.
There was a gurgling sound, then a cough. "Yes, all right, yes -- don't kill me, please!"
Hourman raised his bloodied fist from Flyboy's throat, backhanding him across the mouth. "You little worm!" He looked forward at the controls as Mason's hands worked them. "You crash this thing and you'll be dead before it hits the ground!"
His right hand held Flyboy's throat tight. His left hand was stiffening, and his left sleeve was wet with his blood.
TO BE CONTINUED ....
***
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit
by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 19
False-Face walked along the platform. His men were long gone aboard the train now. The timer was set. All was in readiness. He saw a young black man trying to steal the purse off an older black woman. True to his role, False-Face started toward them, shouldering the young black man aside, "Get outta here before you wind up in the slammer, kid," he snarled. The young man's eyes were angry black dots, with yellow where the whites should be. False-Face guessed that he used drugs.
"Hey, man, I'm not doin' nothin', so take it easy, Officer, huh?"
False-Face smiled, glancing from left to right. No one was watching yet. He rammed his knee into the young black's crotch. The kid doubled toward him. False-Face grabbed him, asking in a louder-than-normal voice, "Hey, you all right, kid? Want me to call an ambulance?" Then he shoved the young man back against a pillar that supported the roof over the train platform.
"Nah, but you ain't seen the last of me, man," said the young black, starting to run across the platform.
False-Face turned to the older black woman, tapping his right index finger to the brim of his cap like a salute. "Everything okay, ma'am?"
"Thank you, Officer. I'm all right now," she said.
He gave her his best police officer grin and continued along the platform. In the distance he heard the whirring beat of rotor blades. He looked up and saw the helicopter moving in. It would be Flyboy. He started down toward the parking lot, walking quickly.
The helicopter was coming in fast, hovering, gliding downward now into an open area between parked cars.
False-Face started to run toward it, holding the butt of the revolver in the hip holster. The chopper was less than ten yards away now. He could see Flyboy switching seats in the helicopter. He could hear him shout as False-Face narrowed the distance to five yards. "F.F., there's somebody after me!"
The voice was inflected in a pleading tone, like a whining child asking for help.
False-Face stared at Mason for an instant, then looked skyward. Another helicopter was closing rapidly.
False-Face started to draw his service revolver. Kill Flyboy and leave no leads? He hesitated. Leave Mason alive and the occupants of the helicopter would be busy chasing Billy instead of him.
He smiled broadly, shouting, "Get out of here quickly!" He turned, pushing past the crowd that started to ring itself around the chopper. Suddenly he felt something jab into his left side, burning him, tearing the flesh.
False-Face shouted in pain, stumbling to his knees, falling, turning his head. He saw the young black he had hassled on the train platform, a cheap-looking switchblade in his right hand.
"Honkie mother!" the kid shouted.
False-Face stared, then drew the revolver and emptied half the cylinder into the young black's torso. Screams punctuated each shot as the body lurched back off the platform onto the tracks.
False-Face struggled to his feet, his left hand clamped over his left side, his right hand holstering the gun.
He began to run. There was a pain, a swimming feeling in his head, but he ran fast. He had looked at his Timex watch a few moments earlier, and he always judged time well. The bomb that was laced with VX nerve gas would detonate in twenty-seven minutes.
He ran faster.
***
Hourman undid his seat restraint. He got up and zigzagged on his feet, moving forward, positioning himself between and behind Batman and Mr Terrific. As the helicopter moved wildly dowward and ahead, he supported himself by holding on to the seat backs. "What are you doing?"
Batman shouted back to him, "Trying to keep that dastardly villian on the ground!"
Hourman's stomach churned as the helicopter dropped suddenly. The Man of the Hour swayed violently left, but he held on, keeping his balance. He looked down now through the transparent panel in front of their feet. The Bell helicopter seemed to hover just a few feet above the chopper skimming the surface below them. The parking lot was jammed with cars. The helicopter below threaded its way through the open lanes. The Caped Crusader kept the other chopper down by hovering almost directly over it.
There was a howling wind rushing around them. The chopper zigzagged again. Hourman lost his balance, and slammed against the bulkhead.
"Sit down, dammit, Hourman!" Batman shouted.
"You'll never get him this way, Batman!" The Man of the Hour shouted over the wind and the downdraft.
The helicopter below them cut right suddenly. Hourman almost lost his balance again as the floor spun beneath him. Below, the yellow-and-white helicopter was moving fast now, but Batman moved faster, stopping the aircraft from rising. The yellow machine started toward the fence line, then spun one hundred eighty degrees. A storm of dust blew along the ground. Batman chased it, keeping the Bell's runners a safe distance above the yellow machine's rotor blades.
"I'm going down after him, Batman!" Hourman shouted as he popped a Miraclo pill into his mouth and swallowed it.
"No!"
"Hell, yes, I am," Hourman shouted, wrenching the door handle on the port side. He pushed the door toward the fuselage nose, holding himself in the doorframe, then waited. The yellow helicopter under Hourman's feet turned violently, heading back toward the fence line of the parking lot.
Hourman spotted a convertible automobile, the top up. He jumped, his boots impacting against the convertible top. He crashed through it, his arms going out to brace himself. The top shredded under his weight as he fell forward, catching himself across the passenger seat. He pushed himself up and climbed out of the car.
The yellow helicopter was turning, boxed in from above by the blue-and-white Bell chopper. It did another one-eighty and started toward him. Hourman jumped aside, throwing himself onto the hood of a Chevrolet, then getting to his feet and climbing on the roof. With the increased strength that was given to him by his Miraclo pill, Hourman jumped across to a vinyl-topped Ford parked a few cars away. The helicopter's runners were less than a yard from him now. He launched himself about 15 feet upward, reaching out. His fingers curled over the yellow-and-white chopper's runners, then locked on them.
The chopper pulled up and left. The downdraft from the rotor blades beat at him, whipping his yellow cape in all directions.
He swung his legs up. Only his left leg caught the runner and hooked his left elbow over it. He looked up, squinting through the eye holes of his cowl against the wind. He stared at the yellow-and-white helicopter's fuselage for an instant. The pilot's door was open ... slapping back and forth.
Hourman reached out with his right hand, getting his elbow over the runner. He moved his left arm forward, catching the forward support strut of the runner. Extending his right hand, he grabbed the door latch. He pulled on it, at the same time pushing up with his left hand on the support strut. Inch by agonizing inch his body slowly rose, buffeted by the downdraft and wildly gyrating aircraft. He got his left leg under him in an awkward kneeling position. Then he placed his right foot on the strut and pushed himself slowly upright. Both feet were now on the strut. His right hand still grasped the handle, his left was pressed flat against the door, edging for the joint between the door and the fuselage.
Hourman moved forward, his right hand on the door handle, his left arm extended into the doorframe of the pilot's door. The door banged shut against his fingers as the chopper angled hard to port in another one-eighty. Luckily, the Miraclo pill increased Hourman's resistance to pain.
Still edging foward, he could look into the chopper now. The blond-haired man sat at the controls, hair blowing in the downdraft. His face was set, a wild hunted look in his eyes as they locked with Hourman's.
Billy "Flyboy" Mason.
The man held an automatic pistol. Hourman heard a shot and his left upper arm burned suddenly, but the pain did not make him loosen his grip.
The trapped helicopter wheeled one hundred eighty degrees again, lurching downward, then shooting upward, then leveling off again. The pilot was trying to shake him off. The pistol was tracking back toward him.
Hourman wrenched his body with the ebbing strength in his left arm as his right leg found the corner of the doorframe. Leaning on the door, he finally threw himself toward Flyboy into the cockpit. The pistol discharged into the transparent panel in the floor, sending a rush of air hissing into the cabin. The panel cracked as Hourman's left fist locked over the autoloading pistol Mason held.
Hourman's right snapped out, but he restrained himself. If he killed, crippled or knocked Flyboy unsconscious, the helicopter would crash.
He slapped out with his right instead, hard across Mason's mouth. The pistol discharged again. Hourman swatted his left down hard onto the pistol and the gun flew out of Flyboy's hand. Then he snapped the right wrist back against the control panel. The helicopter was lurching violently and a droning whistle started -- the rotor sound overheard was uneven.
Hourman clenched both hands over Mason's throat. Flyboy was trying to wrench free. "Land this helicopter!" Hourman snarled in a threatening tone, lifting Mason out of the pilot's seat by the throat, tensioning him against the seat restraint.
There was a gurgling sound, then a cough. "Yes, all right, yes -- don't kill me, please!"
Hourman raised his bloodied fist from Flyboy's throat, backhanding him across the mouth. "You little worm!" He looked forward at the controls as Mason's hands worked them. "You crash this thing and you'll be dead before it hits the ground!"
His right hand held Flyboy's throat tight. His left hand was stiffening, and his left sleeve was wet with his blood.
TO BE CONTINUED ....
***
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm