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Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 14: Car Trouble


In the forest outside Fort Morrison, Lieutenant Harrison Stevens and Private Benjamin Greene stood watch beside the parked Ford.

"Well, I just don't get what's got you so out of sorts, sir. I think it's good fun!"

"Alright. Here's what makes me uncomfortable, Private."

"Yeah, sir?"

"Donald Duck wears a shirt, right?"

"And a hat."

"A shirt and a hat, like a sailor. But no pants."

"Not a stitch."

"He wears a shirt but no pants. That's ridiculous."

"It's just a funny cartoon, sir."

"Nothing funny 'bout it. The way I see, there are two possibilities. He's either a talking animal or a feathery person. If he's a duck wearing clothes, that's awfully strange. Ducks don't wear clothes. Where'd he get clothes? How'd he know to put them on? And if he's a person, then he's nude from the waist down! Why even bother to wear a shirt if you go around showing your nethers all lewd and such? Why do the other characters tolerate his nudity? Why is this shown to children? All sorts of questions crop up."

"So it's the shirt that doesn't make sense to you. A normal duck wouldn't have it, and an anthropomorphic duck wouldn't only have it."

"I don't know what anthropomorphic means."

"How about this: maybe the shirt's only a status symbol. Maybe his society's got no shame for nakedness pants-wise."

"Not hardly. Mickey Mouse wears pants, and he's clearly the trendsetter in that community. Heck, even Goofy wears pants, and that poor soul's mind-addled."

"Maybe pants are just an optional accessory, like the hat."

"Nah. There's no way pants are as voluntary as hats. Never. Not anywhere. But here's the part that really bakes my noodle. When Donald Duck gets out of the shower, see, he wears a towel around his waist. Not to dry himself, just for modesty. But when he's ready to leave, he takes it off! What's that all about?"

"Bully if I know, Lieutenant."

The pair leaned against the car, contemplating their fourth cigarette. An owl hooted overhead.

"So ... Florida."

"Born and raised, sir. Ever been there?"

"Nope. I hear it's nice."

The Private shrugged. "It's pretty enough. Not a big fan of the mosquitoes."

"Yeah?"

"They're terrible, mess you up right good. Can't stand'em. I even told the recruiter man, I told him 'you send me so far away there ain't no bloodsuckers and I'll sign today'. Now look around." He nodded at the snowy pines. "People told me the recruiters can't be trusted, but I got to hand it to Uncle Sam. The Army came through."

"You said you've only been in the State of Gotham for a few weeks?"

"A-yep, just finished boot camp."

"Hate to break it to you kid, but these mountains are chock full of skeeters come springtime."

The private blinked. He screamed a chain of creative profanities that scared away the owl.


In the recently-vacated office of Amanda Waller.

"I'm sure those binders are fascinating, but shouldn't we be leaving? Now?"

As Catwoman kept anxious watch by the door, Batman combed through Waller's desk drawers, occasionally picking up a folder or envelope to peruse.

"The Army will stay outside. I'm taking advantage of the stalemate."

"How do you know they won't charge in bayonet-first?"

"Thanks to your gambit, they believe the building's fumigated. That's a massive risk to them. Even if they have doubts, they'll tolerate waiting as long as they have us surrounded. Sieges are strategically comforting."

"How do you know they have us surrounded?"

"I'm Batman."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay. Let's say they do have us surrounded. We have to leave eventually. That sounds like the kind of thing we should be worried about. You don't seem worried. Should we be worried?"

He gave a dismissive head-shrug. "It's a concern."

"You say that like it's nothing, but then you get captured all the time." She held her wrists together like they were handcuffed and tried to imitate a grumpy Bat-scowl.

He glanced up and frowned. Her impression was pretty good. "We'll be fine."

"Is there anything I can do in the meantime?"

He held out a file. "Have you studied uranium isotopes?"

She read the title: Technical Memos from the National Bureau of Standards.

"No, Batman, I have not studied uranium isotopes."

He took the file back. "Then no."

"What if I read you what's inside this cabinet."

"Fine."

"That won't distract you, will it?"

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

"It's more fun when I'm not under siege by an Army battalion."

"A platoon, at most."

"Fine, a platoon."

"The difference is nearly twenty-fold."

"You knew exactly what I meant."

"Go. I'll listen."

"Glad to hear it." Catwoman deftly undid the lock on the top cabinet drawer and rolled it out. "Um, is there something I should be searching for?"

He grunted "Hard to say. Sometimes the relevance of a file isn't obvious. Anything to do with Gotham, raids on civilians, or medical experiments."

She skimmed through the drawer. "Here's a debriefing from something called the Third Innsmouth Raid. Does that sound useful?"

"No."

She looked further. "There's a telegram from the Santa Priscan ambassador. Maybe a sales pitch by the looks of it. It mentions laboratories."

"Does it mention Fort Morrison?"

"No, but it mentions someone or something called Pena Dura."

"I don't think so."

"Okay." She looked further. "The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment?"

"Worrisome name, but doubtful."

"The storage of antiquities from the excavations of a Doctor H.W. Jones, Jr."

"No."

"How about … huh ..." Catwoman paused and read a minute. "Hey, you might want to see this one."

"Is it about Gotham?"

"Kansas. Yeah, I know, but take a look at it."

Batman stepped to her side and took the brown accordion file stuffed with papers.

It was simply entitled: The Alien(?)

He looked inside. The papers were extensively redacted, with whole sections covered by black marker. One old photograph fell out. A penned caption dated four years ago said it was of a processing plant fire in Topeka. He squinted at it under the light.

There was a blurry … something in the top right corner.

Catwoman looked over his shoulder. "Maybe it's a bird."

He made a thoughtful noise. "Or a plane."

They studied the photograph with vague unease.

Finally, he put the file aside. "I don't think we'll find any pertinent records in the time we have. Let's try something else."

"Don't you want to know about this briefcase I'm lugging around?"

Batman had noticed it of course, but he had been busy with a rare concern that outranked Catwoman holding something that didn't belong to her.

"Where did you get it?"

"One of the laboratories – you saw the labs here right?"

He nodded. "Briefly."

"I found one with a researcher inside."

"And you took he was working on without his notice. Good."

She tilted her head. "Wellllll, not quite."

"Then how?"

"I sort of recruited him."

She could see the elaborate gear box of Batman's mind grind on this for a moment. His eyes narrowed.

"… How?"

"I threatened him. Then I asked for his help. Sort of."

"That's different than your usual M.O."

"You think you're the only one who can be persuasive?"

"Of course not." Yes.

"Don't worry. He was helpful."

"What did he give you?"

"Funny you should ask," she hefted the briefcase onto the desk, "I don't actually know. The newest tests his team did according to him."

"So it could be anything."

She untangled her carrying sling back into a cape and tied it on. "He seemed honest. He said this program originally got test cadavers legally through-"

"-the university donor system."

"Yes, Captain Interruptsalot, that's what they told him. He didn't know about the thefts in Gotham. I think the supply dried up so the Army started skulking around the city to pick up the slack."

"Hmmmm. Let's see what else your informant offered."

Batman opened the case and picked up a loose pile of documents. Catwoman was about to describe what little she knew, but after a blink he put it down the first sheet. She looked at the page he dropped. It was a dense chart of heat and pressure measurements followed by three paragraphs of tiny, single-spaced footnotes.

"Did you ... just read this?"

He paused in concentration and put down his second page. "Yes."

"You didn't skim it? You read every word?"

"Yes."

"And you understood it? "

He put the third page down. "As much as I could out of context. Is there a problem?"

Catwoman picked her jaw off the floor. "Uh, nope. No problem."

"Our circumstances aside, the work is interesting," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Your researcher has solid methodology."

Catwoman gave him a concerned look. A popular strain of Bat-rumors believed he was a literal monster in the Bram Stoker sense of the word. Naturally, she knew better - besides being human, he obviously had scruples - but some nights when she saw him, she couldn't shake the uncomfortable notion that Batman might have very personal use for the tensile strength of the human ribcage or the melting point of an ear.

Finally, he put the fourth page down. "Some of this might be useful, but it'll take half an hour to sort through, and we're almost out of time."

"If you want to carry it, handsome, feel free. As long as we get back to the car."


At the car.

"Nah, it's Astaire."

"It's Rogers."

Private Benjamin Greene threw up his hands in frustration. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't tell me you think Ginger Rogers was a better dancer than Fred Astaire. Have you been in a theater?"

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens crossed his arms and glared. "Hey, watch it, Private. And yes I do think so. That dame could cut a rug like the free world depended on it."

"Sure, they both jigged real fancy, but don't you think the better dancer is the one who looks just as keen while doing the harder job."

The Lieutenant shrugged. "I suppose."

"Well, there you go! Fred Astaire didn't just have to dance, he had to lead the dance! That surely makes his job harder."

"Fine, he had to lead, but Ginger Rogers had to do everything he did backwards and in heels."

"True, but Fred Astaire had to live with people pointing that out to him all the time."

"And that makes him the better dancer?"

"It makes him the better person."

"And?"

"And better people are better dancers."

"Yeah? What, did Saint Francis win the all-Italy waltz contest five years running?"

"That's an absurd example, Lieutenant. The waltz wasn't in fashion till the eighteenth century."

"Of course. That's why it's absurd."

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the treeline. The two soldiers dropped their smokes and had their rifles leveled in a moment. Lieutenant Stevens nodded and pointed to the side. Private Greene crouched and duckwalked to the other edge of the clearing to set up overwatch.

Easing his eye down the sights, the Lieutenant yelled, "Hey! The Navy can go ..."

A voice responded out of the woods, "... Suck a lemon!"

The two soldiers relaxed and lowered their weapons. The Lieutenant smiled. "You shouldn't try sneaking up on us, Jenkins."

Into the clearing stepped Private Jenkins. "I'll wear a bell next time, sir. Any luck with the car?"

Lieutenant Stevens shook his hand. "It's a mystery. Where's Nowitzki?"

"Command latched him to another patrol at camp."

"What else did command say?"

"You can ask them yourself. I brought friends."

Behind Private Jenkins slogged an engineer the Lieutenant knew faintly as Tubby Frank and a man he didn't recognize from the Signals Corps. Tubby Frank carried a heavy toolbox and the signal-man wore one of the new "Walkie-Talkie" backpacks.

Salutes were traded, and Tubby Frank got to business. He moved with the start-stop air of hurried patience seen in mechanically-minded men who have a puzzle to crack. He paced around the car, testing the handles and muttering to himself. The radio man, who identified himself as Corporal Grimes, explained that he was there to keep headquarters informed. The Fort was dealing with some sort of intrusion and the Ford might be involved.

As Grimes radioed in their arrival, the Lieutenant and the Privates watched Frank fiddle with a long strip of metal that fit into the driver's door. A moment later, the lock clicked open. They looked inside.

Tubby Frank scratched his head. "What are those straps?"

Private Jenkins answered. "Looks like lap belts. My cousin has them on his crop duster."

Private Greene gaped, "This car can fly?"

This was ignored. Lieutenant Stevens stepped back. "Alright, this jalopy has more unexpected additions than my Nana's fruitcake. At least one of them has to be a clue toward the owner. Find it."

The team got to work.

Tubby Frank was the first to find something interesting. With a long pry-bar he forced open the trunk. He peered inside and did a double-take. "Y'should see this, sir." The Lieutenant walked over as the engineer hung a small lantern. They searched the drawers of the unexpected storage case.

As the Lieutenant thumbed through a Turkish-to-Russian dictionary, he remarked, "Good find, soldier. It's like half a department store in here."

"Doubt you'll see these at a department store." Tubby Frank held up several sticks of dynamite.

Lieutenant Stevens gingerly took one and inspected it. "No label. What kind of lunatic drives around with loose dynamite in the back of his car through the middle of the woods?"

"It's a miracle we didn't find a crater, sir."

"Hm. Keep looking."

The Lieutenant began to pace and studied the dynamite. Corporal Grimes reported the find. It continued to snow.

Then Private Jenkins yelled out, "Found something else, sir!"

Lieutenant Stevens strode over. The Private was in the passenger seat, pulling something out of the glove compartment. He showed the Lieutenant a folder: De-orbit Moon in Seventeen Steps.

"What's it mean, sir?"

The Lieutenant's eyes narrowed to slits. He glared at the Russian dictionary in his left hand and the dynamite in his right. The veins in his neck bulged with righteous American fury. He muttered in a tone both oath and curse, "It's the Commies."


Back in Waller's office.

"If you want to carry it, handsome, feel free. As long as we get back to the car."

"No."

"No!?"

"You go, of course. I'll support you to the barricade. Descend the cliff. Find the Ford. Head south. Your pay is inside the passenger seat cushion. Cover your tracks. I suggest you light the car on fire once you get to Gotham. Or push it into a river. Or both."

"And in the meantime, you intend to, what? Enlist?"

"I have unfinished business here. Beyond the scope of our agreement."

"Is that business to die?"

"Our window for retreat is closing. Let's move."

"Hold on. A minute ago, you said we're stuck in stalemate. Now you want to shove me out of here. What's going on?"

He frowned. "I have another task here in the Fort, but I can reach it alone. You did your part."

"I also saved you from a firing squad. That wasn't 'my part'. Do I get a bonus for that?"

He ignored her and walked away. "Catwoman this is no time for-" Batman walked into the door frame and collapsed.

Catwoman blinked. That shouldn't have been possible. Batman was the paragon of coordinated motion, like an ever-frowning mountain goat. She once saw him hop out of a third floor window and land on a flagpole.

She stared at the crumpled heap on the floor. It occurred to Catwoman that she should ask if he was alright.

"... Did you just walk into a wall?"

Batman rolled to his knees and grabbed the door for balance. She helped him stand (or tried, the man weighed a ton). He leaned on her shoulder for a moment, gradually finding his footing. Then he grunted.

"This is no time for a discussion on-"

"Woah. Hold on, buster. You don't get to fall over, get up, and keep talking like nothing happened. What's wrong?"

He grunted. "My narcotics."

"Your what?!"

"Morphine was my first guess. Could be another. It was fast-acting."

"Excuse me?"

"When they stitched my cut, I was shot with a needle. Anesthetized. Probably intended to double as a pacifying agent."

"And now you're flying halfway to Neverland. Great. I'm relying on a guy who can't find his nose with his hand."

"Please. I'm obviously lucid. The drug wore off in minutes."

"Then why did you just fall?"

"In my experience, the symptoms of disorientation can return in brief waves."

She raised a critical eyebrow. "What do you mean by your 'experience'?"

He grunted dismissively. "Surgical necessities. Nothing more."

"Uh-huh. Either way, it sounds like you have a problem."

"It's immaterial. Won't happen again."

"You know what's very material? The floor."

"I'll be fine. We have to get you out of here."

"You're still running that track?"

He glared at her in disbelief. "Stubbornness aside, why would you possibly care to stay?"

That hurt. Catwoman glared back with a fiery riposte on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated. The Leading Lady of Larceny closed her eyes and took a deep breath, resting her forehead on her palm. Her shoulders slumped.

Batman stared at her puzzled. Well, this was a new trick. They had traded blows a dozen times, leaped into thin air off skyscraper balconies; he once tackled her into an aquarium, but now was the first time Catwoman ever seemed beaten. No, not beaten - he still couldn't imagine that. She had fight left in her. No, the truth was she looked worn. Tired.

He waited. She took the favor and spoke.

"Look, you said yourself I wasn't heartless. Sure, we have our differences-" He made a skeptical head-tilt. "-And okay, that might be something of an understatement. But all this, this whole nightmare?" She gestured to the walls around her. "Well, I've seen it. I can't un-see it. That makes it my problem now. And as far as solutions go, you're the only game in town. So what's your big secret, and what do we have to do?"

Batman stared at her. You're going to regret this.

Catwoman crossed her arms and stared back. I'm not the regretting type.

Fine.

He stepped past and handed her a folded letter from the bowels of Amanda Waller's desk.

She held it up to the light. The other records thus far were cheap notebook pages or carbon copies. This document had class: rich cream cardstock, embossed letterhead, and a pair of neat cursive signatures. She began to read.

"Yadda, yadda - initiative by the Under Secretaries of State and War mandating Amanda Grace Waller to study and prepare innovations in war materiel and personnel pursuant to statute - yadda, yadda, yadda - extraordinary measures - yadda, yadda - adjutants on request - yadda, yadda - quarterly committee oversight - yadda, yadda - top secret." She handed the letter back to Batman."Is that it? We knew the bureaucracy fairy had flown in and granted this lady her magic slush fund. What's new?"

"Look closely. Fourth paragraph. See the list?"

"Yeah. Something to do with 'cooperative officials and groups'. Bunch of obscure government offices. They can't all be in on this, can they? Not knowingly, anyway."

"Read the seventh."

"... Rook Ltd." She looked up. "Never heard of it."

"Fort Morrison had a research arm from day one, but it was first and foremost an administrative center. The lion's share of influenza research was conducted elsewhere, predominately Johns Hopkins. When laboratories need to transport biological samples that dangerous, they use special couriers, and Hopkins preferred a Baltimore firm called Rook Brothers."

"Why bother showing me the letter when you knew you'd have to explain things anyway?"

He ignored the comment. "With their unique track record, Rook Brothers soon won contracts with the leading hospitals and military clinics. They dominated their industry."

"Good for them."

"When the disease passed, they went bankrupt. The leftovers were bought in '27 by Lex Pharmacuticals. The original brothers were fired, but they kept the name."

"LexCorp owns a company just to shuttle Petri dishes around?"

"If that's what they still do. I told you Fort Morrison was closed after the Flu ended. That's not entirely true. The Army wanted to keep virus cultures on permanent storage. The Fort was the most remote site they owned with the right equipment. A maintenance crew stayed behind."

Catwoman visibly tensed. "Are you saying the Spanish Flu is in this building?"

"No. It was until these new labs were installed. Now I'm certain it's been moved."

"Where?"

"That's exactly what we need to know. It might be elsewhere in the Fort, but to transport off-site calls for specialists."

"Like Rook Ltd."

"Precisely. And When a virus is stored successfully for two decades, you don't move it unless-"

"-Unless you suddenly want it for something besides storage."

He nodded. "The company might be on her list for other purposes; I hope it is, but having seen what these sanctioned murderers will do for mundane research, I need to know if they have plans with virus samples. We have to see if it's still here."

"And then we head for the car?"

"Then we head for the car."


At the car.

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens dug through the glove compartment. He had already found the binder of Fort Morrison information, as shocking as that was. This small pile was a motherload of brazen plots and conspiracies judging by the titles (he didn't have time to read inside). Submarine attacks. Wild animal rampages. Bank heists. Dirigible crashes. A baffling number of threats involving clowns. Some desk jockeys in an intelligence office somewhere would fall out of their seats when they saw this. He would just look over a few more then carry them up to the Fort. A hundred analysts across country could be combing through the pile by early next week.

As he searched, he placed a hand on the far grooves of the compartment. Something shifted. Curious, he moved his hand. The motion engaged an unseen mechanism. The back wall slid away, revealing a hidden recess with a much larger pile of files.

"Heh. Well, I'll be!"

The hidden chamber was deep, nearly out of reach. He idly took the stick of dynamite from his coat pocket and laid it in the glove compartment where it wouldn't bump or roll. Then he reached inside to seize a new stack of binders.

Little did he know, Batman had customized the Ford with one last precaution. When Catwoman had opened the glove compartment's secret chamber earlier, he had discreetly flipped a switch under the steering wheel to allow her. No one was here to deactivate it now.

Three seconds passed without the manual override being switched. The secrets were jeopardized. A small tape buried in the innards of the vehicle began to play over the radio. It was a low female voice, scratchy but unmistakable.

"Unauthorized access. These records will incinerate in five ... four ... three ..."

Lieutenant Stevens nearly jumped out of his seat at the first word. He tumbled though the door and scampered a healthy distance away. The other soldiers had already stepped far back.

"... two ... one."

There was a pop and a hiss. A tiny burst of sparks fell in the glove compartment. The papers swiftly grew to flame, lighting up the night.

Sergeant Franklin Thurbert, a thoughtful man, stared at the row of dynamite he had laid in the snow. One was missing. "Uh, sir?"

Lieutenant Stevens briefly glanced back at him, saw what his engineer was looking at, and absently patted his own pockets.

His mouth went slack with a sudden, grave realization.

...

It took two seconds for the stick of explosives inside the Ford's glove compartment to detonate. This was slightly longer than it took the squad to sprint into the trees (which caught most of the debris).

It an instant, the front third of the beige Ford Model 48 was a charred knot of steel.

In the next instant, the fire caught the row of dynamite laying nearby.

In the final instant, there was nothing of the car but slag and snow and ash.