JMJ

Chapter Four

Scurrying Rats

The darkness of mid-December had fallen.

Pamela Isley looked intently up at the falling snow through the high window of her miserable cell. She sat completely still except for her eyes as they lingered occasionally on a flake, watching it disappear behind the windowsill. It was the time of year she always had felt herself begin to hibernate. She had never been a winter person, but each passing winter seemed to grip her deeper with the feeling drabness and weariness than the last winter just as each summer invigorated her more with each passing year as though the sun itself gave her strength more than food or water.

Snow would bury her until spring in the bowels of Arkham if she remained, and she would come up fiercer than the year before like the toughest-rooted network of dandelions with a vengeance. Her vines would constrict, her thorns pierce, her veins boil green with resolve, and nothing would stop her.

Isley stared. Still unmoved, she watched the snow continue to fall.

Slowly, after a moment, she reached out a hand to stroke her potted plant like one might stroke the breast of a delicate bird or the fingers of an infant. The perpetual light, dim though it was, was a sickly light in her cell so that she was never completely in blackness. It used to bother her, but it did not anymore. She barely noticed anymore.

She stared the harder out the window as though with the purpose of throwing fire from her emerald eyes out at the snow to melt it for a premature spring and light up the winter night like the goddess of new birth.

Yes, winter was a natural force that helped make the beautiful array of one of earth's gardens so unique from another. From the tropical yield of the Amazon with its glorious green giants and fiercely bold blossoms dressed in orange and crimson where no snow fell at all, to the delicate simplicity of the moss and lichen of the north where winter was longer than summer, nature had no room for monotony. The sweetness of the deadly holly, like everyone kept reminding others about this time of year, was the symbol of the resilience of even the more leafy of green, and the majesty of pines ever-growing on Mount Gotham were a thing to behold, but as a weak and flawed human herself in her physical form, perhaps Isley was only losing the heat of the body that kept a person warm through adolescence. Perhaps the prime of life had reached full-blossom only to begin the slow decline of decay. Perhaps behind her resilient beauty, her blood was already becoming cold.

Perhaps… but Isley did have other theories less common to other people. Chemicals, no matter what their natural source, often had effects on the body that one did not originally plan. It was the way of any human tampering with nature. Isley would accept whatever came as a consequence for her chosen path of life. If it made her a martyr for her cause, so be it!

Isley closed her eyes thoughtfully—proudly, as she gently touched a leaf of her potted plant again.

Then, as though that touch had the power of a switch, there was a strange electronic sound— a deep boom in the skeletal walls of the asylum. The lights flickered.

Slowly, Isley opened her eyes.

The lights went out.

She leered and stood up stepping swiftly for the door.

Even in the ladies' wing, she could hear the inane laughter of the Joker behind the alarm that suddenly started wailing. She opened the door, plant at her side, and she marched out with everyone else. She slipped past a guard rushing after the Joker himself before long. Her pursed lips bloomed into a smile with the ease of a bud stretching open for the sun, but she jumped at the sudden sound of someone marching behind her like a dog tearing through a garden.

"You're not getting out under Lockup's watch!" seethed Lyle Bolton.

Her eyes went wide.

Had she had some of her poisons she could have defeated the brute easily but unarmed she was a wildflower in the path of a mower to the likes of Bolton. Curse her frail body!

She may have eluded being captured in the time of Bolton's reign over Arkham, but Harley had told her in plenty of detail about his brutish ways powered by an equally as brutal strength and cunning like some great beast on the hunt. As if the other inmates had not talked of it loudly enough for her to overhear anyway.

He was blocking her way as well as lunging for her. Isley had to make a leap for it and hope she was agile enough to escape his grasp; though, Arkham uniforms were not exactly constructed for acrobatics.

She made her leap, but she was not the only one who had been trying to slip past Bolton. Bolton might have caught her too, if he was not distracted by the little rat scurrying so near him in an attempt to evade being seen while Bolton fought Isley. Isley tumbled but made it into a summersault enough to keep from being too hurt from the fall. Bolton had at least one prize for his troubles, though. He did not have any preference for which inmate he caught; though in the chaos of all three becoming entangled at this crossroads, Bolton was on the ground with his prey still trying to scramble away.

"Oh!" cried Tetch obviously not quite afraid of him yet so much as afraid of not escaping in time as he kicked him in the shoulder. "Let go!"

He had been aiming for his face, but Bolton was good.

"Let go of me, you brute!" he snarled.

Bolton had him. There was no chance of his escape now, and it was all the chance Isley needed to get away. Even a guard or two were distracted by the scene, though just before they showed up, Tetch tried to call, "Help!" out to her. "Please!"

She paused only for a second to eye him with a "Seriously?"

"No one believed me about how to keep these animals in line!" snarled Bolton. "Now look what happened!"

Tetch let out a shriek as he threw him to the guards.

As he was taken custody, Tetch growled at first. Then he slumped sadly muttering to himself, "Oh, 'how she longed to get out of that dark hall… but she could not even get her head through the doorway…'"

His only consolation was that Bolton was shot with a tranquilizer soon afterwards when he would not come willingly to be apprehended himself. It was but a small satisfaction, though as he looked up at the place in the corridor where he had last seen Isley. She was long gone like the Cheshire Cat disappearing from the bough of a tree. It had been every person for himself or herself and he accepted that.

Isley was outside already by this time. A smile was spread out over her lips again when she was out in the snow leaving idiots behind. Her thrill was enough to keep her warm against the chill of winter for now.

She was Poison Ivy. She would make her own spring whenever she wanted, chilled in the blood or not. She had even grabbed a bag to hold over her plant so that it would not freeze before she could get somewhere warmer. She was one of the few who were prepared enough to grab a vehicle, easily hotwired, to get away with the heat on full blast just as the guns of the Arkham guard began to fire.

#

"How many?" demanded Commissioner Gordon pounding his office desk.

"They just came up with the list," snorted Bullock, "and it ain't good, Commissioner."

Despite his flippant tone and the light manner in which he waved the paper for the commissioner, he was obviously perturbed, and who wasn't with news like this?

Gordon snatched the paper, and read the names. Bullock's face softened in spite of himself with sympathy.

Many of the lesser inmates never left the grounds, of course, but most of the better rogues, had made their getaway clean. And with "better", it meant "worse". This had happened once before, but if it happened one hundred times, it was not something to be taken lightly. The sounds of phones ringing outside and muffled voices did nothing to lift the deathly silence in this office as Gordon read the usual rogue list:

"Jonathan Crane, Harvey Dent, Pamela Isley, 'Killer Croc' Morgan, Jack Napier, Edward Nigma, Arnold Wesker…"

"And that's only breezing the top offenders…" muttered Bullock sullenly. "In other words, almost all of them, and the Joker counts for at least three psychopaths even on a normal day with him."

Gordon shook his head.

"It's been over twenty-four hours and no sign of any of those whack-jobs!" Bullock went on bristling under his growls. "Just slipped through the cracks of Gotham like the cockroaches they are."

His hair was messier than usual, almost entirely standing upright from sweat and throwing his hat on and off all day.

"Where's Batman when you need him?"

A deep frown clouded Gordon's face. "I'm sure he's right where we need him."

"He better be, and what about that Lunabat? Or was she the one who let them out?" demanded Bullock. "There's been no sign of her either since this whole mess started, and if she's too whacked for Batman, then I wouldn't put it past her."

"At the moment, we can't focus on who did it," Gordon replied feeling a little bristly himself suddenly. "This is just the calm before the storm. Any minute now any one of them could show themselves. They're all waiting for one of them to make the first move, and once one starts they'll all start."

"Everyone's already on high alert," said Bullock. "Every cruiser, ever man on the job doing overtime. Nothing yet. Even the lower-life criminals are takin' it easy. It's my guess, though that they won't be able to hold out till after Christmas. One of them's bound to throw a Christmas party."

"I just hope Batman's on at least one of their tails," muttered Gordon as he turned to the window and the snow falling so gently.

Peacefully.

But it was a false peace.

Not a swirl of a breeze shifted the flakes falling straight and silently down over the city holding its breath.

Bullock held his own breath as he decided to pretend he had not heard Gordon. He had thought of a comeback, but he had to admit that he sure hoped Batman was onto one of them too. Part of him figured he probably was, but the silence was killing him. With the few leads he had picked up, it had only left him with finding Arkham-owned vehicles abandoned with cold trails afterwards.

The inmates all had to confide in each other with all their tricks of going about Gotham unnoticed until they wanted to be seen. It was the only explanation.

"I hope so too," was all Bullock muttered for the moment.

He loved Gordon for not saying anything back, but that wasn't his way, anyway. They just both stood in silence for a moment.

Suddenly, they were interrupted, though. A jewelry store had been broken into.

"Finally!" snapped Bullock.

It may not have been one of the crazies, but it may trigger the rest of them, and either way it was something to prove that the police force was not dead. Although, it was something that could have easily been investigated by those already out, Bullock needed something to do aside from pacing headquarters like a caged bear.

He left with hat thrown over his head. He already had his trench coat on and he forgot all about winter gloves and scarf.

#

"They been plannin' this score for months," said Scarface as the Ventriloquist lifted him to the window of their inconspicuously positioned vehicle, "and they weren't careful with it. Careful planning is all good'n well, but takin' too long to get a plan into action just leads to more opportunities for leaky pipes."

"Did you know about the Arkham breakout then?" asked Mugsy.

"I keep track of every dummy's sloppy work in this lazy city," retorted Scarface. "It's the rat race of life, leave no opportunity overlooked!"

"Right, sorry, Boss," Mugsy replied.

"So's soon as they scurry round that corner, which'll be in about…" Scarface paused to kick the Ventriloquist who held up his wrist with robotic meticulousness so that Scarface could look at his watch. "Meh, eight to ten minutes, I want them hittin' that brick wall, Rhino."

"Sure thing, Boss!" said Rhino punching his fist before climbing out of the car.

"Well, watchya waitin' for Mugsy?" snapped Scarface.

He had hardly given Mugsy a chance to wait for Rhino to get out before he said this.

"N—nothin', Boss!" cried Mugsy rushing out after his partner with a gun as backup for Rhino; though no one really doubted that Rhino was enough.

As he readied his weapon, Mugsy could feel Scarface's eyes boring holes into his back like a pair of future bullet holes, but he knew it would pass. He had nothing really to be angry at his goon about. That's why he kept them round. Geniuses had tempers, that's all Mugsy knew.

The night was quiet and still for a night in Gotham. Murky grimy snow from a thousand footsteps sloshed now beneath their shoes. The usual shouts and honking cars echoed in the distance as well as a siren or two. Sometimes cars went by past them with windshield wipers wiping sprays of snow slush away. It was all just enough for a good getaway by a sneaky group of thieves to leap into their getaway car.

Little did they know, Scarface was in their car waiting for the loot to come to him.

Mugsy could not help but sneer briefly.

If it wasn't for Scarface's trips to Arkham, Gotham would already be theirs. It was only a matter of time before even Rupert Thorne would have something to have chills about. Not that Mugsy knew an awful lot about how crime lords worked. He had only been a lowly robber before being picked up off the street-rat life for real dog-eat-dog crime.

He hunkered down behind Rhino who was already like the animal after which he was named— already to charge as he snorted through his nostrils and his fingers twitched, ready for the strike.

Then there was gunfire.

Rhino only stiffened, but Mugsy downright jumped.

Everything went real silent now. Mugsy and Rhino glanced briefly back at the car to see if Scarface had new plans, but neither he nor the Ventriloquist did anything but stare back at them. Though, Scarface looked more as though he was looking past them than at them.

Then like a flash he was out of the vehicle with the Ventriloquist quick on his heals behind them.

"Get down, you wood blocks!" Scarface hissed.

Rhino and Mugsy obeyed like soldiers. Scarface hunkered near them. The Ventriloquist had his back with a small gun concealed on his person just in case, but Scarface, who was all eyes now, had his own machine gun, personally made, ready for whatever appeared behind that alleyway in front of them.

They heard the grimy sloshing of someone running. Panting erupting within their hearing. It sounded like the plan went wrong for the robbers already before knowing about Scarface's scheme against them, and this guy was just escaping it.

Scarface leered. The Ventriloquist twitched.

The alley echoes made it hard to know for sure if a second pair of footsteps joined the first, but if there was another it was more than a few feet behind the first. Then it was clearly another person.

Another fleer or someone in pursuit? wondered Mugsy.

The one behind the other seemed to be catching up too. As the first runner was nearing Scarface's position, Scarface held his machine gun straight up. He nodded to Rhino.

"Alright, you asked for it!" snapped the pursuer from behind the first man.

Rhino's timing was perfect. One big whump and the first guy was out cold as ice.

"What the—?!" snapped the pursuer.

He was too far away yet for Rhino to whump him, but he was certainly close enough to recognize the trio and the trio him— or at least what he represented.

"Wrong alley, fuzz ball!" snapped Scarface.