A/N: Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta. "Zombie Delight" written by Charles Austin, Graeme Campbell, Afie Jurvanen, and Richard Terfry. Recorded by Buck 65 on his 20 Odd Years album (WEA, 2011).
A/N: In the "Officer Down" story, Gordon states that he's been a cop for over twenty years when he announces his retirement. That would seem to suggest that, going by his apparent age at retirement, he'd had some other career prior to joining the police force.
Trigger Warning: Discussion of torture; descriptions of torture implements; non-graphic torture; psychological torture. No blood, no gore, just one nasty villain with a twisted imagination and a captive audience.
Zombie Delight Zombie Delight
Zombies are coming to get'cha tonight
Why is this happening?
People are frantic.
The military's overwhelmed
Widespread panic.
—Charles Austin, Graeme Campbell, Afie Jurnaven, Richard Terfry, "Zombie Delight"
Chapter 37—Frantic
Paxton took a step backwards and tried to duck back into his mansion. He'd given Thackeray the evening off, not wanting the butler within earshot while he and Derek discussed strategy. Stupid of him. He'd never had reason to doubt the man's loyalty. If Thackeray were here, then he would have answered the door and found a zombie on the doorstep. He would have been the one intercepted...
...Unless he'd greeted the zombie properly and ushered it into the den with a promise to return with a pot of tea, as he would any other visitor. It passed fleetingly through Paxton's mind that Thackeray might have done exactly that, had he been here now.
He was about to slam the door when the zombie stuck one foot over the threshold. "Come," it repeated hollowly.
Paxton stomped on the monster's instep as hard as he could. It appeared unfazed and even a bit puzzled. "Come."
With an inarticulate cry, Paxton raced into the mansion and up the curving maple staircase to the second floor, his open palm slapping the banister as he ran. He pulled open a door, dashed into one of the spare bedrooms, and locked the door behind him. Then he jammed a chair under the knob. Was that enough? He spied the cedar closet opened its door and jumped inside. He had the presence of mind to test the inside knob and ensure that the door wouldn't lock behind him and trap him before pulling it shut. He was safe. For the moment. Maybe that creature would give up.
There was a jiggling sound from the outer room. It was trying the knob. Paxton exhaled. The door was locked and barricaded. It wasn't getting inside easily.
He froze when he heard a loud thump. It was quickly followed by a second and then a third. And then he heard a splintering sound. The creature was breaking down the door. His heart was pounding in counterpoint to the thuds of fists on solid oak. It would be through in another minute. How much longer until it had the closet open? Wait... he reached into his pocket and his hand closed on his cell phone. With shaking hands, he flipped it open and punched in three digits.
And his hope drained away. The screen was dark. There was no connection. He'd forgotten to charge it.
There was a loud crack that he knew was the bedroom door giving way. A grunt and the sound of wood sliding out from under metal. The creature was dislodging the chair from under the doorknob. Paxton heard the relentless tread of flat feet on the hardwood floor and desperately grasped the cedar closet doorknob in both hands.
For all the good it did him. Despite his efforts, the knob turned and the door opened, dragging him along with it.
The zombie regarded him soberly, one hand on the outer doorknob, the other holding aloft the chair he'd used as a barricade. He waved the chair menacingly. "Come."
Defeated, Paxton hung his head and obeyed, trying not to cringe when the zombie placed a meaty hand on his shoulder.
"I saw your light," Bruce said, when Jim came to the door of the guest cottage. "Am I disturbing?"
Jim shook his head. "I was just killing time, watching an old movie on PBS while I was waiting for the news to come on." He sighed. "There's been a Humphrey Bogart marathon going on since noon. Right now? We're into the second pledge break in Father Goose." He smiled. "Come in. Sit down. Tell me what's on your mind." He peered at Bruce over his glasses. "And I won't ask why you're up this late when your day starts before six tomorrow morning."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't need much sleep, Jim. You know that." Jim stepped away from the door to allow him to pass inside and he did with a sigh. "And I doubt I'll sleep tonight, at any rate."
"Oh?" He made a vague gesture toward the sectional sofa in the living room. "Sit, sit. Coffee?"
Bruce shook his head. "Just because I don't expect to sleep tonight doesn't mean I need to ensure that's the case."
"I have decaf."
"Water will be fine, thanks," Bruce demurred. Under his breath, he added, "... and about as flavorful."
"I heard that," Jim rumbled, on his way into the kitchen.
"I know," Bruce called after him, making sure that his voice carried over the sound of running water.
Jim returned a moment later with a tall glass of ice water. "I'm presuming from the tap is fine?" he asked. "I've never been fond of buying bottled."
"There's a spring in the woods near the west boundary," Bruce nodded. "That's the water flowing through your pipes. Perfectly safe." He took a sip and smiled. "And far better than decaf."
Jim smiled back. "Did you want to tell me why you stopped by?"
Bruce shook his head. "There isn't really anything to tell. I just didn't feel like going back to the manor so soon."
"Ah."
When Bruce said nothing further, Jim smiled and picked up a crossword puzzle magazine from the sofa cushion next to him. Several minutes dragged by before Bruce spoke again.
"And one of my classmates has offered to help me bring my range scores up."
"Ah."
"Yes."
Jim waited.
Bruce took another sip. Then he rested the glass on his knee, waiting until he felt the condensation seep through the fabric of his pants. Finally, he looked up with worried eyes. "Have I been... sabotaging myself?" he asked softly. "Deliberately holding back because the idea of... of becoming proficient with a firearm turns my stomach?"
Jim considered. "There is that," he admitted. "But there's another factor in play, too." He smiled. "Two, actually. You hate to lose and you hate to quit." His lips twitched. "Of course, you're stubborn, too, but that trait can work for you or against you, depending on which side of the fence it drops. Since you haven't withdrawn from the academy yet, I'll presume it's strengthening your resolve to stick with the program."
Bruce leaned into the sofa. "How many years were you a cop?" he asked, tabling the subject.
Jim regarded him for a moment. "Twenty-three. I joined the army out of high school. Mostly because I wasn't sure what to do with my life. See, my father was a cop and his before him. And my brother. It just felt like everyone and everything was pushing me in that direction and I didn't know if it was something I wanted or something I was getting into because it felt as if I should want it, if you take my meaning. So I joined the army to see if I could figure out where I was headed. I never saw any military action, in case you were wondering. I was a couple of years too late for Vietnam and a couple of years too early for Honduras. In retrospect, I was lucky. I ended up in Puerto Rico—Fort Buchanan. No real danger, no ever-present threat. It just happens that the fort is strategically important, so there have to be some troops there to guard it. I ended up a supply clerk. Being all of eighteen at the time, I admit to being bored. At first. By the time my first two-year stint was up, I was hot to re-enlist. When I did, I found myself at Torii Station, Okinawa for the next two years, tracking cargo distribution. Sure, it was more paperwork... but it was paperwork half a world away from everything else I knew, so it was more exciting." His lips twitched. "For the first week, anyway. Still, it was a good experience—almost good enough to make me sign up for a third stint, even."
Bruce regarded him curiously for a moment. "What stopped you?"
Jim sighed. "My parents were getting on in years. They didn't like the idea of my being so far away. My brother was working for a precinct in the Quad Cities area by then. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like there was more to life than paperwork." He gave a short laugh. "I admit I was a bit naïve on that score. Anyway, I let my father talk me into joining the Chicago PD, though not as a cop. Not at first. I still didn't think it was what I wanted; it's easy to slide into something when it feels like you've been drifting that way for most of your life. At the time, though, they were actively recruiting support personnel, too. I thought that was far enough removed from being a cop that I wasn't just falling into the family mold. Do you remember when you were applying and I told you about the difference between sworns and non-sworns?" He smiled. "I spent six years in dispatch. You know what that means?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of course. You... dispatched... officers to sites where crimes or disturbances transpired."
Jim shook his head. "Well... yes, of course that's the job description. But what it really means is that you get to send everyone else into potential danger while you're stuck in an office, safe and warm, wondering if everyone you ordered off is coming back in one piece. Eventually, I came to realize that I didn't like sending people out to do a job I could do myself." He let out a long breath. "I wasn't the oldest academy cadet at twenty-nine, but there were a lot of fresh-faced, wet-behind-the-ears kids in my class, I can tell you."
Bruce smiled. "I can relate."
"I bet."
Bruce took a deep breath. "In those twenty-three years... do you know how many times you had to fire your gun?"
"In those twenty-three years? So, not including the pot shots I took at you to get you to stand down from murdering Joker when you thought he'd killed Elliott?" he nodded slowly, "Eight. That's counting times where I drew my gun and fired more than one bullet as a single incident."
"In twenty-three years," Bruce repeated.
"Believe it or not, it's not a routine occurrence. But it's a serious one. You'll notice I didn't have to think back or count on my fingers. I knew because something that heavy... you remember each time." He reached over and placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "The first time was six years after I joined the Chicago PD. In an incident with a direct bearing on how I ended up here in Gotham in the first place."
Bruce nodded. "Thank you."
"Anything else you want to know?"
"Not now." He looked at his watch. "Should I put the news on?"
"If you like. If you'd rather keep talking, though, I imagine I'll get the headlines online later, if I don't wait for tomorrow's paper."
"No, that's fine," Bruce smiled, picking up the remote and flipping the channel.
"...And the Teen Titans successfully neutralized an apparent zombie attack early this morning," the camera panned slowly over a large irregular crater in the road, "though not without damage to city infrastructure. It is not yet certain whether charges will be..."
Bruce sucked in his breath furiously. "Excuse me," he said, practically bolting out the door.
Once out in the open air, he whipped out his cell phone and punched in a number, gritting his teeth when Tim's voicemail message began. He waited impatiently for the tone to sound. "We need to talk," he ground out when it finally did. "Call me."
Even in cold weather, fighting crime helped a person work up a good sweat. With the first day of spring less than a week away, it was already beginning to warm up in earnest. There was a ways to go before summer, of course, but the snow had finally disappeared—except for the dirty, iced-over piles that accumulated on the grass below the exhaust vents of most indoor skating arenas.
After ending patrol at 3 AM yesterday and going out to patrol again barely fifteen hours later, and then spending a good part of the night running through Robinson Park, chasing after a new crime outfit that called themselves the Royal Flush Gang, Tim could barely wait to be back at the Teen Titans' base. It had showers. More to the point, it had beds. One of them was calling out to him right now.
He emerged from his shower feeling refreshed and toweling his hair dry. That was when he noticed the base of his cordless phone flashing "01". He sighed. Whoever it was, it was probably too late to call them back. Still, the message might be important. He keyed in his code and played back the lone message.
The color drained from his face. He knew that tone of voice. He was in trouble. And he had a pretty good idea as to the reason why. With a pounding heart, he replaced the phone on its base. "I am so dead," he whispered.
There were no seats in the back of the windowless cube van and, therefore, no seatbelts. There was a sort of recessed latch on the inside of the locked door, which was the only thing that Paxton could find to grab onto. True, it forced him to stand throughout the journey, but it was better than sliding across the floor and banging into the walls with every twist and turn. And there were twists and turns. At times, the speed bumps and potholes nearly tore the latch handle from his grasp, but he managed to hold on.
Paxton had never known zombies could drive. Hell, he'd never believed zombies existed. And the way this one was driving, Paxton doubted that it had a license. Wonderful. Maybe some cop would pull them over. And then what? What did he know about zombies that didn't come from some old Scooby Doo episode where they turned out to be bank robbers in cheesy costumes? He seemed to recall that they were cannibals and could only be killed by silver bullets... no. Wait. That was werewolves. Sunlight, staking, and garlic worked on vampires... Zombies? He shook his head. He'd spent too much time watching period dramas and not enough watching horror B-movies! Was there such a thing as a horror A-movie? he wondered idly. He'd never heard of one.
The van hit another bump and Paxton wondered when it was ever going to stop. It felt to him as though they'd been driving for hours. When they finally did stop, some ten minutes later, he wished that it would have kept moving a bit longer. Anything not to confront his captor.
The door opened and Paxton saw that they were parked in some gravel-topped lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. The sky was already growing lighter as a new morning dawned. He looked about him quickly. There was a non-descript single-story building directly ahead with a couple of straggly-looking trees, their branches still bare. A single round light over the front door provided the only additional illumination. Birds were chirping , their voices seeming much louder in the near-darkness. The zombie reached in and grabbed his arm, hauling him bodily out of the van.
"Come," it said, towing him toward the building.
There had been a time when Tim would have known exactly when to phone and which number to call if he wanted to reach Bruce's voice mail.
Between nine and five, Monday to Friday? His direct line at WE: he never answered it, preferring to screen calls through his secretary. If anyone did happen to call the direct line, Bruce would assume it was either a wrong number or some pushy client, executive, or sales rep who had somehow found out how to reach him. He did check those messages, but usually not right away.
Between five and twilight? (Or in winter, between five and six?) Cell phone, but only if he knew that Bruce was driving himself instead of having Alfred drive him. When he was behind the wheel, Bruce never used the phone—not even the hands-free mode—unless he was in costume. He'd admitted once that he was more easily distracted when he wasn't wearing the Bat-suit and he didn't want to risk an accident. If Alfred was doing the driving, then calling the Manor was the best bet.
After that, until about four AM, it really depended on how patrol was going. Calling the Manor meant talking to Alfred who, likely as not, would immediately say "Master Bruce asked me to transfer you directly should you call. Hold one moment, sir." Calling the Batmobile might go to voice mail—if Batman were out of the car. And Batman often muted the cowl radio if he didn't want backup, reinforcements, or second-guessing. But usually, his best bet was to fib to Oracle that he hadn't been able to reach Bruce and could she pass on the message when he checked in with her.
From four to five, calling the Manor upstairs was safest. If Bruce wasn't sleeping, he was in the Cave reviewing the night's work or getting patched up. And Alfred was either doing the patching or asleep with the ringer turned down.
From five to nine AM? Call the cave with a message about how you didn't want to wake anybody.
Yes, in the old days, it had been easy.
Ever since his release from Arkham, though, Bruce had been more a morning person—a condition best chalked up to the effects of schedules and regimens. At Arkham, the lights in the cells came up at set times. Meals, therapy, privileges—when he had them—lights out... after nearly two years, his sleep cycle had adjusted. Even after his release, Bruce hadn't put forth any effort to restore the old status quo. He'd gone back to training after a bit. He'd reconnected with family and allies. He'd begun to stay up later, but he was no longer a creature of the night.
Now that Bruce was attending the academy, however, Tim never knew just when to (not!) reach him. He didn't know when Bruce might be between classes, whether he was up late studying or whether he'd turned in early and woken to study before dawn. He looked at his watch. It was a bit after two. Bruce was probably in class. He took a deep breath and called the Manor.
Bruce picked up on the second ring. "Tim."
Tim gulped. "Hi, Bruce. Staying home today?"
"When I'm expecting important calls, I have them forwarded," Bruce snapped. "Now listen. I have four minutes before my next class starts and I will not be late. Check your e-mail. It will show confirmation of a bank transfer from my account to yours. The Teen Titans will apologize to the mayor for the destruction caused and use those funds to make restitution. If the amount of the transfer does not cover all of the damage, tell me and I will send another transfer. Gotham still hasn't paid back all of the reconstruction loans extended after the No Man's Land was repealed. They don't need the added expense of collateral damage from your battles. Accidents happen. As do consequences. If you cause the former, don't shirk the latter. And next time, tell me about incidents such as this, before I see them on the evening news!"
The connection closed.
Tim looked at the phone in his sweaty hand and let out a long breath. He'd gotten off a lot easier than he'd expected on that one.
The pipe released one single drop of water every four seconds. Paxton had timed it. He was strapped into a sort of dentist's chair that rotated one quarter turn at timed intervals. The room was dank and smelled of mud and mold with a strong undercurrent of gasoline. From somewhere down the corridor, he could hear moans and cries for help, interspersed with the occasional hysterical laugh.
Currently, he was facing an iron door with a small barred window. There was a sliding panel behind that window, he knew, because at least three times per quarter-rotation, it slid back and, if he was facing it, he saw blank burning eyes—zombie eyes—checking up on him. To either side of the door were a series of hooks, from which hung a variety of knives, gouges, scalpels, branding irons, and other implements that he couldn't identify. Most were at least partially coated with a reddish brown patina that might have been rust or dried blood.
The chair turned with an ear-jarring squeal, and he found himself facing the iron maiden once more. The floor sank down a bit on this side and from the angle of the chair, he could make out a barred drain. The water from the dripping pipe rolled down to it in a sluggish rust-brown trickle. To the left of the iron maiden was a torture rack and between the two devices, a rope dangled from some kind of pulley system, which hung from a ring set in the high ceiling above. (There were more iron rings set in the walls and floor at intervals—and not just on this side of the room.) Below the rope was a heavy iron weight with a hole bored through near the top. A short chain with a shackle on each end had been threaded through it.
It seemed like an eternity before the chair turned once more. Again, he saw the long wooden trestle table with a manacle or fetter at each corner and a log of wood in the center. On a shelf that was situated at his eye level, he saw a metal device that looked a bit like a lower-case "m". There was a knob at the top, rising from between the two arches, and a horizontal bar across the bottom. Although he'd never seen anything like it before, Paxton had a strong suspicion that he was looking at thumbscrews. There were more shelves on this wall, holding mounted cases of vials and syringes. In one corner stood a large brass bull, its legs straddling a wide round planter of fired clay. A door was open in the bull's flank, revealing a hollow interior, large enough to fit a grown man into. Over the top of the planter, Paxton could see straw, with a few twigs poking through. Next to the planter was a red gas can. When the zombie had first brought him here and strapped him into the chair, Paxton had noticed that the gasoline smell was strongest here. Several hours later, he could no longer tell.
He wanted to close his eyes and keep them closed, but found himself unable to avoid looking, as the chair turned to the final wall. Here, there were two large spiked wheels. One was suspended over a water trough, the other over cruel iron spikes. Before Paxton's eyes, a rat skittered across the floor.
He tested his bonds once more, but the wide leather straps at wrists, ankles, waist, and chest refused to give in the slightest. To his right, he heard the door-panel slide back again. This time, it wasn't replaced.
Coming down the corridor, he heard footsteps. They flapped on the ground with the light tread of thin-soled slippers as they drew nearer. Sooner than expected, the chair swung him back to face the door, which opened to reveal a spindle-limbed figure clad from head to toe in burlap sacking with tufts of straw sticking out. He was holding a device that looked like a television remote.
"Good day, Mr. Paxton," the Scarecrow whispered in a voice that rustled like cornhusks in the wind as he walked into the room. "I hope that your time in my waiting area has put you in a suitable frame of mind to look upon a certain proposition of mine with a favorable eye. In medieval times, it was common for the inquisitors to show their clients what lay in store for them if they proved uncooperative. In many cases," he chortled, "the fear of what awaited if they did not accede to what was requested of them was all it took to make them amenable."
He walked into the room, two zombies at his heels. "Of course," he said, "should you refuse my proposition..."
Even knowing that it was futile, Paxton strained against his bonds. "What?" he blustered. "You'll turn me into one of them?" He jerked his head toward the zombie on Scarecrow's left.
Scarecrow sniffed. "Them? Hardly. Oh, they have their uses, I grant you. They are most adept at instilling fear in the masses. Their weakness lies," he sighed, "in their inability to feel fear themselves. So... here I am, with a room full of toys and they're all wasted on my current companions. If I were to order them, they'd strap themselves into my... devices without flinching or uttering a word of protest. I suppose they might scream, if so ordered or if their pain were too great, but they wouldn't fear undergoing the experience again." He leaned over Paxton, drawing so close that the straws poking out from under his sack of a mask tickled the captive businessman's forehead. "Pain is just a means to an end, you see. And that end, my dear Mr. Paxton, is where you come in. I have two roles I need filled. First, I need a source of information with regard to the inner workings of PMWE. Pass codes, schedules, known allergies of various staff members... things you must have learned during your years of distinguished service at those offices. Second," he chortled, "I need an action figure for my playsets." He hit a button on the remote and the chair turned to the right. Instead of remaining in place, it rolled directly toward the iron maiden, stopping several inches away. Up close, Paxton could smell something rank and metallic. The chair began to roll sideways, so that Paxton was facing the various devices and instruments at all times as it made a slow circuit of the room, lingering in front of each device, rolling close enough that Paxton could have reached out and touched it, were his hands not constrained. Finally, the chair returned to its initial position in the center and Scarecrow continued as though there had been no interruption. "If you won't assist me with my research," he went on, "I suppose you'll just have to provide the..." he chortled softly, "...entertainment."
Paxton swallowed hard.
Scarecrow patted his shoulder. "I believe we'll start with some of the easier games and work our way up. Should I introduce you to the more advanced tools too early in our sessions, there'll be nothing left to anticipate down the road." A hint of malice crept into his tone as he added, "And I do want you to anticipate everything I have planned for you." He strode behind the chair and Paxton heard something being taken down from a shelf. "First, though," he continued, "it is absolutely crucial that I get an idea of how much fun you can endure at one sitting. Because I can assure you, Mr. Paxton," he said, crossing back in front of him and dangling a syringe tauntingly, "if you won't perform the tasks I have in mind for you, I intend to play with you for a very long time. This means I'll need to ensure that your fear reaction remains below the point where it triggers a heart attack or some other fatal response." He leaned down and bent closer until only a few inches remained between their foreheads. "At least, until I grow bored with you. Once that happens, all bets are off, so I hope you'll make an effort to be entertaining, hmm?"
He tried to cringe away from the needle, as Scarecrow drew back slightly. The masked man delicately unfastened Paxton's cufflink and rolled his sleeve up to the elbow.
"This is just a sedative," Scarecrow said soothingly. "If I'm to do this properly, I need to take your vital signs when you're relaxed, and I'll admit that your experiences today have hardly been conducive to relaxation. This injection will have a calming effect and, once I have the data I require, we can proceed with the real business."
"I..." Paxton gasped, "I'll help! I'll help!"
"Of course you will," Scarecrow said with a friendly nod, as he tore open a foil pouch and extracted a sterile alcohol swab. "I never believed otherwise. But I think you have to admit that with your track record, I'm justified in having some doubts about your loyalty. I know how you tried to put one over on False Face. I think it's best you have a clear idea of the consequences, should you think about betraying me." He swabbed a small patch on Paxton's arm and stabbed the needle in.
Paxton moaned, as Scarecrow withdrew the syringe.
"Rest," Scarecrow ordered, chucking him lightly under the chin. "Let the drug take effect. Get what sleep you can, while I jot down your particulars. And when you're rested and refreshed," he continued, as Paxton's eyelids began to droop, "we'll have our first... game."
"Well, well," Hush remarked. "Scarecrow seems to be behind the recent zombie epidemic."
False Face raised an eyebrow. "Do tell?"
"You know Professor Crane. As long as it terrifies. I suppose we'll be dealing with a vampire epidemic next."
False Face gave a mock sigh. "If we must. Can we hope for the non-sparkly variation, at least?"
Hush tilted his head to one side. "Which breed would scare more Gothamites?"
False Face paused, weighing the question. Finally, he gave a short laugh. "Damned if I know. So. Getting back to the zombies. Do you think this is Crane's way of entering the ring in your little competition?"
Hush worried at the end of one of his bandages. "It might be, I suppose. With Scarecrow, though, you have to remember that if it doesn't involve fear—preferably on a large scale—it's not going to involve him. Bats don't scare easily. Now, if it were something along the lines of inducing a panicked stampede in which the current Batman were to be trampled... then, yes, I think Crane might well emerge from the shadows. On the other hand, you could obligingly drop an unconscious Bat on his doorstep, hand Crane a loaded gun... and damned if Crane won't cart him down to his lab and expose him to various kinds of fear gas, keeping the Bat alive long enough to turn the tables and escape. He's not a stupid man, by any stretch. He's just not a very wise one."
False Face nodded. "So. While I certainly enjoy our conversations, I'm sure you've some assignment for me other than," he helped Hush unwind the bandage and reached for the cream he needed when the nerve pain was particularly severe, "helping you attend to your hands." So saying, he squeezed a generous dollop into Hush's waiting palm and walked toward a cabinet in search of a fresh roll of gauze bandage.
"I do," Hush replied. "It's dangerous. I'll admit that outright. Of course, if it weren't, I'd go myself and have you stand in for me here."
"Danger has a high cost."
"I can pay you in cash or commodities. Wire transfer is another possibility."
"I'm listening."
Hush smiled. "As you know, Intergang is expanding. They've invited me to Metropolis to," he paused for effect, "negotiate. I have no idea at this time whether I'm their sole invitee or whether they're asking the likes of Cobblepot and Falcone down as well. It could be that the offer is genuine and they've asked me down to see if I'm willing to knuckle under to them. Depending on how attractive their offer is, I might be. Of course..."
"...It's just as likely to be a trap to take out any competition early," False Face finished. "So you'd rather send a decoy, in case this does turn out to be the latter."
"Yes."
False Face smiled. "Candor goes a long way with me. I appreciate knowing what I'm getting into at the outset." His smile yielded to a thoughtful frown as he considered. "We're the same height, but I'm thinner. The bandages will help with that. As will body armor."
"I can obtain that easily enough," Hush replied, nodding. "There's an interesting option on the market called Dragon Skin Armor. Made up of silicon carbide ceramic and laminates, it's lighter, stronger, and more flexible than Kevlar."
"I have no idea what the first part of what you just said means," False Face admitted, "but I like that last bit. I'll need a full suit of the stuff; not just a bulletproof vest. If I am going to be walking into a bloodbath, it would be foolhardy to assume they're only going to be firing at my torso."
Hush nodded again. "I believe that the manufacturer only advertises vests. However, once one obtains the raw materials and the proper shaping tools—and I do have contacts who can arrange that for me—I've no doubt that that additional armor can be fashioned easily enough. And if I'm wrong," he shrugged, "there are other armors available. You'll do it then."
"Provided you absorb all my expenses in addition to my fee," he replied.
"Which would be?"
False Face named a figure. Hush considered.
"If you want to be paid in gemstones," Hush said finally, "I can have fifty percent of that to you by tomorrow. The rest on successful completion of the assignment. If you want cash, it'll take me a week or so to free it up." He frowned. "If we were discussing surgery, this would be the point where I'd ask you to fill out a form on which you specified next of kin. If this does turn out to be a trap, and our precautions fail, where should I allocate the unpaid part of your fee?"
"Well," False Face replied with forced good cheer, "if I'm still alive, toward my medical expenses. If not... use it to make sure whoever does me in doesn't make it to a ripe old age. And gemstones are fine. Alpha Grade, VS1 or better; I'd rather have a few superior stones than many of lesser worth, even if the cash value is the same."
"That won't be a problem," Hush nodded. "I'll haggle with you on one point, though. Custom body armor, especially for a nonstandard article like, say, a coif or a knee pad, can get a bit pricy. It's not the parts; it's the labor. My artisan is very good. But he costs."
False Face sighed. "I guess I can't exactly spend anything if I'm six feet under. Fine. Every piece but the bulletproof vest can be deducted from the fee, but I want to know the sum total before work on the suit commences."
"Fair enough," Hush replied. "Normally, I'd shake on it but," he glanced meaningfully down at the hand around which False Face was carefully winding the bandage roll, "it's going to hurt me enough parting with that sum. No point adding to the pain. At least," he said, thinking darkly about the vigilante responsible for his damaged hands, "not my pain."
"Oh, stop moaning," Scarecrow snapped. "Your feet haven't even left the ground, yet."
Paxton stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor between the rack and the iron maiden. His hands were bound before him with the rope that hung from the ceiling, hoisted over his head, and yanked taut. Scarecrow held the rope's other end as he walked slowly around his captive, studying him as though Paxton were some uncooperative lab rat. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "How long have you worked for PMWE?" he asked.
"What?"
"I'm starting with easy questions!" Scarecrow sounded miffed. "Answer them fully and honestly and I'll give you some slack in the rope. It's been nearly fifteen minutes. A man in your less-than-peak physical condition?" He took Paxton's chin in a rough, burlap-gloved hand and gave it a vicious twist. "I'm sure you're starting to feel the strain." His voice softened. "Cooperate and the pain eases. Prove stubborn and I move on to the next step." He tugged gently on the rope and Paxton whimpered as his heels left the floor. He released it, letting the stout cord run through his fingers, and Paxton sighed his relief as the pressure on his arms eased.
"By the way," Scarecrow continued, "during the Spanish Inquisition, a far harsher variation of this method was used. It was called the strappado. Imagine having your hands tied behind your back. Imagine weights on your feet. And now, imagine being hoisted all the way up to that ceiling... It's a good thirty feet, by the way; I simply love old buildings with deep cellars... Imagine being hoisted up to that ceiling by your wrists... and left there for a moment or two." He circled his captive once more. "It really wouldn't take much to set that up for you," he said thoughtfully. "There's a weight just behind you, ready to clamp onto your ankles right now. It would be a simple matter to retie your hands behind you and hook you back up. We might work up to that down the road. After we play with some of the other devices."
Sweat beaded on Paxton's forehead. Scarecrow laughed and ran his fingertips over it. "So, you have an imagination after all," he said, pleased. "Excellent. And somewhat rare for a corporate stuffed shirt. You're a rare find, Mr. Paxton." He slapped him heartily on the back. Paxton flinched as Scarecrow continued. "Now, let's see what we can do to exercise it. Again. How many years have you been with Wayne Enterprises?"
Paxton sighed. "Thirty-one."
"A long time. What floor is your office on?"
"Fortieth."
"The name of your administrative assistant?"
"What does she have to do with any of this?" Paxton blurted. He gasped, as his hands jerked over his head once more.
Scarecrow shook his head dolefully. "There's a penalty for not answering my questions," he said. He scratched his chin, thinking. "Hmm... now what was that order again? Should I keep you on your tiptoes for a little while, or should I lock the weight around your ankles in case I need to lift you higher later? I can never remember these things. I should write them down."
"Mariette," Paxton gulped. "Her name is Mariette Chalmers."
Scarecrow clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now. If I wanted to get into PMWE, who would I need to talk to about bypassing a new security system that was installed shortly after you left? It's so difficult to find a corporate directory," he continued, his voice rising angrily. "You people keep them under lock and key! Bah! Well?"
Paxton was shaking. "I don't know. I don't! Honest! I didn't work with security; I don't know who to deal with there now. Please..."
Scarecrow stepped back and regarded him carefully. "I'd like to believe that," he said slowly. "But I think I'd also like to see if that active imagination of yours might encourage you to remember something." He jerked the rope and tied it off to a floor ring, leaving Paxton balanced on his tiptoes.
He walked out of the cell and returned a few minutes later, flanked by two zombies. By then, Paxton's arms were trembling.
"You're under a lot of strain, Mr. Paxton," Scarecrow said. "Perhaps you should relax. Lie down." He jerked his head toward the zombies. "Bring him to the table."
Paxton could barely struggle as the zombies moved to obey. In short order, he was lying down on the trestle table, his spine on the wooden log, his arms and legs spread-eagled and locked into the chains at each corner.
Scarecrow reached for another syringe kit and uncorked a vial of liquid. "This one is interesting. It keeps your heart rate from entering the danger zone, while maintaining you in a high state of alert. Rather like a dose of caffeine without the accompanying palpitations. You see," he said as he rolled up Paxton's sleeve and prepared another alcohol swab, "it's occurred to me that while you've had a good look at all of the devices in here, you still may be unclear on how each item functions. I'd like to change that. So, for the next few hours, you're going to watch an informative video that will play on the ceiling." He clamped a pair of headphones onto Paxton's ears. "It's a loop, so don't worry if you miss something the first time. You'll get it on the next go-round. Then we'll resume our conversation with a new twist: I'll be picking out various implements and expecting you to tell me what each one does before I ask the next question. If you're correct, you'll find your discomfort eased. Give the wrong answer, though, and... Well, let's just say that experience can sometimes be the best teacher."
Paxton winced, and not just because of the needle. Something else sprang to mind, just then: Jonathan Crane had been fired from his position at Gotham University for conducting unethical experiments on his students. It seemed that nothing had changed. But even he wasn't a big enough fool to mention it in front of Crane. And then he was alone, stretched out on an uncomfortable table, barely able to twitch a muscle.
The room went dark. The ceiling lit up. And the image of the hollow bull appeared above him.
"The Brazen Bull," a voice began, "was devised in Ancient Greece. It is constructed of bronze, hollow, with a door in one side. After the prisoner is sealed within, fires are lit beneath the bull, heating the metal..."
Paxton moaned as the narration continued.
"You seem preoccupied," Jeremiah Arkham noted, as he watched Cass nibble on the end of her pencil.
She flushed guiltily. "Sorry."
"It's not that young man you're seeing, is it?"
She shook her head. "No. I..." she frowned. She couldn't lie outright, but she wondered how much she could talk about what was really on her mind without divulging too much of her Batgirl activities. She sighed. "Silly, I guess. Zombies."
"Ah," he nodded sagely. "Yes, I did read about that attack the other day. Preposterous." Her skepticism must have showed on her face because he harrumphed and continued. "Oh, I don't doubt they're behaving like some rejects from a third-rate horror movie, but no, there's something else in play—illusion, hypnosis, mind control..."
"You mean... Mad Hatter?" Cass ventured.
If Arkham suspected her of anything other than curiosity, he gave no sign. Instead, he nodded with a slight frown. "Jervis Tetch would be a good guess," he admitted, "if he weren't currently in custody. Still, there are any number of patients I've dealt with in the past who might be capable of concocting something like this, though I can't think why."
Cass shook her head slightly. "But... your patients. If their minds don't... don't work right, then... can anyone think... why?"
Jeremiah sighed. "In most cases, my dear young woman, yes. My patients are ill. They are not stupid and they are not incapable of reason. They simply reason differently from you or me when it comes to certain matters. Without discussing a specific case, I can tell you that if one were to look either at the process involved, that is to say, drugs, mind control, or hypnosis... or at the effect caused, that is, fear..." He frowned. "Fear," he repeated, his eyes widening. He pushed his chair away from the table abruptly. "Forgive me, Cass. I believe that I need to make a telephone call. Privately. Continue your work; I'll review it momentarily."
Cass watched him go, relieved that he'd spared her the need to beat a retreat of her own. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. "Oracle," she said softly, "Need... um... I mean... I need... data. Please. Location of... Scarecrow."
She suppressed a sigh when Barbara told her that she was running a program and would have to call her back in a few minutes. How was she supposed to deal if Jeremiah came back? When the phone vibrated, she was so excited she nearly dropped it. "Yes?"
"How did you know?" Barbara asked.
"He's out," Cass said flatly. "Isn't he?"
"Yeah," Barbara admitted. "I'm not sure why the authorities weren't advised immediately, but it looks like he's been gone about five days."
"And first zombie attack?"
Barbara let out a long breath. "Three days ago."