Monsters
February 8, 1940
"That concludes our program. We thank you for joining us and wish you a safe and pleasant evening. Vicky Vale, GBC News, signing off."
Alan Scott stood in the back of the studio as the cameras stopped rolling and everyone in the room took a collective breath. The lights filled the space. The crew cleaned up the equipment, as Vale left the desk from which she gave her broadcast.
"Hell of a show, eh Alan," said Leonard Wheeler, his cigarette tracing a wispy trail of smoke through the air.
"Good enough to erase your doubts?" said Alan.
"Ask me again when we see the numbers. I'm still not convinced that we can't just stick with the radio programs."
"Trust me. NBC's got their own television broadcast lined up. CBC too. We beat them to it."
"I will say it was a good call on having Vale deliver the news. A certain kind of viewer might tune in just for her." He gave their host a lecherous look.
Alan disliked the locker room banter that flowed so easily from Wheeler's mouth. The man was the price of business working at the Gotham Broadcasting Company. It was a job Alan had come to enjoy very much, a welcome change from the engineering firm. Martin was sorry to see him go, but they parted on good terms and he still took him out for a drink now and again.
"Speaking of radio, make sure that Miranda Ramirez is all set for tomorrow's performance," said Leonard. "I wouldn't want another singer to get lost on their way to the studio."
"She'll make it. I've got my best people on it," said Alan. Derby specifically.
1940 was a critical year for GBC. They were competing with the other major networks, NBC, CBC, and Millennium Broadcasting. It was all about getting the most ears, or in this case eyes, on the programming and advertisements. It could be chaotic, coordinating the programs, the talent, the news coverage, but it was a new challenge for Alan, one that he found stimulating. It meant more time spent in Gotham, so much so that he had considered getting an apartment there.
Alan returned to his office, to handle the rest of his duties before he could go home for the night. It was covered with the usual spread of papers, suggestions for acts on the variety hour, negotiations over talent and news reports. There was an especially heated series of letters from members of the German American Bund on the GBC's coverage of the war, accusing them of being war mongering fools. A hotbed of Nazi sympathizers that one. They had lost much of their bite since their leader, Fritz Kuhn, was sent to prison for tax evasion, but they still liked to stir things up.
Another hour passed working through everything on his desk. By the time Alan left his office, most of the other staff had gone home. His secretary Molly had her head down on her desk, her red hair falling over her arms, the radio on low volume behind her.
"You know you can go home now?" said Alan.
She jolted up, knocking over a stack of papers on her crowded desk.
"Oh, now I've done it." She put her glasses back on her face, bending down to pick up the papers.
"Here, I can help with that," he said, stooping to help her.
"What's the time? I wasn't planning on staying so late. I just got lost in thought, then I closed my eyes for a moment."
"There's other ways of telling me I'm working you too hard," said Alan.
"Maybe they've got you in the wrong job. Should put you on one of those comedy shows."
They were interrupted by the radio:
"We come to you live from Atlanta, where a storm has caused damage throughout the city, including several collapsed buildings. Eyewitness reports cite the Flash and Doctor Fate of the Justice Society as pulling victims from the wreckage.
Good lord, there goes the Flash now. The hero of Keystone is dropping off one, two, no five people, including a child no older than five.
This is GBC News, we'll continue to cover the story as it develops."
Alan wished he could be there helping, but he was happy to hear that their system was working.
"I'd like to see the Justice Society in person, at least once," said Molly. "Though I suppose that would mean I'm in a dangerous spot."
Alan set the last of her papers down on her desk. He didn't know her as well as Amanda from back at the engineering firm, but she was a nice woman, pleasant to talk to and attentive. He heard a few of the others in the offices make fun of her for being bookish, but if it bothered her, Molly didn't let it show.
"Really, Molly, get out of here. Enjoy yourself for the evening."
"I will Mr. Scott."
Alan grabbed his hat, Molly her coat. They entered the elevator together.
"I don't have any plans tonight. Unless, you'd be interested in getting a drink," she said.
Something buzzed in Alan's pocket. His ring glinted green for a brief second. The signal ring was going off. Someone from the team needed him.
It's a swell thought Molly, but..."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to presume. I didn't mean anything by it," she said, cutting him off.
"I would love to another time. I promised a friend I'd meet him tonight."
"Alright. Another time," said Molly. She didn't look convinced. Alan guessed she thought he was only sparing her the embarrassment.
The rest of their ride down to the ground floor was awkward, both of them doing their best to avoid looking at each other. Alan was impatient to see what the emergency was. When the door finally opened, he took long strides out the lobby, doing little to improve Molly's read on their interaction.
Alan ducked into an alley, where he withdrew the signal ring, activating the glowing inscription.
"This is Black Canary. To any JSA members near Gotham, I need assistance. In pursuit of two kidnapped children. Kidnapper is an inhumanly large creature with grey skin and immense strength. I'm at the outskirts of Slaughter Swamp by the old…."
The blood was already rushing through Alan's ears, the costume wrapping his frame as Canary gave her location. Her description matched only one being.
Solomon Grundy was back.
You would be forgiven for forgetting that it was the middle of winter when you dropped into Slaughter Swamp. The humidity swallowed Hawkman as soon as he lowered his altitude, coming to settle by an overgrown shack. Black Canary flagged him down from her spot on a nearby rock.
"Glad you could make it," said Canary.
"I'm surprised I beat Green Lantern. What happened to you?" he said.
Her face was bruised, with swelling along her jaw. A few recently congealed cuts ran from her cheek to her neck. The leather jacket she always wore had several fresh holes from the shoulders down to her waist.
"Our would-be kidnapper gave me a parting gift before I fell back," she said. With less of her cavalier attitude, "Hawkman this creature is one nasty son of a bitch. I'm no scared sister, but I've rarely been as close to biting it as I was when it had me on the ropes."
"You're not alone in that experience," said Green Lantern, hitting the ground next to them, flanked by a trail of emerald flames. "Solomon Grundy is the most powerful foe I've had the displeasure of fighting."
"This is that monster from way back in April of last year. I read about it in the papers," said Hawkman.
"One and the same. I thought I destroyed it."
"Destroyed?" said Hawkman.
"You'll understand when you see it," said Canary, rubbing her jaw. "I'm not really one for the spooky nonsense, but Grundy ticks a lot of those boxes."
"He appears to be a walking corpse," said Green Lantern.
"Fantastic," said Hawkman. "This isn't going to save those kids. What do we know about him and what's our plan?"
"Max and Maggie Sampson. Twins, seven years old. Grundy snatched them from their house. Just walked right through the wall. Killed their dad when he put up a fight. He's got them in a crate on his back," said Black Canary.
"A wooden crate?" said Green Lantern.
"Yep. The coppers didn't want to start shooting at him with the kids there. Made my job more difficult too."
"It presents its own complications for me. The ring doesn't work on wood," said Green Lantern.
"You're joking."
"Or plant matter."
Dinah closed her eyes, sighing a deeply weary sigh.
"We'll make due," said Hawkman. "You have the most experience with Grundy. What do we need to know?"
Green Lantern explained Grundy's blend of inhuman durability and strength. The way that wounds sealed up after enough time, how the creature held a certain degree of resistance to his ring. The more he heard, the less enthused Hawkman was about their prospects. It would be tough to handle this issue in any clean manner.
"Our priority is saving the kids. Which means separating them from Grundy," said Hawkman.
"First, we have to find him. This swamp's gonna slow us down," said Black Canary.
"On foot. But, from the air?" said Green Lantern.
"You lead the search. I'll carry her," said Hawkman.
"You sure?" said Green Lantern.
"You're faster and easier to spot. Just give us the signal when you see him."
Lantern soared off, simple to keep in view from the aura of green light that pursued him. Hawkman picked up Black Canary, conscious of her wounds. With a few powerful flaps of his wings, he took flight as well.
"You know how to sweep a girl off her feet," said Black Canary, a trickle of blood creeping from the corner of her mouth, to complicate the flirtatious front she presented.
Hawkman didn't respond, instead lending all of his attention to the tangle of trees and vegetation below. It was speckled with white from a recent snowfall, with a few smaller bodies of water domed by a thin layer of ice. It was unnaturally devoid of animal noises.
"No fun at all," said Canary.
"I bet it would work on some of the others. Hourman. Try Green Lantern when all this is done."
"Ha. Now there's a thought," she said, as if in on a private joke. It was not the time to pry, particularly as a beacon of green burst to their left.
"Brace yourself," he said, tucking his wings in to speed towards their target.
Hawkman set Black Canary down a ways off from where the light show was starting. She was their best bet to get the children out, while the other two would keep Grundy occupied.
"Give em hell, Carter," said Canary.
Hawkman gave an affirmative. He flew low to the ground, slicing through the trunks and branches. There was a violent snap, like a starter's pistol. A flailing purple form pitched towards Hawkman. He braced, catching Green Lantern, the momentum driving them both to the muddy soil below.
Green Lantern kneeled, clearly in the midst of catching his breath. His mask was partially torn, the ragged edges of it slowly reforming from the fire.
"He's stronger. Stronger than last time," he said, spitting out a wad of blood.
"Does he still have the kids on his back?"
"No. I separated them."
"My turn then."
"I'll be back in a moment. Gotta catch my second wind."
The pair of trees before them, tilted and fell, the roots ripped up from the ground as a lumbering mass of rotten flesh and anger approached.
Hawkman unclipped the mace from his belt, letting it sweep in an arc before coming to rest in his hands. A twist on the shaft prompted spikes to extend around the head of the weapon. He started in a jog at Grundy, picking up speed, as his feet left the ground. As much as Carter wanted to deny it, these were the moments when the turmoil that heaved within him settled. When the world condensed to the next few moments of bloodshed, decided only by the strength of his hand and the power of his conviction, Carter Hall was at peace.
With a cry that could send the devil himself running, Hawkman swung the mace at Grundy's head.
Dinah remembered running, Max in her arms, Miranda close behind. She ran through the frozen bog, tearing past the brush, her voice as calm is could for the children, while the fear at her back drove her on like a cattle prod. Every few seconds the shadows would grow long, stretched out by the flare of green light.
She instructed Max and Maggie to not look behind them, a command she did her best to follow. It took all her will to not flinch at the inhuman bellows that skipped off the water, the tremors that rolled through the air from the unfolding fight. No matter how far Dinah ran the sounds behind them never lessened in their intensity.
They passed through the exterior bounds of the swamp in an anticlimactic fashion, the tangle falling away to a service road. It wasn't long along this measly dirt road that they were met with headlights. A police car.
"Canary? Is that you?"
The voice belonged to Larry Lance. He was one of the few officers Dinah trusted, the only one she trusted enough to hand off the kids to. When he got out, she couldn't see his face, backlit as he was by the headlights, but the worry rebounded off his voice all the same. Dinah must have been quite the sight.
"I'm here Larry."
He helped her bring Miranda and Max to the car, loading them into the back. Max remained lost to the world, fainting as a response to the stress of the situation. Maggie was conscious, but her responses were confined to murmurs and grunts. There was an animalistic terror affixed to her face, even this close to salvation.
"Go, get those kids back to the city proper."
"Now wait a minute, Canary. That sounds like you're planning on staying here."
"I am."
"You're in no state to keep going." He grabbed her arm.
Dinah prepared to yank away, but she knew the gesture was out of concern not control. Larry let go of his own accord.
"Sorry. But I can't stand the thought of leaving you to fight that monster."
"It's what I do Larry. I can't leave my companions."
"I saw that thing. When it was tearing through the outskirts, on its way here. Normal people, like us… we aren't meant to deal with that."
"I'm not a normal person, Larry. You know that."
She couldn't look directly at him, couldn't face the disapproval, the naked concern. It was that concern that had first marked Larry as someone with a functioning sense of compassion. Maybe it was that he was one of the few black cops in a white department. Maybe he retained that sensitivity that so many before him deadened to keep themselves safe. It was what led her to call on him time and time again in her line of work. Before the team, he was the closest thing Dinah had to a partner, a person to fall back on.
"Take the kids. I'll let you know when I'm safe," said Dinah.
"You better," he said.
Dinah watched as the car receded into the darkness, lost to the winding turns of the service road. She headed back into Slaughter Swamp. The sounds of battle were gone, something that inspired more fear than their presence, that pent up dread of anticipation.
It was Carter that first stumbled out from the foliage. One wing was bent, his body coated in blood and sweat. He supported Alan, whose cape was in tatters. There was no sign of Grundy.
"You boys okay?"
"We'll live," said Carter.
"The kids?" said Alan, with a straining voice.
"Safe."
"Where's the ghoul?"
"We hit him with everything we had and then some. Barely did anything. After a while without the kids, it was like he got bored. Just up and left," said Carter.
"As you can see, we're in no state to follow him," said Alan.
"We did what mattered. Those kids are safe," said Dinah.
"Unless Grundy comes back. Or someone else," said Alan.
"If ugly shows his face again, we'll bring more firepower," said Dinah.
"We better."
"Come on, let's fix you two up. I'll buy you a beer for your troubles."
February 19, 1940
This was not the work of a healthy mind.
That was the thought that continued to scrape through Batman's head as he picked through the detritus of Jonathan Crane's lab. Or as he liked to be called: The Scarecrow. It was a dingy, airless basement on the south end of Gotham, a crawl space carved below a dead tenement building. Crane had been stewing here for months, in a concoction of rage and professional jealousy.
Crane worked at Gotham University, in the psychology department. And Arkham Asylum, ironic considering there was a high chance that was his next residence. He specialized in studying fear responses in patients. From the few members of his department that still lived, Batman gleaned that Crane was a solitary man, prone to long hours and rarely seen at university functions.
The catalyst for his transformation was being let go from his position at both the college and asylum, when one of his students let slip that he was performing experiments on them for additional credit. Testing a concoction of chemicals, drugs that he posited would suppress or summon one's fears. Batman's research indicated that these backroom tests had resulted in the shoddily covered up deaths of at least two students, one from a heart attack, another from accidental suicide.
Rather than condemn Crane publicly, they had let him go, blacklisting him from other institution through their professional network. He took what they had likely considered an act of slim mercy and killed most of his peers in the department.
The make-shift lab was crammed full of boxes of noxious chemicals, stolen from the university or otherwise purchased illicitly. Tubes, beakers and hotplates ran over every counter, drip feeding into four barrels filled with liquid madness. His notes were hidden beneath a dirty mattress on the floor, scrawled in a barely legible text that Batman had not worked out thus far.
Out in the alley, covered by a thick burlap sheet were two more barrels, crammed with the dissolving remains of Crane's first victims. Test subjects. It was a testament to the horrors that he was exposed to that Batman didn't throw up on their discovery.
In this den of madness, Crane crafted a formula that could drag a person's worst fear screeching to the surface with such force that it drowned their grasp on reality. In his pursuit of the man, Batman had been exposed to only a small dose and it proved to nearly be his end. Crane wasn't a physically imposing man, but there was little resistance anyone could give when reduced to a blubbering sack of terror by his fear toxin.
Crane had released an aerosolized version during the retirement party for Professor Goff at Gotham University. The party goers had turned on each other in a blind panic, killing out of mortal terror or dying outright from the stress. Of the three dozen in attendance, only four had survived.
Crane's downfall was that he wanted to witness his peer's comeuppance. He stalked the halls of the university dressed in rags, a noose around his neck, a dreadful mask covering his features. He planned on spreading the toxin to the rest of the school, then later to Arkham. Batman had caught up with him shortly afterwards.
There was something distinctly unpleasant to the routine Batman was conscious he was acting out here, in this basement. A person would commit an act of monstrous brutality in Gotham, unleashed by the casual cruelty of the city or their own delusions. He would stop them, then clean up the mess they left in their aftermath. The Wayne Foundation had already made a contribution to the families at the college.
It was in the chemicals that Batman paused. Crane was a loaded gun, regardless of what he had access to, bound to hurt someone eventually. But, the materials he had on hand were not what the layperson could purchase. Before he saw the partially scratched off logo, Batman knew where Crane had stolen his supplies from.
Scarecrow. Doctor Death. Professor Achilles Milo. Hugo Strange.
They all possessed a connection to the company. The threshold of coincidence had long been passed.
It was time to see what Ace Chemicals was hiding.
February 24, 1940
"You say you've fought this fella before?" said Hourman.
"Once. Some months ago," said Doctor Fate. "It would be best to move in silence, to avoid alerting Karkull."
The two heroes moved with care down the cold industrial hallway of the forsaken automotive plant that Ian Karkull was using as his base. Fate had considered trying to teleport the two of them into this lair, but decided against it. Karkull was no sorcerer, but his technology had interacted with Fate's magic in an unpredictable manner the last time they clashed.
He weaponizes that which he does not understand.
Hourman had been the one to stumble upon Karkull's latest scheme. A group of literal shadowy figures descended on a truck that was carrying new acquisitions by the Museum of Modern Art. Rex intervened, saving the lives of the driver, but he failed to stop them from escaping with a bronze scepter, allegedly a work of art from Moorish Spain. Upon being summoned by the signal ring, Doctor Fate immediately identified the perpetrator as Karkull, the shadow people his telltale signature.
They found themselves outside an imposing set of steel doors, beyond which the whir of industrial machinery could be heard, the only such report in the entire facility.
"Sounds like we found our man," said Hourman.
"Indeed. Allow me to take the initiative," said Doctor Fate.
"Whatever we do, it's got to be quick. I'm down to my last four," said Hourman. He held up the small hourglass that dangled from his neck, the sand within the top half nearly gone.
We do not require his help. Doctor Fate can handle this alone.
Kent ignored the voice.
With an incantation and a flourish, Doctor Fate blew the doors off their hinges. They clattered and skidded on the hard concrete floors. Inside was an expansive chamber, commanded from the center by an enormous turbine, supplemented by smaller, auxiliary generators. An oily substance continually slid off of the main turbine, though it dissipated after a few moments in the air.
Shadows split from the walls, rushing Doctor Fate and Hourman. He met them with a beam of golden light that vaporized them, while Hourman struck down the first of his assailants. The second one moved through his fist as if it were not there, before wrapping its thin frame around him like a constrictor. Doctor Fate lifted his hands, as a wellspring of magic erupted from the floor below Hourman, freeing him.
More shadow figures emerged from the empty parts of the room. They moved in total silence, till Fate and his ally were completely encircled.
"Doctor Fate, it's been some time. And you brought a friend. Not very sporting of you."
"Says the man using all these freaks," said Hourman.
"Ah, ah, ah. I meant it was inconsiderate of him to lead you to your demise. He should have known that I would not be so merciful as our last encounter," said Karkull. The man split from the black of the machine, his own form a shadow, given thin definition by the slight bit of moonlight and the glow of Doctor Fate.
"He didn't tell you the particulars of our last battle did he?" said Karkull.
Hourman didn't answer. Doctor Fate could tell he was eyeing their mounting odds as time ran out.
"He destroyed my machine. An earlier model of this very one," said Karkull, running a hand on the turbine's controls. "He left me trapped in this form, a shade unable to join the living."
Do not allow him to speak. Act now.
Doctor Fate heeded Nabu's advice, speaking the spell to send out a bolt of energy at Karkull. A wall of shadow sprung from the ground, blocking the magic.
"It won't be that easy, Doctor. I've prepared this time. That staff powers my new machine, one that can amplify the original process a thousandfold."
The shadows all across the room were coming to life, some like the roughly humanoid forms that surrounded them, others abstracted menaces. They encroached.
"I'm out, doc," said Hourman. "Just me and my fists now."
Destroy the machine. It is clearly the source of this insolence.
He fixed his telekinesis on the turbine, willing it to be torn from its position. The shadows below charged them. Tendrils of darkness snatched at Doctor Fate's limbs, but he burned them off as they arrived. The turbine began to groan, the whirring intensified.
More tendrils seized at Doctor Fate. Below, Hourman grunted in pain as the mob of shadows overwhelmed him. He saw his companion vanish into the horde. Karkull cackled from his perch.
The situation is out of hand. I will correct it.
"No, wa-"
Kent Nelson floated a few feet off the ground. Where the turbines and the far side of the factory walls were was a gaping hole, like it had been scoured clean. No shadows rose to strike.
"Doctor! Doctor Fate!"
Rex Tyler was in a bubble of golden energy, pounding his fist on the side. Kent released him.
"What the hell was that man?" said Hourman.
"What happened?" said Kent.
"What do you mean?" said Rex, annoyed.
He took off the helm. Kent explained the gap in his recollection, an act that softened his companion's attitude.
"Things were getting unpleasant. Then all of a sudden, your helmet started glowing. More than usual, I mean.
You told Karkull that 'his time was over.' It was strange. Your voice was different. Deeper. But, like it was coming from somewhere else."
"Then?"
"You said some hocus pocus words and blasted Karkull and his pals to high hell. Plucked me up in that bubble during some part of it, to be honest I was too busy watching the light show."
Rex rubbed the back of his neck.
"I'm not going to lie, doc. It was frightening. I'm glad you saved me. But, there was something about it that didn't sit right with me. Like seeing a dam break."
"Where's Karkull?"
"When you zapped the turbines, he got sucked up into that staff. You snapped your fingers and it vanished."
In the Tower of Fate then.
"I apologize Rex. The owner of the helm… sometimes, he takes control."
"The owner?"
"It's a long story. But, that's why sometimes I'm not myself."
"Kent I won't even pretend to know you well enough to know what yourself tends to mean. All I know is I like you a hell of a lot more than the other guy. He got results, but it felt like I was an afterthought. Like he only shielded me because you'd get miffed if I bought it."
"This may be difficult to ask, but would you mind not telling the others? For now?"
Hourman didn't appear enthusiastic about the request, but he buried that distaste in seconds.
"Not my place to tell," said Hourman.
March 1, 1940
"We know you are in the barn. Come out now or there will be consequences," said the German officer.
Libby could see four of them through the slit in the wood planks, but more could be around the back. Mathias, the owner of the barn in which she and McNider sheltered, looked ashamed, but he stood with them soldiers all the same.
"You're going to have to run," said McNider, already scooping up a bundle of his gas capsules, the ones that produced impenetrable clouds of darkness. He was down to his last few.
"I won't make it far. Not on my own."
"I'll make a scene. Get to the river and follow it. It will lead to the border within a few days."
They had been so close to leaving Germany. Their flight West from Poland went slower than they desired, as danger made them go to ground again and again. They hid in forests, in abandoned barns and farmhouses and under the tentative protection of strangers. Tonight was a painful reminder of the danger of that last option.
"We will not ask again," said the officer.
"I admire the spirit of your resistance," said a new voice, husky and dark. Libby peered through the slit. A large man with shaggy dark hair and a thick beard came to the front of the soldiers.
"Libby Lawrence. Charles McNider. My compatriots would prefer you give up. But, I'm open to the possibility of a fight."
The man saying their names confirmed a fear they nurtured. That they were in fact being specifically pursued. She took slight consolation in the fact that this was likely the only reason they had not stormed the barn immediately. They wanted the stolen information back.
"I don't promise a quick death. But, I do offer a dignified one," said the man.
McNider had strapped his belt to one of the support beams that ran up to the barn roof. He held the other two capsules. Moving slowly, he emptied a pair of kerosene lanterns, dumping the fluid into the piles of hay.
The large man rested his hands on Mathias's shoulders. Then, with a swift, mechanical motion he yanked the man's head to the side, letting out a grotesque pop. Libby grimaced.
"Don't mourn him too much. He came to us. Guilty as could be."
"Get ready, Libby," said McNider.
"He was weak. Not like your father."
Her heart dropped like a stone.
"He didn't beg. Didn't give up anything."
"Libby. Ignore it. He's baiting you."
"It was an honor to kill him."
There was a scream caught in her throat, tears locked at the edges of her eyes. McNider took Libby by the shoulders.
"On my signal you have to go. It can't end here. You have to live. Do you understand me? Do you?"
"I understand," she said, her voice quivering.
"I don't plan on dying here. I will see you again."
"I look forward to it, Doctor McNider."
"Cowardice then. Take them," said the large man.
Libby made a vow as she fled the burning barn, trapped in a maelstrom of darkness and flame. A vow that kept her warm as she slept in ditches, subsisting off of scraps on her slow crawl to freedom. A vow as old as the first drop of blood spilled in hate.
Vengeance.