PRO SE PRESENTS
NEW AUTHORS - NEW VISIONS - NEW PULP FICTION FOR A NEW GENERATION
SEPTEMBER 2011
Copyright © 2011, Pro Se Productions
Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords
The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Edited by- Tommy Hancock and Lee Houston, Jr.
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
Submissions Editor-Barry Reese
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
proseproductions@earthlink.net
www.prosepulp.com
“Jupiter’s Game” copyright © 2011 J. Wayne Goulet & Michael Montague
“To Kindle A Fire” copyright © 2011 Nancy A. Hansen
Front Cover Art by Umar Bin Dahloos, Colors by Jarrett Arthur
Interior Art by Umar Bin Dahloos and Pete Cooper
Back Cover Art by: Wayne Reinagel
Book Design, Layout, and additional graphics created by Sean E. Ali
TABLE OF CONTENTS
by J. Wayne Goulet and Michael Montague
by Nancy A. Hansen
The John Sterling Chronicles
JUPITER’S GAME
By J. Wayne Goulet & Michael Montague
The year is 1933. The United States still reels from the nightmare that is The Great Depression. Around the world governments are toppling. Mysterious despots and mad scientists are seizing power- seeking to plunge the world into darkness and chaos. In the midst of this maelstrom comes one man. John Preston Sterling. A man of many titles; explorer, scientist, adventurer, he is all of these things and more. Using the heightened strength and intelligence granted him by ingesting the South American ‘Omonya plant, John Sterling has pledged to right wrongs and punish evildoers. Joining him in this crusade is a gathering of both might and mental excellence:
Ezekiel Lighthorse – Apache shaman and expert marksman.
Sinclair Du Champ – smuggler, underworld contact
“Iron Jack” Scott – machinesmith extraordinaire
Magnum Jones – weapons and explosives expert
Epiphany Toussaint – socialite and amateur reporter.
John Sterling and his comrades live by a creed, a mantra that is epic in its simplicity - To fight injustice and evil and protect all that lives.
***
I
DANCE WITH DEATH
His frantic footsteps kicked up trash as he ran down the alley littered with trash and refuse tossed aside after its usefulness had been exhausted. His breathing popped and wheezed in frenzied shards as the open wounds on his chest oozed blood and screamed with each stride. But that couldn’t matter, not right now, he dare not stop or even slow down. He knew enough of those pursuing him to know that death was what awaited if they caught him.
As he scaled the chain link fence, a shot rang out, the heat of the bullet searing his left temple as it passed. His mind considered it a metallic mosquito and nothing more as he threw himself forward, his body tumbling down the embankment. Forcing himself to his feet at the bottom, electric tendrils of fear rocketed up and down his spine as he heard something behind him. The scraping of footsteps falling heavy against the ground in a dead run after him? Or newspapers and empty boxes being blown about like abandoned toys by a playful night wind? He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs of sweat and pain from his eyes. It didn’t matter what he heard, if he hard anything at all. All that mattered was getting away.
He crossed an empty field that backed up against the Waterford Hotel. Fumbling in the dark, his bruised and battered hands finally fell across a door handle and he yanked open an unlocked employee’s entrance. Thrusting himself inside, he blinked his stinging hazel eyes to adjust to new surroundings. A short hall stretched out in front of him, a door on each side of it, the left closest to him. Frantically he shook the knob, locked. As he reached the door on the opposite side of the hall, he heard something again. This time from beyond the door. Music. Laughter. People.
Epiphany Toussant had no idea what drew her attention to the far side of the ballroom at the Waterford at that instant. She was involved in completely senseless conversation, the type most socialites are skilled in but Epiphany simply despised, with her Aunt Gertrude Augustine and snivelly cousin Percival Persant Toussant, when something urged her to turn her gorgeous blonde tressed head around. Her dazzling topaz eyes looked beyond the musical stylings of Opie Cates and his Orchestra, past the spinning and twirling celebrants attending the annual Toussant Family Winter Cotillion, and ignored the opulent ice sculptures surrounded by richly designed foods arranged in extremely small portions. And there it was. For whatever reason, one she’d likely never explain, Epiphany Toussant was the first to notice the servants’ entrance across the room open and a body stumble through it. A man. Wet. Bloody. And remnants of shackles hanging from his wrists.
An audible gasp announced the arrival of the unknown, unwanted guest as dozens of bewildered stares assaulted him. Epiphany gracefully skirted the throng of confused partiers, ducking the pointing fingers and inane questions. Questions that became guffaws and statements of disbelief as the beautiful heiress to the Toussaint fortune walked up to the stranger, extended a finely muscled alabaster arm and said, “You look like you need some help.”
The man recoiled from Epiphany’s proffered hand, his already terror stricken eyes widening, two hazel quarters set deep in his face. A howl erupted from his body, raising his head as pain and horror rent its way from his throat. Long, agonizing, interminable moments went by, the once gay superficial gathering now nothing more than a hall for the echoing fear of a wounded man to play in. And as suddenly as it had come, the screaming stopped and its owner pitched to the left, falling prostrate in the center of the ballroom.
Epiphany started for the fallen man, again much to the dismay of the cultured vultures surrounding the scene. She stopped short, though, remembering past events in her life, adventures where people had fallen over and someone had rushed to help them, only to end up with whatever malady or condition that had felled the person in the first place. “You,” she gestured at a gangly man in a waiter’s uniform nearest to her. “Call the police and get an ambulance here now!” The server opened his mouth to respond, his legs already moving, but Epiphany, darting past the thin puzzled man, cut him off with, “Never mind! I’ll do it! I have another call to make!”
II
DARK PASSAGES
Nestled in the Catskills of New York, Silvergate Manor stood majestically over the range of trees surrounding it, Nature’s own sentinels guarding secrets beyond mansion walls. Walls that house one of the world’s greatest heroes and the men who would die for him. By appearances Silvergate Manor resembled any other millionaire’s mountain retreat. But what lay on the inside was the home, the headquarters, the hideaway of a man already made legend in his own lifetime.
John Preston Sterling slid a leather bracer on his right arm, pulling its straps to tighten it against his skin. Across the room that at one point had been a study but now resembled more of a hollowed out shooting range, Ezekiel Lighthorse, Sterling’s Apache companion, stood off to the side. “All right, Pres,” Lighthorse said, “Ready?”
Sterling inhaled sharply, stared down the corridor and looked at the targets before him, then tied a blindfold around his head, hiding his almost onyx piercing eyes. Sterling engaged in this type of exercise twice a week, the ritualistic expansion of mind and body through different methods of exertion and concentration. Drawing back the bow he’d designed and crafted himself, Sterling nodded his head once, punctuating it with a whispered “Now.”
Lighthorse reached to his left slightly above his shoulder and pulled a lever jutting from the wall. The targets between Sterling and the end of the room came to life, swinging left to right. John Sterling took in a breath and his fingers clenched around the bowstring snapped apart, sending the shaft on its way. The first arrow hit the center of the furthest target as Sterling swiftly pulled another arrow from the quiver on his back, notched it, and let loose, again accompanied by a brief inhale. The second arrow had yet to strike its bullseye when Sterling, with a speed unseen since Lighthorse’s people called America their own, drew, loaded, and fired the final arrow. The second arrow buried itself deeply in the middle target, the third finding its home in the last one less than two seconds later.
“Perfect shooting, Pres.” Lighthorse said.
Sterling nodded as he took off the blindfold. “Thank you, Lighthorse. Discovering the gifts the ‘Omonya plant has given me requires that I push myself.” As he set the bow in the mahogany leather bound case that was its home, Sterling’s head popped up, his eyes narrowed. Much like animals sensing danger moments before it comes, so did this action predict a summoning of warning. An odd looking light, reminiscent of lanterns that hung in trains across the country, was set in the center column in the middle of the study. It now shone crimson red, the light falling and rising in intensity as it flashed.
Sterling and Lighthorse traded knowing looks. “Get the car ready, Ezekiel,” Sterling ordered, although Lighthorse was already in motion toward the garage. “I’ll change and meet you in front of the house in ten minutes.”
Sterling shrugged off his hunting attire and pulled on a grey turtleneck, went to a wall and pressed a recessed button. In response a panel slid back to reveal a hidden alcove and in it was Sterling’s nom de rigueur. His vest. Sterling lifted it from its bed and slid it on easily. Tight fitting yet flexible, its numerous pockets held many items Sterling would require in the course of his outings. After pulling on his jodhpur pants and boots, Sterling completed this ritual of preparation by buckling on a gun belt with two Benjamin .122 rifled pistols already holstered in it.
Lighthorse slowed the 1930 Duisenberg coupe to a stop in front of Silvergate Manor. John Sterling already stood in the doorway.
“Just once I’d like to beat you to the door,” Lighthorse snorted as he climbed out of the car on his way to the passenger’s side. The faintest glimmer of a smile crossed Sterling’s face as he got into the driver’s seat and stepped on the accelerator The engine roared like a wild cat and the car charged down the narrow path toward Manhattan.
“Location?” Sterling asked.
“The Waterford Hotel,” Lighthorse replied. “Epiphany called from there.”
Sterling nodded and said,”Tonight’s the Toussaint family’s annual fall cotillion. And in the midst of that Epiphany finds trouble.”
Lighthorse grinned. “Yeah. Imagine that.”
III
THE BRANDED MEN
The Duisenberg glided to a stop in front of the Waterford Hotel, the luxuriant elegance of Sterling’s car a start contrast the two black and white police cars, the bubble lights atop them alive with swirling red lights. As Sterling and Lighthorse climbed out, a slight man in a wrinkled suit and with a frumpy face to match sauntered over to them from the hotel door. Although Sergeant Colin Fitzpatrick looked every bit the burnt out desk jockey, those who knew him like Sterling did knew what that façade hid.
“Good evening John, Ezekiel,” Fitzpatrick greeted as he turned and started for the hotel door, Sterling and Lighthorse at his heel. “We have a transient crashing the Tousaint party and scaring the guests. Epiphany’s in there, saw something I guess and felt the need to call you.”
“Action and adventure,” Lighthorse mused as they walked into the Waterford’s main ballroom. “That’s what she saw.”
As they entered the ballroom, all three men saw Epiphany knelt down next to the man, having ovecome her fear of catching something, trying to help him drink a cup of water. The man was alive, but largely unresponsive. Lighthorse bent down to assist her, opening his shaman’s pouch as he did so.
“Epiphany.” John said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine John, Epiphany answered. The party had gotten to as close as full swing as it was going to get when this man came stumbling in. He let loose a horrifying scream, then collapsed.
“Pres,” Lighthorse said gravely as he the fallen man’s arm. There amongst the tatters of a soiled shirt, Sterling saw what his friend had. On the man’s emaciated rib cage was a mark, something between a burn scar and a pattern Sterling didn’t immediately recognize.
Epiphany, not one to miss out on anything, found the mark with her eyes. “What is that?”
“It’s a brand,” Lighthorse said, disgust rising in his baritone voice. “He’s branded. Like cattle.”
“Good Lord!” The whiny fatuous shout belonged to a portly, balding man in a tuxedo pushing his way through the crowd of guests and onlookers. He stopped just behind Sterling, his fat body jiggling with anxiety that sent tremors through his voice. “I know this man...His name is Roger Stewart, he was in the Great War, he’d been a prisoner.”
“Who are you?” Fitzpatrick asked.
Sweat dropped in dollops as the man answered. “Don Whitehead. I sponsor and manage a soup kitchen by the waterfront and he’s one of my regulars, I also counsel them as well and have talked to Roger quite a lot. He had trouble adjusting back to home life.”
As Whitehead spoke, John Sterling studied him. How he wrung his hands nervously. How his Adam’s apple jerked like a Mexican jumping bean beneath multiple chins. How Whitehead perspired as if he stood in a desert even though the temperature in the room was probably hovering around 80 degrees. “Excuse me,” Whitehead stammered, “I need some air.”
Sterling’s brow furrowed as he watched Whitehead retreat into the disgruntled throng around them, then turned to Fitzpatrick. “I want you to take this man to the hospital. Put an armed guard on him.”
Ftizpatrick arched a bushy eyebrow. “Really, John? All that for some stumblebum wino?”
Sterling’s gaze became a rock hard razor edged glare as he turned it on Fitzpatrick. “This man is a veteran, Colin. Someone who fought so you wouldn’t have to hopefully.” As Fitzpatrick withered even more into his wrinkled suite, Sterling continued, “That and someone branded him, believing that that made him their property. People who traffic in humanity as property usually try to get what they’ve lost back.”
Giving Fitzpatrick no time to save face, Sterling crossed the room, following the same path Don Whitehead had taken. Standing in the door that led into the Waterford Gardens, he noticed that a few people huddled under the overhang that stretched out into the small courtyard. because of the rain. His eyes also caught that the gate to the street at the far end of the garden swung achingly on its rusted hinges. Sterling’s eyes gleamed and his fists clenched.
“Lighthorse joined him at the door, his gaze landing on the open gate quickly. “Taking a trip to Hooverville, Pres?” Sterling nodded. “Good,” Ezekiel supported. “Epiphany’s going with Stewart to the hospital; she’ll contact us when he wakes up.”
John Sterling said nothing. No time for words, only for action.
***
According to the poorly painted wooden sign hanging on its door, the waterfront soup kitchen that Don Whitehead ran wouldn’t be open for another 5 hours when Sterling’s Duisenberg stopped in front of it. Lighthorse left the headlights on to provide some illumination, but it was also enough to flush a slim black clad figure out of the building through the obviously unlocked front door. As the intruder ran madly down the dock, Lighthorse gave chase. Sterling reached down and pulled a small device out of the glove compartment before following his friend.
The man in black ran as if Hell itself pursued him. Had he known that Ezekiel Lighthorse and John Sterling were behind him, he’d have run even faster. Seeing an open door, he dove into a restaurant like a scared rabbit hunting a hole and dashed to the rear and out the exit. Nearly banging his head on the low rung of a fire escape, he jumped and grabbed hold of the ladder, tugging himself off the ground.
Even in the near pitch the city cast amongst its own valleys and canyons, Ezekiel Lighthorse saw every move his quarry made. Instead of following him up the firescape, the Apache instead ran into the abandoned building and bolted up a staircase that ran parallel to the fire escape on the inside of the building. When Sterling arrived at the bottom of the fire escape, he looked skyward and saw their prey was near the top of the fire escape. Sterling stood stock still and raised his right arm. On his forearm was a compact rope launcher of his creation. Sterling balled up his fist and two projectiles attached to two thin lines shot out and lodged into the masonry on the top of the building. As Sterling pushed a button on the launcher, a wheel on top began spinning, retracting the lines and lifting Sterling quickly into the air.
As Sterling leaped over the lip of the building’s roof, the launcher cut the lines, leaving its hooks buried in the building. Startled by Sterling’s arrival, the ebony clothed figure shouted and ran jumping desparately from one roof to the next, barely making the other side of the gap between them. As Sterling followed relentlessly, the man in black turned and fired a gun, forcing Sterling behind a brick chimney for cover. Chunks of brick were being blown off on top of Sterling’s head. Sterling looked up, one hand over his eyes to shield them from a barrage of brick shrapnel and saw enough of his target’s shadow to know where he was. Sterling drew one of his two .122s and aimed at the metal chimney across the way from the shadow. Sterling squeezed off two shots, each one arcing off the metal structure, one of them ricocheting deep into the runner’s left leg. He yelped in pain, that elevating into a shriek when the second bullet struck his gun, knocking it violently from his hand.
Sterling sprang to his feet as soon as he shot and charged ahead. He now stood over his victim, an average sized man, who still struggled to grab his gun. Sterling kicked the pistol away and it skittered across the tar and gravel roof, coming to stop at the feet of Ezekiel Lighthorse as he burst through the access door. Sterling tilted his head toward Lighthorse, and, amused, asked, “What kept you?”
Instead of answering, Lighthorse stepped quickly forward, raising his fist high in a sudden, sharp kick. Sterling’s downed opponent had risen up on his arms, his eyes sparking with fight or flight. Lighthorse’s well placed kick to his chin laid the man back down, blood trickling out from between his lips mingled with a guttural groan.
Wasting no more time, Sterling grabbed the man’s ankle and dragged him to the edge of the roof and in one deft move, held him aloft and over the alley several stories below. The burglar’s response was what Sterling always got when he used this tactice. Shrieks of terror, pleas for his life, and limbs flailing back and forth.
Calmly, as if he were ordering coffee, Sterling said, “There are only two choices here, friend. You talk and you live. You don’t and you die and we get what we can from your body. One way or another you will tell us everything you know.”
Ezekiel Lighthorse wrapped his strong hand suddenly around Sterling’s arm. “Pres,” he said firmly as he pointed with his other hand. The man’s shirt had slipped free from his pants and now dangled nearly to his head, revealing his abdomen. The same brand both men had seen on Stewart’s body at the Waterford adorned this man’s ribcage. Instantly, Sterling turned and lowered the runner back down to the roof.
Lighthorse knelt down beside the injured man and quietly said, “Listen friend, there’s been a mistake. We want to help. Who branded you?”
The only reply that came was a grunt and two piston like arms shoving forward. Knocking Lighthorse on to his back and slipping past Sterling, the man in black joined the darkness between buildings as he threw himself over to his own death.
Lighthorse stepped to the ledge, saw the body, and stood quiet, stunned. “Whoever we’re dealing with,” Sterling coldly surmised, “has control over the men they brand to the point that they choose death over confession.” He placed a large hand on Lighthorse’s shoulder, urging his friend out of his silence. “Perhaps we could find some clues back at the soup kitchen.”
***
Approaching the kitchen from the back, both men found the door torn from the hinges. “Our man didn’t do this. Someone else was here.” Lighthorse said. Sterling nodded in agreement. Using miniature lanterns of Sterling’s devising, they both made their way through the inky blackness threatening them. The entire building was in disarray. Desk drawers pulled out. Cabinets broken open. Tables overturned.
“This place looks wrecked,” Lighthorse said, “like someone picked it up and shook it.”
“You may be more right than you think, old friend.” John commented. His lantern swept the area in front of him, shining on a wet footprint on the floor. It measured well over a foot long. “You don’t see that often.”
“Yes,” Sterling answered “And by my calculations, I’d say that the person who made it stands nearly eight feet tall and weighs over 400 pounds.”
Eight feet.” Lighthorse repeated. “My mama had a saying, Pres. Don’t go dancing in a snake pit; the snake may still be at home!”
“No,” Sterling countered. “I don’t think so; someone this large would have a hard time moving in this small an area. I think we were waylaid by his accomplice as a distraction so the big man could keep searching for whatever they were after. What that was-” Sterling started as he waved his light back and forth around the room, but was interrupted by a muffled moan. Sterling’s light spiked to his right and rested on an overturned desk. “There,” Sterling affirmed.
Lighthorse looped his fingers under the edge of the desk and shoved it out of the way. Sprawled on the floor before their eyes was the beaten and broken form of Don Whitehead. His face swollen and cut, Whitehead’s jaw sat at an odd angle, clearly broken. Still, he tried to speak but his jaw swung up and down like a broken gate, only squeaking sounds escaping from it. “What’s he saying?” Lighthorse asked. “Can you read his lips?”
“No, his jaw is broken and his throat is crushed. He won’t survive much longer.” Sterling took Whitehall’s hand in his left, placed his right hand on top of it, closed his eyes and exhaled. A rush of images swept through Sterling’s mind, one of the many gifts granted him by consumption of the ‘Omanya Plant. John Sterling saw many things.
Scenes unfolded in Sterling’s mind as if they were his own memories. Whitehead conversing with a man with shining black eyes and money being exchanged. Men, including Roger Stewart, coming into the kitchen and then being loaded onto trucks. A large arena. Stewart fighting with swords and a spiked mace and delivering the killing blow to another man. And a name-Jupiter.
Finally, the images begin to flicker and fade like mist. As Sterling found his mind able to focus again in the dimly lit office, Whitehead’s eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. “He’s gone.” Sterling rose and went to a file cabinet, pulling out the third drawer. Underneath it was an envelope and inside Sterling found a list of names and dates. After he scanned it, he looked at Lighthorse “We must return to the hospital and speak to the only one who holds the key to ending this madness.”
“What is it, Pres?” Lighthorse asked. “There a nightmare in those pages?”
“No, Ezekiel, worse than that. Somewhere in this city, human beings are being kidnapped and forced to engage in fights to the death. For sport.”
***
The Duisenberg tore through the Manhattan streets despite them being wet from the earlier rain. The tires were modified for inclement weather which kept it from skidding and fishtailing off the street. Behind the wheel John Sterling’s face flushed with rage over the revelations brought on by his mental exchange with Whitehall. The extra sense granted to Sterling always proved to be as much curse as blessing. The images seen sometimes would haunt him for days, the discovery of some new frightening inhuman manner that men envisioned to hurt or inflict pain on the helpless or innocent disturbing him. Those images, though, proved so intense and troubling that they only strengthened his resolve and dedication to fighting injustice and evil.
Once at the hospital, Sterling and Lighthorse went to Stewart’s room. Epiphany stood at the door as they entered.
“Out here, Epiphany,” Sterling kindly commanded. Even though she was a socialite as well as a woman, Sterling counted her amongst his strongest allies. It was important she knew the entire truth that he had discovered, in part because she was on the scene when the terror began and that it had intruded into her world.
Before Sterling finished informing Epiphany, a rail thin doctor in a pristine white lab coat stormed up to Sterling. “I must protest this!” The doctor grabbed Sterling’s arm, hopelessly intending to stop him from entering the room. “That man has endured a great trauma to his hands and feet, exposure, malnutrition, internal injuries that have not healed. I doubt if he will make it through the night.”
John locked eyes with the doctor in an intense stare as he leaned over, eliminating all but an inch of space between their faces. “I am a special investigator appointed by and answerable only to the governor of New York himself. I can go anywhere, into any room, through any door, when and if I have to. If you want to take it up with him at this time of night, feel free. But I suggest before that phone call you make arrangements for a new place of employment.” Sterling looked down at his arm. “I know a soup kitchen that has an opening.” Even though he showed no reaction whatsoever, the doctor let go of Sterling, allowing him and his companions to enter the room.
Roger Stewart lay in his bed in the dark, his head turned to look out the window near him. staring out the window.
“Corporal Roger Stewart?” Sterling asked.
“Yes sir.” He replied as if answering a commanding officer.
“Do you know who I am?” Sterling asked.
Of course. Everybody in New York knows who John Sterling is.”
“Then, who is Jupiter?”
“Please don’t ask me that,” Stewart pleaded.
Sterling stepped toward Stewart’s bed. “Don Whitehead was murdered tonight. I know all about the men being taken to fight in those unholy games. Only you can tell me where they take place so I can stop them and free the others.”
Stewart said nothing for what seemed like forever. His eyes closed several times and each time Lighthorse and Epiphany thought they would not open again. His lips quivered, sometimes as if a word rested just on their cusp, others simply out of fear. Finally, Stewart struggled, his neck muscles vibrating, and lolled his head over so he was facing Sterling. Words came when Stewart’s clouded eyes met the strong gaze of the man beside his bed.
“I’m from a small town in Ohio,” Stewart started. “I joined the service to see the world and get out of there. For the excitement, the adventure. I get over to Germany and see things that change me to where I don’t know who I am anymore. Going back to Ohio wasn’t even a choice, so I got off the boat and immediately I get lost and drifted. I find Mr. Whitehead’s kitchen and for the first time I feel like I’m somewhere safe.”
“When did they take you?” Sterling queried.
“Maybe about a week after I got there. They’d come for us at night while we slept, I figure so we’d be disoriented. But I remembered my constellations, so I made my way back to the city when I escaped.”
John Sterling allowed a smile and said, “Good man, soldier.”
Stewart’s lips wrestled themselves into a weak grin. “They took us to a large room and that’s where he was. He called himself Jupiter and he gave us the rules for what was coming. By challenging each other to death, He swore we would learn the value of our lives. I guess he was right.” Stewart swallowed, a tremor of pain racking his body from that simple act. “I was willing to die to escape from Jupiter just so I could live.”
“Could you make a map?” Sterling asked.
Stewart nodded as he braced his arms on each side of the bed, trying with all that remained in him to sit up. “I…I can take you there.”
Sterling gently placed his hand flat on Stewart’s chest. “There are some things worse in this world than war and suffering, Roger.” In the few minutes he’d been talking to Stewart, Sterling had observed enough to confirm what the doctor in the hall had said. Stewart’s fight was nearly over. “After this night you will never know them again.”
As Stewart relaxed, possibly for the last time, Sterling spoke, his eyes not leaving the man in the bed. “Ezekiel. Contact Duchamp.”
IV
ENDGAME
On the outskirts of New York City, the expansive estate of Hiram Jupiter Caldwell sprawled out for acres and into the side of a summit belonging to the Allegheny mountain range. Illuminated by the full moon, a pale blue light gave the area a surreal hue. The swimming pool was boarded over and the greenhouse had overgrown into a morass of weeds. Outside the greenhouse, a burly man walked his rounds, a Thompson submachine gun slung over his shoulder. This was his job, his domain. Nothing surprised him. Not until he came around the bend and saw John Sterling walking up the nearly hidden stone path.
“I have a question,” Sterling said. “Why would you be guarding an overgrown Rosa Gallicanae with a submachine gun?” Before the husky guard could even answer, Sterling drew his .122 and fired two rounds into the man’s midsection. He spasmed and collapsed into a twitching mass on the path.
“The sensation you are experiencing is caused by my stun pellets,” Sterling explained standing over the guard. “It is activating the pain centers of your brain to an unimaginable degree while leaving you able to speak, albeit with some difficulty. Is the arena under here?”
The man’s head jerked and lips contorted. “Yuh...yuh...yes.”
Sterling holstered his pistol and gestured at a stand of bushes. Ezekiel Lighthorse and Sinclair Duchamp worked their way into the open, both crouched down. Sterling used hand signals to Duchamp, who nodded and sneaked off. Sterling then pulled out a small flask and began dousing the overgrown foliage with it. Waiting a few moments, Sterling walked a few paces and pulled a small metal ball from one of the pouches of his vest. Sterling threw the ball into the center of the dense brush and it shattered like glass with a soft hiss.
Lighthorse shook his head in disbelief as the plants withered and died almost instantaneously. Both men entered the greenhouse, walking past the dead and rotting remains of the plants toward the top of a metal staircase that spiraled downward into the dark. Lighthorse glanced uncomfortably at Sterling. Without any hesitation of his own, John Sterling grabbed the handrail and stepped off into the unknown.
“They’re expecting us.” Sterling remarked.
“No fun if they weren’t,” Lighthorse retorted.
At the bottom of the staircase, they entered a long corridor illuminated by lanterns, a line of three on each wall. The floor changed from dirt to a tiled passage that opened up into a large underground arena. From the visible signs of age it very likely had been erected a century before, possibly longer. Sterling surmised that runaway slaves were probably brought here to fight for the amusement of Caldwell’s family. Hundreds of well dressed spectators filled the stands, all silent. Soon a large carrier being supported by four large black men entered. The crowd erupted into riotous applause as Hiram Caldwell’s last descendant emerged from the carrier, a thin man with slicked back ebony hair and black eyes that seemed to reflect the vast emptiness which encompassed his soul.
Caldwell walked past both Sterling and Lighthorse, ignoring them completely, acting as if he were royalty amongst peasants. He ascended to the viewing booth and stepped up to a broadcast microphone. “Good evening one and all and welcome once again to Jupiter’s Games! “ Caldwell took a few measured breaths as the applause rose wildly and then faded away. Two men walked up behind Sterling and Lighthorse and disarmed them. With Sterling’s gunbet in one hand, his guard tried for the vest. Sterling cut his eyes hard to his left, driving a glare deep into the soul of the man assaulting him. As he backed away from Sterling, Caldwell ranted, “Tonight, we are most fortunate to have for our main event the illustrious John Sterling and his red-skinned compatriot Ezekiel Lighthorse!” The crowd rose to its feet and roared their approval.