Doc Savage: Death's Dark Domain (13 page)

The man was fighting to get free. His fists were lashing out, pounding at his captor,
but the thing or things conveying him into the forest were invisible! Horror twisted
his features.

One pass was all the bronze man needed to ascertain that fact. There was no mistaking
the phenomenon. A full-grown man was being borne away by an unknown force.

Myriad footprints were appearing as if magically around Zirn as he was carted off.
It was as though the unseen creature possessed multiple feet!

Then out from the trees charged Monk and Ham, superfirers in hand. They trained their
weapons in the direction of the footprints, began firing. The weapons seemed to vibrate
and become blurry, so rapidly did the mechanisms operate.

This caused a remarkable change in the behavior of the creature below.

As if enraged, it stopped. The footsteps ceased their centipede progression and began
stamping about in place, mashing the dead grass crazily.

Emile Zirn’s arms and legs suddenly stretched out. He threw back his head, and his
mouth opened in what must have been a howl of sheer agony.

The meaning of this became apparent. The creature was attempting to tear Emile Zirn’s
arms and legs off his body!

Grimly, Doc searched for a spot to land. There was none nearby. All was tall pines.

The bronze giant flew on until he came to a lonely highway. It was not an ideal landing
spot, but he made the best of it.

Dropping his wheels, Doc lowered the flaps, reduced airspeed and made a first approach.
The road was not empty of vehicular traffic, but it appeared to be a country road
and therefore not very busy.

Doc came in, centered on a stretch of road that ran more or less straight, then chopped
power to the two mighty motors.

Doc’s aircraft was a flying boat, so the wheels came down from the keel-like hull.
This feature made landing on anything other than a regulation airstrip extremely perilous.

Fortunately, the road was blacktopped, the grade relatively flat.

Doc set the big bronze bird down with a low rumble and only two distinct jars, when
wheels encountered shallow chuckholes.

A motorcar, rounding a corner, suddenly slowed. The vehicle backed up, scooted around,
and tore off in the opposite direction—no doubt to give warning.

Doc braked one wheel—the starboard—throwing the great aircraft into a moaning turn.
It went up on a low dirt embankment, and jerked to a stop.

Cutting power, Doc plunged out. The cabin door had not been closed after the bailing
out of Monk and Ham. He ran toward the stand of firs.

The hooting of supermachine pistols came distinctly.

It was nearly a mile to the scene of the amazing action. Doc redoubled his speed,
took to the trees and made excellent time, jungle-fashion.

When he emerged from the forest, only Monk and Ham were in evidence, the muzzles of
their machine pistols still smoking. They were administering first aid to Emile Zirn,
who lay sprawled on the ground, arms and legs extended like a beached human starfish.

Monk whirled at sight of the bronze man.

“Doc! You made it!”

“What happened here?” rapped Doc.

“We landed O.K. and went lookin’ for Zirn here. But before we got to him, we heard
a commotion. Lots of caterwauling.”

Ham added, “We discovered this man Zirn being carried off by something very large
and invisible. It was covered with multiple orbs.”

Doc’s trilling wavered out. He stifled it.

“Yeah,” added Monk. “They didn’t look human. What I mean, the eyes didn’t come in
pairs. They were all separate, looking in every direction at once. And they were round
and staring, like cue balls.”

Doc knelt to examine the writhing Zirn.

“This man’s arms have been pulled out of their sockets,” he announced.

Monk grunted, “Blazes! Imagine the strength of that blamed thing! It must have been
the size of a dang elephant!’

Doc addressed the distraught man. “Zirn, what attacked you?”

But Emile Zirn only moaned and squirmed, his arms flopping helplessly in agony.

Doc grasped one wrist, set a foot into the man’s sturdy ribs, and exerted a sudden
yank. Something popped.

When the bronze man stepped back, Emile Zirn’s right arm was back in its socket.

Doc moved around to repeat the operation on the other arm, but the pain was so terrible
that Zirn shrank from his touch.

“Steady,” Doc said. He took hold of the other arm and repeated his strenuous performance.

After that, Emile Zirn hugged himself and rolled over and over, moaning.

Doc addressed his men. “Did you hit the creature?”

“We couldn’t tell!” Ham said wildly. “Our drums were charged with mercy bullets, so
we aimed low to avoid striking Zirn, hoping to hit its legs.”

“Yeah,” seconded Monk. “The daggone monster began thrashin’ about and makin’ enraged
sounds, but it wouldn’t go down. Not to mention the fact that we weren’t exactly eager
to get any closer and arouse that snortin’ centipede of a thing.”

Doc directed his attention to Emile Zirn, who was slowly subsiding. “Zirn, what can
you add to this?”

Emile Zirn struggled to get control of himself.

“It—it had more arms than a tarantula!” he groaned. “All of it covered with bristling
hair.”

Doc looked at him. “Your story sounds unbelievable, Zirn.”

“Doc, we all saw it,” interjected Monk.

“Or didn’t, rather,” admitted Ham.

Doc Savage passed up the opportunity for an argument. He began searching the immediate
vicinity. He spotted the footprints in an area where the soil was still soft enough
to take them. They were unshod. They reminded him of human footprints, bare, but their
ends were fringed—as if the feet were covered on thick bristles.

“Reminds me of gorilla footprints,” mused Ham. “Monk leaves similar tracks, after
his Saturday night bath.”

Doffing shoes and socks, Monk made a footprint next to one of those uncanny ones.

“Hairier than me,” he decided.

“That is saying a great deal,” quipped Ham.

Doc Savage followed the queer footprints into the forest, Monk and Ham trailing cautiously,
eyes alert, muzzles of their supermachine pistols aimed at the way ahead.

They penetrated far into the trees. It was a thick place, vaguely unsettling even
in bright afternoon sunlight. Dead grass showed signs of trampling. Habeas Corpus,
the pig, placed his long snout over these spots and sniffed curiously.

“Big as a truck,” Ham breathed.

“Bigger!” insisted Monk.

They trailed the uncanny spoor as far as they could. Rocks in the terrain began to
multiply. Footprints became sparse. Doc led them onto the rocks, as if reading invisible
sign.

“This dang thing is intelligent,” muttered Monk. “It’s tryin’ to throw us off the
scent.”

Mention of scent caused Ham Brooks to look to the bronze man. Knowing that Doc’s senses
were trained beyond those of an ordinary mortal, he asked, “Can you smell the creature,
Doc?”

The bronze man nodded. He had been using his nostrils all along.

“I do not recognize this odor,” he admitted.

Monk began sniffing the air around him. Next to Doc, he possessed the most acute sense
of smell. “Smells kinda like polecat.”

Ham inhaled a long draught of air, made a face of disgust. “I am forced to agree with
this ape, this once. It is a skunky smell, but rather faint.”

While Doc was searching among the rocks, they heard a terrible shrieking from the
direction where they had left Emile Zirn.

Reversing course, Doc sprinted back the way he had come.

Monk and Ham charged after him, Ham waving his unsheathed sword cane.

“It musta doubled back!” Monk howled.

THEY came upon Emile Zirn spread-eagled upon the brown turf, sprawled in a growing
lake of scarlet. The area around his Adam’s apple was as raw and red as a beefsteak.

“Throat cut!” Ham snapped.

Doc knelt, examined the man. A scarlet crescent at his throat bubbled, releasing life
fluid.

“Zirn, what did this?”

A single gurgling word escaped the injured man’s encrimsoned lips.

“P-poly—”

“What did he say?” demanded Ham.

Monk scratched his rusty head. “Sounded like a girl’s name. Polly.”

“Speak up, Zirn,” urged Ham.

But Emile Zirn would never speak again. Life was departing his jittering body. It
gave a final convulsion, then subsided. The frantic light in his eyes began to dim.
Then it died.

Doc Savage noticed something lying on the ground, almost hidden in the warm life fluid
that was beginning to flow more sluggishly.

Using a handkerchief, he lifted it into view.

“Whatcha got, Doc?” asked Monk, squinting tiny eyes.

Sharp-eyed Ham answered for him.

“A bat!”

“A medallion in the shape of a bat,” clarified Doc Savage. “See the broken chain?
It had been worn about someone’s neck and used to slash this man’s throat.”

Doc turned the grisly thing around in one hand. The wings were scalloped, after the
fashion of a bat, and the eyes were mere hollows.

“The wings look sharp enough to do a bloody job,” Ham breathed.

Doc nodded grimly. “The points of the ears are long, like stilettos. This is a murder
tool.”

“Where the heck did it come from?” asked Monk.

“Could Zirn have been wearing it around his neck?” wondered Ham.

Before that question could be answered, Doc Savage raised himself up and began looking
for fresh spoor. He found fresh foot impressions.

“It went back into the forest,” he decided.

Monk brandished his mercy gun. “Let’s hunt it down!”

Just then, an unearthly howling came from the forest. It was a many-voiced caterwauling,
indescribably discordant. It sounded as if a chorus of demons had commenced mourning
one of their own.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” murmured Ham uneasily.

“Don’t sound human to me,” agreed Monk.

“To overcome this thing,” said Doc Savage slowly, “we will need special equipment
from our plane. Gas bombs. High powered rifles with mercy slugs of sufficient size
to bring it down.”

“What if it gets away?” asked Ham, anxiously.

“It will not get away,” said Doc, turning in the direction of the plane.

Monk and Ham wasted no time in following their Herculean bronze chief. They had no
stomach for confronting the unknown monster without their leader.

SPRINTING, DOC SAVAGE reached the road well ahead of his two aides. For all his colossal
size, the bronze man could move like a hurricane. His speed gave lie to the theory
that the fleetest sprinters were wiry of build.

A motorcar came whipping around the turning of the road near where Doc’s aircraft
rested in the sun. It was a cream-colored convertible machine, the canvas top folded
down, and looked rather expensive.

A woman crouched behind the wheel. Seeing the big aircraft blocking the way, she flung
the wheel to one side. The roadster lifted onto two wheels, balanced precariously.
It appeared to be out of control.

The grille, like the open mouth of a steel-fanged shark, veered toward Doc Savage
by the side of the road.

Doc leaped out of the way, landing in the shadow of one broad wing.

Careening, the car flipped over. The sound of crunching windscreen glass was heard.
The auto came to rest like an upended beetle, its windscreen mashed flat. Glass shards
were strewn everywhere.

Doc Savage put on speed, reached the overturned vehicle. Its tires still spun. Steam
began hissing from the cracked radiator. Scalding water pooled underneath.

Doc made a rapid circle of the vicinity. There was no sign of the driver. Plainly,
she was pinned beneath the vehicle, no doubt trapped behind the wheel.

Doc Savage moved in, wrapped metallic fingers around the molding of the driver’s compartment.
Powerful shoulder muscles bunched and writhed.

Without outward strain appearing on his metallic features, Doc began lifting the one-ton
roadster!

Monk and Ham turned up at this point, faces concerned.

“Lend a hand,” Doc rapped.

Monk lent his strength to Doc’s own. He reached out hairy hands, helped heft the vehicle
higher. Perspiration popped out on his minuscule forehead.

For his part, Ham Brooks set his sword cane aside and ducked under the machine while
Doc and Monk kept it elevated. His dark eyes widened.

“It’s a girl!” he cried out in surprise.

“What are you waitin’ on?” Monk roared. “Haul her out!”

Frowning, the dapper lawyer dug around, found her arms and pulled the woman free.
Carefully, he laid her out on the grass. She was entirely insensate. A rill of crimson
fluid trickled out of her scalp.

Thinking that they were done with the roadster, Monk released his grip. But Doc Savage
did not. He raised both arms and by main strength upended the mangled vehicle, pushing
it back onto its wheels. It jounced in place, rocking on its springs.

“Whew!” said Monk, who was no slouch in the muscles department.

Reaching the girl’s side, Doc Savage gave her a cursory examination. The wormlet of
blood crawling from her hair entered one ear, but she appeared otherwise uninjured.
From a pocket, the bronze man extracted a vial, unstoppered it and waved it under
the girl’s nostrils.

Reaction was instantaneous. Eyes fluttering, the girl began rousing back to life.
She wore a winter coat of woolly sheepskin, of the type called Caracul. Her hair was
so very dark that it might have been spun from ebony silk.

Her eyes—a very intense doe-black—focused on the towering Man of Bronze.

“You are Doc Savage,” she said suddenly.

“Yes.”

“I rushed here to warn you. The soldiers sighted your airplane. They are coming to
arrest you!”

“Why?”

“How can you ask that? Do you not know where you are?”

“Tazan,” said Doc.

“No, you are in Ultra-Stygia, which is disputed land. If you are arrested, you and
your men are subject to being shot as spies.”