Doc Savage: Death's Dark Domain (27 page)

Blowing on one fist, Long Tom said, “I’ll teach it to smack its betters.”

“Don’t bother. It’s dead. Fiana cut its throat.”

Long Tom looked less surprised than he should. “Why?”

Fiana answered that. “I wanted to drink its blood, but since decided against it. The
brute smells like a skunk. No doubt its blood would taste putrid on my tongue.”

Long Tom looked as if he didn’t know whether to believe the dark-haired woman, so
he concentrated on getting Ham Brooks roused. He brought some cold water from the
lavatory and splashed it in the dapper lawyer’s patrician face. That did the trick.

Coming to, Ham asked the same questions. When Long Tom explained what had happened,
Ham’s alert eyes went to Fiana Drost, then his manicured hands felt of his own throat.

“I will consider myself lucky that I did not fall victim to the same fate,” he gulped.

“Perhaps next time I feel thirst,” said Fiana disinterestedly.

“Where are we?” snapped Long Tom, jumping to the radio set.

“Almost there,” replied Monk.

“Good. Let’s see what’s coming in over the radio.” Clapping headsets to his ears,
the puny electrical expert fiddled with the dials.

“There’s a lot of chatter on the military band,” he said excitedly. “Too bad I don’t
know enough of the local lingo to follow along.”

“Let me hear it,” suggested Fiana.

Long Tom unplugged the jack, cutting the transmission into the cockpit.

Excited words spewed forth.

“They are frantic,” said Fiana.

“Who is?”

“The forces of Egallah.”

“About what?”

“I am not certain. But they are mobilizing. They say that the Dark Devil is loose.”

“Loose?”

“Perhaps they mean missing. I cannot follow it. But they are ordering their forces
into Ultra-Stygia to recover it. Yes, they are saying ‘recover.’ The Dark Devil—whatever
it may be—is lost to them.”

“That means the war is on!” howled Monk.

Ham frowned, “It may be too dangerous to land in Ultra-Stygia now.”

“Got a better plan?” snorted Monk.

No one did.

Monk suddenly announced, “Take your seats. Landing coming up.”

Everyone settled down. Including Habeas. Ham took the co-pilot’s chair again.

Monk overflew the landing spot once, seemed satisfied, and began his approach. The
landing wheels came down electrically.

Lining up the plane, Monk’s tiny eyes combed the desolate stretch of land being illuminated
by the wingtip landing floods.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

At first, Monk and Ham thought that the floods had been hit by gunfire. They would
not hear bullets arriving over the howling of wind in the struts. Not in the scientifically
soundproofed cabin.

But after only a few seconds, they realized that they could see nothing at all.

Moonlight turned to jet darkness.

“What black magic is this?” Fiana Drost moaned, clapping hands over suddenly aching
eyes.

“The damn
black
again!” Long Tom moaned.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Ham cried out.

“Too late,” growled Monk. “Brace yourselves! I’m putting this baby down—hard!”

The sound of the wheels striking earth was a noise none of them would ever forget.
It went on and on for what seemed an unending, nerve-wracking eternity.

Monk cut the motors. After what felt like forever, he thought it safe to apply the
brakes. He heard them lock, and the hurtling machine began to slow.

When all motion ceased, a profound silence hung over all. They took stock, first feeling
their arms and legs for breaks and other serious wounds. They looked around with eyes
that saw nothing. Waving hands in front of their faces produced no sensation other
than a fanning breeze.

The world was a deep black pit in which they dwelled in abject, unrelieved darkness.

The peevish voice of Long Tom Roberts broke the silence.

“Talk about pitch black,” he clipped.

“Did we make it?” Ham wondered aloud. “I mean, are we still alive?”

“Who can tell in this blasted
blot?”
muttered Long Tom peevishly.

From what seemed to be an infinite distance behind them, Fiana Drost said morosely,
“No, we are all dead.”

DOC SAVAGE RAN as never before. He put all his energy into headlong motion, bending
almost double in his urgency to outrace the thing pursuing him.

As he ran, the bronze giant reached into his emergency vest for one item.

Out came a slim case that opened to reveal several glass globes nested in cotton.
Doc removed two of these and began pegging them directly behind him.

They broke on the ground, releasing an invisible, odorless gas capable of bringing
down a charging bull, once inhaled.

But the bat-thing swept through the gas, unfazed, clacking claws grasping madly. Doc
tossed several more. This time, he risked the loss of forward momentum to glance over
his shoulder.

The lower jaw of the bat monster dropped, disclosing discolored yellow fangs. Eyes
above the flaring nostrils were glowing weirdly. A hungry squeaking issued forth.

Doc threw one grenade into the creature’s open mouth. His aim was true. The thin-walled
globe broke, releasing its contents, but that was all that resulted.

Nothing seemed to retard the rat-faced creature. The whir of its wings grew louder,
nearer, infinitely more menacing.

Recognizing that he had no hope of outdistancing the ghoulish pursuer, Doc Savage
dropped to the ground, rolling to one side.

Metallic hands dived into his equipment vest. This time they came out holding steel
forms the size of pigeon eggs. He armed these with a flick of tiny levers.

As the thing passed overhead, Doc flung them, then dived for the shelter of a cluster
of tumbled stones.

These were explosive grenades. They let go a heartbeat apart, expelling noise, smoke
and vicious shrapnel.

Doc’s aim was true. One wing came off the winged apparition. Its high-pitched squeal
came to the bronze man’s ears, where he crouched safely.

Skimming low to the ground, the great bat of a thing careened along, until its surviving
wing encountered a dead tree. Tree and wing tangled, with the result that the monster
was thrown to one side and landed face-first in the ground, its leathery tail upended
and askew.

As if struggling to regain its natural aerial element, the manic beating of wings
sounded clearly. Then another noise, as if frantic pinions were flailing themselves
to pieces. This cacophony finally ceased.

A silence followed.

PICKING himself up, Doc Savage started in the direction of the fallen monster.

He did not get far when his ears detected a weird whirring sound—and over a rise came
another of the mammoth creatures!

This one swooped down at a steep angle that defied belief, claws poised for a grab.
A hawk might drop on its prey by such a fierce maneuver. Yet this was no hawk, but
a great black behemoth in the form of a bat.

Reversing course, Doc sought shelter. He sprinted with all of his might, but in a
contest between man and animal, man often comes out second best.

The whirring of wings told the bronze man that it was almost upon him. A great shadow
overhauled him, intercepting the lunar light.

In the act of twisting to one side, Doc felt something clamp him about the head and
shoulders!

Struggling against what felt like the jaws of a steel vise, the metallic giant found
himself being lifted into the air. Straight up! With a mad beating of wings, the awful
creature was lifting him off the Earth!

Bronze fingers reached for purchase, encountered talons that felt hard and horny.
Using this as leverage, he twisted, attempting to break free.

Doc Savage might as well have battled the hand of a colossus of steel. The talon refused
to relinquish its obdurate grip.

In his equipment vest was a small bundle, a folding grappling hook and knotted cord,
the latter very strong.

Doc got this out, flicking it open. He swung the tiny grapple in a tight circle several
times and let go.

The sharp tines found purchase in the wing bones above, caught and held fast. Doc
next wound the cord around one wrist, made it secure.

It was wise that he did so, for another fifty feet of vertical climbing later, the
claw clamping the bronze man so tightly abruptly let go!

Doc dropped free—
but the cord held!

Grasping it with his other hand, he released his wrist and began climbing the cord
two-handed, using the knots for handholds.

This brought him up to the furry belly of the behemoth bat. The scent of the monster
was suggestive of a tomb, smacking of something long dead.

The bronze man could see little at first. Then he spied what appeared to be the creature’s
talons hanging on either side of him. They were as large as shovels, nails sharp in
the manner of pitchforks.

Doc began swinging his muscular body. Like a pendulum, he swayed, rocking the bat
in flight. There came a precarious wobbling, followed by an abrupt reaction, until
the thing righted itself.

At the apex of one swing, Doc grasped a claw-tipped leg, clamped it firmly. He transferred,
and managed to cling with both hands. This brought him close to one great webbed wing,
whose skin he could see flap and chatter as the wind and slipstream worried it. It
was held stiffly rigid as it swept over the fierce terrain below.

The bronze man’s muscular strength could impress a person as prodigious. But Doc Savage
was no mere muscle-bound exhibitionist. Great effort and attention had gone into other
aspects of his physical training. He could have worked as a professional gymnast or
circus acrobat if he so chose.

Doc Savage demonstrated his acrobatic skills now.

First, he kicked off his shoes. Then, employing agile toes, he removed both socks.
Tucking his legs under him, with the wind whipping his face, Doc executed a snapping
maneuver that drove both feet through the flapping wing surface. The stuff was tough,
but the power of Doc’s kick was greater still.

He was soon hanging by his amazingly prehensile toes, levering his upper body until
bronze digits found suitable purchase among the splayed wing ribs. He scrambled over.

Soon Doc was lying along the wing, which remained stiff as the thing glided along.
Curiously, the beating and whirring sounds of its flight came from above the outflung
wings.

But the bronze man gave that curious phenomenon no attention.

Instead, he crawled toward the great bat-eared head. And there encountered a ghastly
sight.

There, like a baby clinging to its mother, a smaller bat head turned and snapped at
him with smoky black eyes.

For back of the head was a cockpit, and seated within was one of the bat-men he had
earlier encountered.

Doc Savage moved toward the human bat, intending to grasp it by the neck in order
to overpower the being.

The other reached for his throat, and fur-trimmed hands came away with a sharp object—a
medallion in the shape of the spread-winged bat. It glinted viciously.

Standing up in the cockpit, the bat-man made a sudden lunge with the throat-ripping
tool.

A bronze hand flicked out, tore it free. It went overboard.

Smoky eyes goggled. The strength and speed of the bronze man was dazzling. The creature
emitted a cry of undisguised fear and leaped from his perch!

Out he went. The body of the great bat monster began tipping, veering out of control.

Doc hastily jammed himself into the vacated seat. He instantly familiarized himself
with the controls before him. They resembled those of an autogyro, but much more complicated.

Testing the cant lever, he got the thing under control and sent it winging in the
direction of the spot where the bat-man had bailed out.

Peering down, Doc saw a manlike black shape, arms and legs stretched outwards, and
in between, a leathery webbing. The creature employed these membranous wings to catch
updrafts and air currents, which created a remarkable braking effect that slowed its
descent. Once, it executed a looping turn that actually caused it to glide. The effect
was of human flight, but the bronze man recognized these acrobatic maneuvers as techniques
employed by the barnstorming stuntmen known as delayed parachute jumpers.

Doc circled, watching and waiting.

He almost missed the parachute bell when it finally blossomed like a black mushroom,
but moonlight dusted it sufficiently to disclose that the pilot had cracked silk.

After determining that the bat-man had landed safely, Doc sent his strange steed northward,
to the spot where Monk, Ham, and the others should be waiting for him.

A light snow began to fall.

As if the swirling precipitation portended something sinister, Doc Savage advanced
the throttle of the macabre bat-ship.

IN THE INTENSE, irredeemable darkness, Long Tom was saying, “If you were a man, I
would sock you good.”

His bile was being directed at the unseen Fiana Drost.

“If you feel teeth upon your throat,” returned the woman, “they will be mine. Then
it will be too late for you.”

“I’ve had enough of your brand of sunshine,” Long Tom gritted.

“And I, of yours,” Fiana flung back haughtily.

They were picking their way through the amphibian cabin, feeling for the cabin door.
Ham found the door handle first, yanked and threw it open.

“Drat!” he exclaimed upon poking his head out.

“What now?” groaned Long Tom.

Ham sighed, “I suppose it was too much to hope for. Seeing moonlight. But it’s just
as black out there as it is in here.”

“Let’s step out anyway,” suggested Monk.

They tumbled out, Monk last. He shut the door before Habeas Corpus could escape. Retrieving
the shoat, should he become lost in the seemingly infinite dark, would be a near impossible
task.