Far enough from the mainland
that the perpetual conflict that plagued
Nicaragua and Honduras would not spill over, yet close enough that
supplies would not be a difficulty. At a steep price of
course. There were other islands in the vicinity, yet none
near enough to be seen beyond the arch of the horizon.
Easily defensible with a small
fleet of state of the art ships, mainly
converted World War II surplus PT boats bought from the United States
Military for a song. Refurbished with current technology,
updated RADAR and sonar, and a few surprises that his own companies had
advanced. Ships manned by mercenaries; old sailors and
merchant marines, detestable but necessary for his purposes. All
disguised of course; ships and crew. Rumor was that there
were pirates in the waters along the coast. Like to deal with
like.
The weather would be
amiable. Hot and humid, so close to the
Equator, but far enough away from the hurricane belt that plagued the
Caribbean Islands farther north and east that months- years of work
were not likely to be swept away in a heartbeat’s fickle
stutter, Mother Nature’s harsh breathy cough. Not
subject to cyclones like Indonesia or the tsunamis, which could strike
unexpectedly in the East China Sea.
Almost perfect…
“…almost perfect
for your needs,
wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
“Sir?”
“Mister Veidt?”
Adrian Veidt blinked to hear
his name. He looked about
coolly, his face a blank masque as he scanned his
surroundings. He had let his thoughts wander, his mind
stepping too far down the path that he was about to set foot upon, had
already turned towards, seeing contingencies and divergences that might
rear years in the future. Not a dangerous course yet, but one
he must control lest those about him sense false weakness and try to
take advantage. Always maintain control, no matter the
façade.
“Forgive me,” he
said, his voice soft and pleasant,
his tongue fluidly reciting the flourishes and intonations of
Portuguese, his host’s native tongue. He flashed
his brilliant smile, just a hint of what had made his handsome face a
household image on a myriad of personal hygiene products and magazine
advertisements. “I was simply caught up in the
magnificent view.”
Not a lie, but an exaggeration
perhaps. There upon the
highest knoll, the late day’s heat was not overwhelming, a
cool breeze blowing from the placid waters, which appeared blue as a
sapphire, sparkling with the light of the sun just beginning its slow
decent towards the horizon miles away. The jungle was verdant
and alive, rolling down and away whichever direction he
turned. A pity that much of the lush foliage would need to be
cleared for his purposes. Facilities needed to be erected:
housing, studios, laboratories. An airstrip would be
constructed on the island’s southern tip, and a proper boat
dock would be needed as well, among other necessities for the long haul.
“It is beautiful,”
Ruiz agreed and Veidt
nodded. Like himself, Jorge’ Ruiz was dressed in
white; Bermuda shorts, collared shirt opened three buttons from the
neck and wide-brimmed hat to shield against the sun’s
glare. Unlike Adrian Veidt however, with his Nordic wavy
blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, his Viking descended height, build
and hubris, Ruiz was a short, swarthy man, overweight and red-skinned
with features most recognized as a gift from his Mayan
ancestry. Pleasant enough, but Veidt could occasionally
glimpse the sin of greed permeating along with the perspiration that
seemed to perpetually ooze from the man’s pores. He
smelled money and profit, and he was not wrong.
A pity he would not live long
enough to fully enjoy retirement and the
fruits of his labors.
Veidt removed his own hat,
dabbing at his brow with a crisp folded
handkerchief, moistened with tepid water from his canteen; water that
he had brought along from the States. No point in taking
chances, despite his usually perfect health. He took a sip,
then replaced the metal flask to its dangling pocket on his web-belt,
opposite the .45 automatic that he had taken to wearing as soon as he
had set foot on the airfield in Tuapi.
He had seen the almost feral looks that the denizens of the loosely
named airport had given him, sly, sidelong glances afforded to the
foolish American tourist stepped out of his depth and element.
Not so foolish as to appear
without security. There had been
no incident – yet. He hoped that there would not
be, but Veidt was not one to take chances along lines where the obvious
could be avoided. A show of force was enough to send the
jackals back to the shadows of their dens for the time being.
Some of the bolder curs would have to be put down eventually, when
their curiosity got the better of them. Veidt’s
staff would handle that, when necessary, along with the preliminary
details of the purchase.
“Mister Ruiz,”
Veidt said, his smile widening as he
extended his hand. “I believe I’ve seen
enough.”
“And… ”
Ruiz said, his voice almost
crackling with anticipation. His dark eyes sparkled with
greed as he looked up into Adrian Veidt’s cool blue eyes.
“I believe that we can
come to a mutually beneficial
arrangement.” Veidt grasped the other man’s thick,
sweaty hand, giving it one quick, firm shake, then forcing himself not
to wipe his palm on his pant’s leg. “My
people shall be in touch tomorrow, the next day at the
latest. I will start making the appropriate telephone calls
as soon as I reach my hotel room back on the mainland.”
“Most excellent,”
Ruiz hissed, nodding vigorously
as he directed Veidt back towards the path he had cut through the
jungle to the hilltop with his machete.
Veidt took a final sweeping
gaze, turning fully about before he
followed his guide back down to the beach where a launch and crew
awaited to return them to Tuapi. His wide smile thinned to a
slightly curved line as his mind skipped ahead again, already set on
his next course of action, and several beyond.
Third
night at the drop. Still nothing. Usual
transients passing through, digging through the trash. Streets
are sparse, though not empty. Never empty. Despite
the rain and humidity there is always someone about. All
hours. Just not the right someone… Hopefully
Daniel is having better results. He had known that it was not
going to be easy. From that very
first night when he had donned the mask, his face for the darkness, he
knew that it would be a hard road, an uphill climb littered with debris
clogging every step of the way.
New York was a seething, angry
behemoth, dark and foul like a bear
awakened early from hibernation, hungry and nasty and ready to
attack. And like most animals, it was teeming with lice,
vermin that bit and scratched and irritated. But he had
become the exterminator. He would cleanse the behemoth,
become the hero that tamed the beast.
It seemed an insurmountable
task at times. He had known that
it would be lonely, thankless and hard. He had never dreamed
however, that it would be so boring.
Joseph Walter Kovacs smiled, a
slight thing as he pulled the battered
notepad and stubby Number 2 pencil from the deep, cluttered pocket of
his long coat. Careful to back fully under the shadowed eaves
of the overhang he quickly jotted down his thoughts, marveling at the
turn of phrase as he shielded the paper from the elements.
He scratched at his chest,
speaking of lice. The clothes he
had appropriated from a nearby alley three nights past were turning
foul and starting to itch. He, himself was starting to reek,
but for the sake of the masque it was a necessary ill, another layer of
the rancid onion that was his disguise. The raggedy clothes
of a homeless man, down on his luck. The hunched form
shuffling through the filth of Chinatown,
his grime-smeared face occasionally glancing up, a shaky hand extended
for spare change and a flicker of humanity in ignored
passing. He had two dollars and eighty-three cents in his
front pants pocket, mostly in pennies and nickels.
He was damp, both from the
constant rain these past three nights as
well as the humidity that soaked even closer to the bone when the
downpour eased. He could smell the odors of his unwashed body
if he stood too still, the rain doing little to cleanse him, or the
streets. The gutters ran deep, pools of water clogged and
backing up at the corners and intersections. Soon the rats
would be out in force if the rains did not let up allowing the sewers
to ease. All the vermin would be seeking higher ground,
shelter against the storm.
A rumble of thunder, south and
west. Kovacs looked
up. Jersey no doubt. He could not see the lightning
surrounded as he was by the tenements and office buildings lining that
area just south of Canal Street where the tight, twisting streets led
in closed circles like a Chinese puzzle box.
He had stationed himself here
for three nights now, huddled mainly in
the service doorway of a Chinese restaurant like a pile of moldy
rags. Delivery trucks plowed along the chipped tarmac
bouncing headlights that revealed the hidden cobblestones of another
age no less dark and ridden with filth, now all but
forgotten. Pedestrians went about their business; tourists
that dared glimpse another world misplaced in the maze of Manhattan by
day, businessmen and women come for lunch and dinner from the halls of
justice farther downtown, and the indigenous. The peoples of
the area, one of the cities within the city, this particular one a
melting pot all its own and segregated for those emigrated from East
Asia, the Orient. They all looked alike to Kovacs, mainly,
but he knew that there were Chinese and Japanese, Korean and even
refugees from war torn Vietnam, both North and South. And
probably countless other countries that he had never heard of before,
and probably never would.
He was not prejudice.
Everyone in his eyes had equal
potential for evil and sin in one form or another. It was
simply a matter as to the degree they chose to pursue. No one
was above temptation, from the lowest denizen of the street, to the
highest living above it all in their towers of steel and
glass. Kovacs snorted. Most often they
were the worst.
But it was not the rich and
famous, the movers and shakers that he was
on watch for in the pouring rain in a seedy, filth-strewn doorway in
the dead of night in Chinatown. There had been rumors of an
upsurge in gang activity below Canal. The city’s
newspapers had mentioned the upswing of petty crime in casual passing,
but too they compared the districts and boroughs, not daring to single
out any one area and blaming the economy and administration, not in so
many words.
Things were bad all over the
country they had pointed out.
The walls of Camelot
had come crashing down years before, and Johnson was not man enough to
pick up the pieces, let alone rebuild. The country was in
shambles. Those with the money to help spouted platitudes and
cliches from two sides of bloated faces, while the future drifted to
communes and dreamed of love and peace through drug-induced euphoria
and psychedelics. And those who suffered most, the common man
worked and trudged through the never-ending daily grind of mundane and
monotony with little hope in sight. That small hope being
Nixon and the change that he promised.
Until that day, hopefully come
November, the city struggled to
survive. Crime continued to rise, and in Chinatown it took on
the guise of a street gang called The
Red Dragon Society.
Both Rorschach
and Nite
Owl had heard the
rumors in
their usual haunts. There were always gangs of course, from
the simple street society that dominated and protected a neighborhood
or block, up to the roving mob that spread out their dominion and
influence just short of true organized crime. It was
something to give the disillusioned youth and elder disgruntled a
glimmer, a spark of light in the dim tunnel of their lives. A
way to band together against authority. A way to survive and
get back a bit of confidence and self-esteem in both person and
community. Lofty goals, and lauded, but all too often the
ends did not justify the means.
The Red Dragon Society was no
different, just more active and colorful
than most. Their ranks had swelled over the past few months,
not discriminating beyond their Oriental roots, at first simply
protecting what was theirs, their people, community and turf.
Lately however there had been proactive reports. What had
once been simple defense had turned to robbery; muggings, extortion,
rackets involving protection and taxation on deliveries into their
community. The gang had become bold, no longer fearing the
inadequate NYPD, already stretched far too thinly across the Five
Boroughs. Bold enough that they ignored warnings from the
older established underworld housed just a few blocks south and
west. Arrogant enough that they thought themselves
untouchable.
Of course, Kovacs knew
otherwise. No one was untouchable.
Thus he sat for the third
night, damp and uncomfortable, reeking of
garbage and watching through half-closed lids the trash dumpster across
the street. People passed sporadically, singularly and in
couples mainly, splashing through ankle-deep puddles and hurrying along
for the safety of their apartments, elsewhere. An occasional
car would drive past, spewing water everywhere. Rats
scrabbled in the shadowy corners, digging through the plastic bags left
by the restaurant feasting on cold, steamed rice and vegetables, or
thinly pulled pork or goose dripping with sour grease.
Kovacs’ stomach rumbled
at the thought of food, twisting even
then as the wind shifted. Rain pelted him as a wall of water
rushed from the heavens as though a faucet had been cranked open to
full somewhere high above. He was getting restless, and it
seemed that the Red Dragons were smarter than he was, at least for
tonight. Smart enough to stay in out of the rain.
He stood, shrugging his long
coat higher on his shoulders, then hunched
and started the long shamble towards the nearest subway that would
carry him uptown and home. He had a small SRO far to the west
on the edge of the Garment District
where he still worked. He figured if the trains were running
in his favor he would be home within a half hour, just enough time to
clean up in the cramped bathroom that he shared with the apartment
building’s three other tenants. Perhaps he could
even get a couple hours of sleep before he had to head off to work, if
his upstairs neighbor was out and not stomping about and playing his
Rock-and-roll on his Hi Fi.
Kovacs had just reached Canal
Street, the dim green glow globes that
marked the entrance to the IRT uptown trains barely visible in the
drenching rain. His head jerked up, hearing the muted scream,
muffled by the weather and distance. The kinky short red
hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he shielded his eyes from the
wind and rain, scanning the block ahead of him…
There!
Shadows flitted through the
dark, flashes of red evident on black as
the three forms merged and melted, flowing down into the
tunnels. Kovacs was running, following, his hand fishing into
the inner folds of his coat, dipping into the deep pockets that he had
stitched into the lining. He pulled free a long white scarf
and a battered fedora, and something else. Something
more…
His mask.
His
face…
It was not Joseph Walter
Kovacs that finally charged down the stairs
and into the cold, dark tunnels.
It was Rorschach.
June
1, 1968 Manhattan’s
Lower East Side
“This is
ridiculous.”
Dan Dreiberg mumbled to
himself as he eased back in the command chair
and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His eyes were tired
after squinting for so long into the snowy monitors, watching the dark
streets of the city far below. Reception was for shit in the
storm, and every time that lightning flared out over New Jersey his
screens went blank, taking seconds to come into focus only to fade
again with the next bolt.
His head hurt, and his back,
despite the relative comfort of the chair
long-since conformed to match his body. There was something
wrong with the internal air as well, the air-conditioning barely
sputtering and making him sweat in his costume despite that he had all
the vents pointed directly his way. Sam and Dave played
lightly on 8-Track in the background, but even the smooth Soul sounds
of the Righteous
Brothers could do
little to
ease the tension and edginess that inactivity and boredom always
brought on.
“Hungry.”
Dreiberg stood and checked the
instruments. Archie
was just beginning the long arch out over the East River, there to
sweep briefly over Brooklyn before turning back over the Williamsburgh
Bridge for another pass over Lower Manhattan. Forward cameras
showed other, slower airships gliding over Times Square and Rockefeller
Center, but none of them could compare to Archimedes.
He was state of the art, expanding on technological advances introduced
by Doctor
Manhattan almost a
decade
before. Archie was Dan’s baby, and he was damn
proud.
Satisfied, he made his way
back to the small galley, which basically
consisted of a small refrigerator, a few cupboards of a pantry and a
new-fangled microwave oven.
It was amazing what money could by these days.
Dan opened the small square
door of the refrigerator and bent to glance
inside. He felt his stomach sag, rumbling as he peered into
the well-stocked box. His Friday nights with Hollis Mason
were starting to take their toll, and he again really considered
cutting back on the beer. He had never had washboard abs, but
he was noticing a paunch starting to form of late. Life was
maybe just a little too good, and once again he swore to get back onto
an exercise regime…
Manãna.
He pulled a bottle of soda
from its slot and the leftovers from dinner; Burgers
‘N’ Borscht
Special Number 3 with fries and coleslaw. The slaw smelled a
little sour so he tossed that, heating the rest in the Radar Range for
a few seconds before returning to the console. He pulled the
side tray, locking it into position and setting his food upon it before
settling back into his seat.
The rain continued to fall.
The wind blew, changing in
strength more than direction.
Nothing that Archie could not accommodate for. He could
barely see the closest buildings if not for the few lights that were
on. Cleaning crews most likely, rushing to ready offices for
Monday opening of another workweek just a few hours away. He
could not see the ground on the regular monitors anymore, and the IR
cameras were glitching with every flash of lightning. It was
a test of his patience not to pack it in for the night.
But, he had promised
Rorschach, so he would stick it out.
He pitied his partner, knowing
what hell it must be for him down on the
streets and in the midst of the storm. He felt just a little
guilty sitting in the relative comfort of Archie, mentally complaining
about his lumpy chair and sputtering internal air. He doubted
that Rorschach had taken time out to eat. The man was a
fanatic sometimes, or seemed so.
More than a little scary too.
Where Nite Owl (II) was the
bane and dread of the city’s
Underworld with all his high-tech gadgets and cool, crime fighting
toys, Rorschach was simply over the top. The man was good, no
doubt about it, but too, he had no problem beating the crap out of some
poor soul to get what he wanted. Granted, that attitude was
needed sometimes, but Rorschach took it way to the extremes way too
often. Dreiberg had lost count of just how many people his
‘partner’ had hospitalized – and that in
just the brief time that they had linked up. He did not want
to consider Rorschach’s track record without Nite Owl as his
conscience.
Dreiberg shuddered, the burger
suddenly tasting dry and almost
rubbery. He twisted his face, spitting out the last bite and
tossing the lot into the trash. He drank soda and spat,
trying to wash the foul taste from his mouth.
Didn’t work.
He sighed, settling in.
He glanced at the clock, the red LED
numbers flashing the wee hours, minutes and seconds slowly ticking
by. Archie was plodding up Canal, looking for the marker at
Sixth Avenue where he would turn downtown again to circle the
construction site of the World Trade Towers, to then head back uptown
and east…
“Screw this.”
Dan Dreiberg leaned forward
and clicked on the short-wave. He
had given Rorschach a walkie-talkie weeks ago, though he doubted he
would get anything resembling reception in the current storm.
He spun through the dial, passing the Police and Emergency bands,
trying to find a channel that was free of static. It was time
to call it a night, and he wanted to tell Rorschach –
“…know if
you’re getting this.”
He recognized
Rorschach’s raspy voice immediately.
He sounded out of breath, and the signal was breaking up.
“Rorschach!” he
shouted, leaning into the console,
trying to add to the radio’s gain. “Say
again!”
“…
Dragons… subway…Canal
and… Follo- “
Static…
Despite his best efforts, the
signal was gone.
Dan Dreiberg removed his
spectacles and pulled his cowl back into
place. He glanced at the NYMTA Subway Map taped to the wall,
the area that they had been scouting outlined in red magic
marker. Canal was a long street that ran the width of the
island, and along the wide street were several subway
entrances. Rorschach had stationed himself in Chinatown
however, and that cut the possibilities just a bit: Grand
Street Station, Broadway and Canal, and East Broadway, though that was
a bit too far. Dreiberg tried to think like
Rorschach…
Realizing that was impossible,
he guessed. He turned Archie
towards the central location, hoping he was right…
Rorschach
ran blindly down the tunnel. Water splashed underfoot with
every step, the filthy, stagnant rain water filling the ditch than ran
between the rails. Not high enough to touch the third rail
luckily, but Rorschach did not want to judge that margin of
error. An inch, maybe two and he would be dead.
He ignored that hazard,
charging forward, his prey first and foremost
on his thoughts. He could see them, flitting in and out of
sight as they passed beneath the bare bulbs strung through the
tunnel. Odds were that they knew the lay of the
land. Knew where they were heading, where Rorschach was
running on luck and instinct. The tunnel was straight, more
or less, so there was no chance for an ambush, but it would take
nothing for the three members of the Red Dragon Society to simply stop
and turn and open fire if they had guns.
He ran all the faster.
The tunnel sloped down, next
stop City Hall. Doubted they
would run far beyond that. Out of their district if they got
that far, into the white world and a Monday morning at that.
The trains would soon be packed and running fast and hard.
The Dragons needed to surface soon.
He heard a whistle echoing
from another tunnel, his mind racing, trying
to judge. The ‘F’ maybe, heading towards
Second Avenue. Not near –
Something slammed into his
stomach, canceling his forward momentum in
the blink of an eye with a gush of hot, fetid breath. He
sprawled in the filthy water on his back, gasping for breath and
rolling in agony, hoping that he had not broken his ribs. He
wondered what he had hit, then realized that something had hit him.
Rorschach tried to focus on
the hulking shadow that loomed over
him. It seemed vaguely familiar, dressed in a suit, the
silhouette showing blocky, wide shoulders and a head shaved into a
square crew-cut. Alarm bells exploded in the back of his
mind, warning him to get up and get away.
“Rorschach,” a
gravelly voice rasped, the voice
rough from cigarettes. “Go figger.”
Brooklyn accent. Guido.
Bensonhurst probably. One of the ‘Dapper
Don’s’ bully boys no doubt. What was he
doing in Manhattan?
No!
The smell of leather cutting
through all as the foot descended, the
Italian imported shoe slamming to throat, forcing his head down into
the rising mire. Rorschach gagged, gasping for breath,
sucking in fetid water.
Moose!
Moose Moran!
Recognized the voice
now. Too late…
“Big Figure says
‘hello’,” he
snarled, leaning in with all his weight. Three hundred
pounds, plus if he was an ounce.
“ …an’
goodbye. Burn in hell,
Rorschach.”
To
be continued…
A
word from the author:I’ve
always said that there was no way to continue the story as presented by
Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. The Watchmen still remains THE
best representation of the Graphic Novel, at least IMHO.
Granted, there are other GREAT works out there: Miller’s Dark
Knight, and Batman: Year One, Moore’s Marvelman, as opposed
to the colorized Miracleman, and other tales like the JLA VS. Avengers
that I waited over 20 years to read, Ultron Unlimited over in Avengers,
and earlier things like the Korvac Saga, and the Sentinel Trilogy by
Adams and Thomas, or Captain America or SHIELD by Steranko.
But push come to shove, The Watchmen is always there on top for
reference when I need to consider just how to write
something. I turn to Moore more often than not for reference
in writing, where I might turn to Steranko for something visually
captivating.
That
said, this Mini Series is not meant to continue, but rather to add to
what has come before. A fleeting glimpse into one of those
years and adventures that were hinted at in the Maxi. A bit
of padding to an otherwise rich mythology created by the masters that
we all hope to emulate. I’m no Alan Moore, but
hopefully I can entertain you for awhile…
