Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (18 page)

“You are a lovely thing, you know,” he said, meaning it.

“Thanks. I try and keep in shape,” she sassed. “What about you? You’re
awful mobile for a dead man.”

“Who said I was dead?” Chaos seemed genuinely surprised.

“Well,” the Squirrel began, “last I’d heard, you’d stolen Doctor
Chronopolis’ time machine and the Boss led a cadre of mystery men an’ heroes
back in after you to keep you from rewriting history.”

“Ah, yes,” he smiled, as if recalling a pleasant memory.

“And they wrecked your machine and left you drifting between times.
Which sounded kind of dead to me.”

“Yes,” Kid Chaos agreed. “For quite a while I would have agreed with
you. It took me longer than you could possibly imagine to get free and return
home. Fortunately, since I was outside time, I did not age, and could not die.”
His gaze turned darker. “I have had a long eternity to contemplate my vengeance
against your Red Panda. And these bungling fools will provide me with that at
last, beginning with you, my pretty. Beginning with you.”

She smiled coyly at the supervillain. “I wondered why you were slumming
like this.” Something caught her eye. A raised area under his shirt, near his
heart. “You wearin’ some new costume jewelry, Chaos? Wired up to what passes
for your heart for good measure?”

“Such an observant girl,” he smiled. “You can’t imagine I’m going to
tell you what it is for.”

At that moment, Professor Zombie glided up alongside Chaos, and regarded
the Flying Squirrel with a cold, passionless gaze. Kit met Zombie’s eyes and a
smile began to play about her lips. She looked from Zombie, to Chaos, to the
device hidden on Chaos’ chest. At last she began to laugh.

“Oh, what a swell nest o’ crooks!” she said, gasping for breath through
her chortles. “What teamwork! What’s next?”

Chaos sneered and turned to the Professor. “Lots of spirit, hasn’t she?
Full of life.”

Professor Zombie smiled at last. “She is indeed. She is indeed.” Zombie
showed her teeth. “Why don’t we fix that?”

There was nothing moving in the city that night – no sign of life
on the streets of Toronto. It was long past an hour when even those up to no
good called it a night and went home. The thick haze had started to shift at
last; it was damp and claustrophobic, but at least it was now in motion. The
air of menace was still thick, but the breeze brought with it anticipation, and
a dreadful note of preparation.

Two figures made their way from doorway to doorway, staying just
outside of the pools of gaslight from above. They were making their way to the
only signs of life on the street, the light shining from the windows of Fong’s
Laundromat. A slender Chinese woman behind the counter at Fong’s spotted them
at a distance and called an alert to her employer in their native tongue. Fong
hurried to the window. There had been much traffic through the hidden portal
earlier in the evening. Many men had left the secret lair of the Crime Cabal,
but those few who had returned had done so more than an hour ago.

Fong had little compunction about aiding and abetting the commission of
criminal activity. To his way of thinking, the laws of the country were so
hopelessly skewed against him and his countrymen, they could fend for
themselves. He was less comfortable about violating the laws of nature. Fong
had learned from years of dealing with the shady side of the law to pay as
little direct attention as possible to exactly who passed in and out of his
shop. That had not changed, but it was impossible for him to ignore the fact
that there was something unnatural about some of the soldiers of the Crime
Cabal.

Through the corner of his eye, Fong had seen the great, lumbering
giants, their faces painted to resemble mortal flesh. He knew not what sort of
demon spirit had been invoked by these new would-be overlords of crime, but he
had an aching feeling in his heart that no good could come of it.

Fong glanced quickly up and down the street. No sign of police. He
barked an order over his shoulder, and his employees began to clear the
trapdoor of the bundles of laundry that shielded it from discovery. He turned
back to the window and could see that one of the men had been injured, badly
enough that he was leaning heavily on his fellow. Fong cursed quietly under his
breath. These were the risks of crime, but he was not a man whom risks pleased
greatly.

Fong recognized the man who had been hurt. The man had passed through
his shop many times, always full of swagger and contempt for Fong and his
family. Fong would shed no tears for this man if he succumbed to his wounds.
The bigger man on whom his wounded comrade leaned had the unwholesome look of
one of the Crime Cabal’s demon spirits, as Fong held them to be. Fong was
careful not to meet the gaze of the great beast in man’s form as the two of
them staggered into his shop. He hurried the two behind the counter with a
steady stream of encouragement, composed almost entirely of the worst
obscenities his mother tongue could summon, couched in an obsequious tone.

The trapdoor creaked open, and Fong hurried the men underground while
shouting instructions for one of his daughters to clean up the trail of blood
that the injured man left behind him. After what felt to Fong like an eternity,
the pair finally disappeared into the darkness below, and the trap slammed
shut.

Fong breathed heavily with a silent prayer of thanks. This was becoming
too complicated. He looked out the windows at the thick, grimy night air,
moving now at last. No good would come of any of this.

In the darkness at the base of the ladder, the wounded man leaned
heavily on the zombie helping him. He staggered slightly, bringing him close to
the monster’s ear.

“What now?” the wounded man whispered.

“Quiet,” came the reply, intense but almost inaudible.

Seconds after the trap was sealed, a light came on, triggered by a
timer. The injured man’s head turned around quickly to take in his
surroundings. The bigger man, who wore an oversized coat and his hat pulled
low, squeezed the arm of the injured man hard, as if to remind him that he had
been here many times before, and should try not to look otherwise.

Before them stood a great steel door, which looked unassailable from
any angle. The men could see two slots in the door, one horizontal at eye
level, the other vertical at a height that a pistol might be fired from. In the
limited space of the alcove in which they stood, it was clear that they were
sitting ducks should that second opening come into play.

Suddenly, with a great clatter, the peephole slid open.

“Case!” said a voice on the other side of the door. “You’re alive!”

“Just barely,” the wounded man sputtered.

There was a hesitation on the other side of the door. Something was
wrong.

On the other side of the great steel door, the pork-pie hatted gangster
hesitated. It
looked
just exactly
like Case Bermel… but there was something about the voice. He drew his pistol
from the shoulder holster. He peered at the zombie with Bermel. He was big all
right, but not quite big enough, and it looked almost like he was trying to
hide his face. That didn’t seem… didn’t seem…

All at once he felt something, like creeping tendrils growing inside
his mind. His vision blurred, just for an instant. He shook his head and thrust
his eyes back to the peep-hole. The zombie raised its head, and it was now
clearly visible as the genuine article.

“Come on, what’s the hold-up?” Bermel’s voice rang from the other side
of the door. “I’m dyin’ out here! I need the doc, bad.”

The man in the pork-pie hat shook his head hard. That was Bermel’s
voice all right. He felt a twinge of shame at his cowardice, hiding behind the
door jumping at shadows, when it was so obvious that Bermel was really there,
waiting to be admitted to the Cabal’s sanctuary.

The great steel door swung open with a clatter, and Bermel staggered
in, still supported by the zombie.

“Geez, Case!” the man said. “I’m sorry. You want I should help you?”

“Naw.” Bermel shook his head. “Stay on guard. I’ll make it all right.”

“Right, Case.” The man swung the enormous steel door shut with a clang
that sent shivers up Bermel’s spine. As the door shut, the long hallway that
ran beneath the city street illuminated with lights mounted near the ceiling on
the left and right sides, every fifteen feet or so. It looked less like a tunnel
or mine shaft than it did a cold, industrial facility. Or a prison.

The two set off down the hallway as quickly as Bermel’s injuries would
allow. As they moved away, they could hear a receiver being lifted, and a
two-digit exchange being hastily dialed.

“Calling for help?” Bermel whispered so low that only his undead
companion could hear him.

“Internal system,” the zombie replied sotto voce, without moving his
lips or betraying any sign. “Probably calling ahead. No reason to panic until…”

“Until?”

“Until it’s much too late. Now be quiet.” The zombie tromped heavily as
they moved, partly because that was simply how he was supposed to move, but
mostly to obscure their voices should the tunnel be bugged with hidden
microphones. He kept his head low under the wide brim of his hat, on the off
chance that there were peepholes along the way to observe their progress. There
had not been time to perfect both disguises. Parker’s “Bermel” disguise was as
perfect as he could make it in a short time, complete with realistic-looking
wounds and bruises. His own “zombie” disguise was much less perfect, and would
not bear as much scrutiny before it would reveal that the lumbering undead
newly admitted to the passageway was none other than the Red Panda!

His face and domino mask were covered by a loose layer of a
quick-drying rubber he used to mold disguises with. Applied thick and somewhat
haphazardly, it could pass for the shapeless features of the undead soldiers of
Professor Zombie. The Red Panda had taken the gamble that few people, even
members of the Crime Cabal, would make direct eye contact with the reanimated
dead, while Bermel would likely need to bear much closer scrutiny.

Behind them, they could hear the man at the first door speaking into
the phone. They could hear nothing of the content, but his tone was
enthusiastic, excited even. All seemed well.

They neared the second door. When they were still twenty feet away, the
peephole snapped back. The Red Panda began exerting the hypnotic powers of his
mind… reinforcing that which the men already believed they saw.

“Case!” they heard a voice cry. “It’s him all right, hurt bad but still
walkin’!” the voice said excitedly to someone beyond the range of the peephole.
They heard a clanging as the bar and locks of the great door began to be pulled
open. From somewhere on the other side of the door, they could hear a telephone
ring.

“Gate Two,” they heard a second voice say as the receiver was lifted,
and then a moment later, “Hold on.” The noises of the great door preparing to open
were stopped. From the other side of the door, they could hear one half of a
sotto voce conversation that turned into an argument. Still the door did not
open.

“What’s the hold up?” Parker called in Bermel’s voice, thanks to the
hypnotic powers of the Red Panda.

The two men waited, sweating. The Red Panda rued his choice to travel
as a zombie. These mute soldiers could not speak without setting off alarms and
bringing a rain of death through the slots in the door, and each of these
looked large enough to accommodate a machine gun barrel. If only he could use
his voice, he could hypnotize the men into opening the door. Mental projection
could reinforce their disguises, but it could only go so far.

At last they heard the metallic clatter begin anew.

“Finally,” said the phony Bermel.

“No,” the Red Panda said softly.

The vertical slots in the door sprang open in an instant, and machine
gun fire burst forth and continued half a minute. The men firing could not
believe their orders, but they dared not disobey. They watched, horrified, as
they poured hot leaden death into the two men in the tunnel!

It took six gangsters, each twice her size, to carry the Flying
Squirrel to the great slab of a table Professor Zombie had prepared for her.
Three more of their fellows lay unconscious or reeling from the blows she had
rained down upon them as they had tried to grab hold of her unrestrained feet.

Kit knew that any one of the undead soldiers created to be the
strongarms of the Crime Cabal could have done the job twice as quickly as this
incompetent pack of baboons, but for the moment Professor Zombie seemed to be
enjoying the display, and Kit knew from experience that the Professor was at
her most vulnerable when she was feeling pleased with herself. It had been the
Red Panda who had taught her that one could predict the behavior of most
criminals fairly consistently by looking at them as a pack of dogs. Even when
hunting, they still struggled for dominance. Zombie must have felt that the
more trouble the Flying Squirrel gave the subordinate members of the gang, the
more it would elevate Zombie’s own status when she dealt with the problem.

“Let’s just make sure it never
gets that far,”
she thought
to herself as she used her ju-jitsu training to squirm and rock, never quite
hard enough to get free. Not that Kit relished the thought of being strapped to
that table, but the restraints there were heavy leather ties rather than the
chains she had been held by a moment ago. If she broke free of the crowd that
was taking her abuse just now, there were twenty others handy, pistols at the
ready, to finish her off. Somehow she would have to even the odds, just a
little, before she made her play.

She could see Kid Chaos in the midst of the throng, grinning like a
maniac. She could hear the sinister laughter of Professor Zombie, rising above
the chorus of angry voices, each shouting instructions to each other that no
one seemed to be heeding. She wasn’t more than two feet from the table now.
Time to go into her routine.

“Showtime!”
she thought.

At once, with what seemed to all the world to be a last, desperate cry,
the Flying Squirrel intensified her efforts to break free, doing her best to
fall just shy of the mark, but making it impossible for her captors to get her
into position. She only prayed that she didn’t overplay her hand…

From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand swing down towards her.
There was an audible crack as one of the crowd brought the butt end of a .38
down against her head with as much force as he could muster. Immediately the
Flying Squirrel’s head snapped back and her struggles ceased. Her body went
limp and her cowardly captors began hurriedly to fasten the straps that would
hold her down.

Lying on the cold table, Kit’s ear was ringing something terrible, but
she was far from incapacitated. That had been a desperate gamble, but for the
moment it seemed to be working.

There are ways of holding one’s wrists and arms tight with tension that
will cause any restraint fastened to them to have extra slack when the limbs
are relaxed within the knot. It sounds like a simple technique, but there were
many degrees of subtle art at play. Amongst the many forms of training he had
sought out, the Red Panda had studied under some of the greatest escape artists
in the world, and he had passed what he had learned on to his partner. She
hoped that it would be enough.

Like any stage illusion, escapism required a certain amount of
misdirection. The Flying Squirrel’s desperate struggle had left her captors
likely to hurry in restraining her. But since she had prompted them to knock
her cold, they did not expect to encounter counter-force, and failed to
compensate for it. Luckily, she had seen the blow coming and was able to roll
with it, while selling the impression that she had been hurt with an
exaggerated reaction. It was a fine performance, but she struggled not to be
too pleased with herself just yet.

“Careful, you idiots!” she could hear Kid Chaos bark. “She must not be
too badly damaged. She must appear whole.”

Through her lashes, she could see Chaos’ rapt expression as the
gangsters backed away. Slowly, gently, she relaxed the muscles in her arms and
legs. She could feel the play in the bindings, the slack that she could use to
her advantage, given half an opportunity and fewer guns in the room.

“And that’s the real trick,
ain’t it?”
she thought.

She allowed her eyes to flutter open. If she stayed out too long, Chaos
would suspect a ploy and check the bindings.

“Ah, my dear girl. Back in the land of the living I see.” Chaos smiled,
his great moon of a face lighting up. “For the moment.”

“I’ll bet you stayed up all night thinking that one up,” Kit groaned.
She noted with some satisfaction the snickers from the ranks at Kid Chaos’
expense, and his irritation. That might be good for something.

Professor Zombie was busying herself with her machines. “Don’t mind
him, little one. He still gets terribly excited about these things.” She arched
her eyebrows and smiled at Chaos. It was intended to be a playful gesture but
Kit, who knew a thing or twelve about such things, recognized it as clumsy at
best. This alliance, too, was strained.

“What’s the big idea?” the Flying Squirrel said, straining at her
bonds, just for show. “You think you can scare me into talkin’?”

“Do you really think we couldn’t?” Kid Chaos smiled.

“Try it an’ see.” Kit stuck out her jaw. “It won’t get you nothin’ but
a good laugh.”

“I wonder,” Chaos cracked his knuckles loudly, “if you really are quite
as tough as you think you are.”

“You could find out dumplin’,” Kit snarled, “but you’d need to untie me
first. And I don’t think you’ve got the guts.”

There were more snickers from the ranks of the Crime Cabal. They were
hypocritical, to be sure, for no man there would have set the Flying Squirrel
loose. But still Kid Chaos fumed.

“Rest assured, little one,” the Professor smiled icicles, “I have no
such illusions.” She reached down and straightened the Squirrel’s hair that
spilled out from the back of her cowl. “There is nothing in heaven or earth
that could force you to betray him. I can see it in your eyes.”

Kit snapped her head away as best she could, but said nothing.

The Professor beamed. “You don’t bother to deny it. How nice.” Her
smile faded. “He doesn’t deserve such loyalty.”

“Doesn’t he?” sarcasm dripped from Kit’s voice.

“Have you never stopped to wonder,” the Professor said, busying herself
with her equipment, “what compels you to stand with this man? To face death and
danger in such a ridiculous manner? What binds you to this Red Panda of yours
in spite of the fact that, cowl notwithstanding, it seems clear that you could
have any man you chose…” The Professor turned and lowered herself quickly to
direct a stage whisper into the Flying Squirrel’s ear, “…when you know full
well that he can control the minds of others?” She smiled and stepped back,
watching for any reaction. “What makes you so sure that you aren’t simply his
little puppet? Fighting and dying as he sees fit, for his amusement?”

Kit met Professor Zombie’s gaze without expression. This was meant to
make her question her beliefs, of course, but not with an eye to interrogation.
Zombie wanted her to doubt even the one thing of which she was most sure in the
moments before death. When you have destroyed so much life, Kit supposed,
eventually you make a sick game of it. She said nothing, and changed her
expression not one whit.

Zombie scowled. She had obviously been hoping for something more
dramatic. “We know of course that nothing we do can induce you to betray the
Red Panda,” she said, returning to her equipment. “But we also know that he
will continue to interfere in our operations. What better way to destroy the
man than by setting his own junior partner on him, reduced to my undead
plaything? Knowing that he was responsible for your death, and having to fight
you for his own life at the same time? It’s almost too perfect.”

Kit shuddered a little. To her left, just beyond the table, was a
large, black machine arcing high-voltage power from Tesla coils. If all else
failed, if she could get her hand to that device, it should destroy enough of
her to make their grim plans impossible.

“The only question,” Zombie continued, “is whether we should amplify
her strength with Kid Chaos’ chemical serum immediately before initiating the
Zombification process?”

“No!” snapped Chaos. “The girl is skilled enough to do him damage
without it, and with it, she might finish him too easily. I have suffered more
than you can ever know at the hands of that masked menace… I want him to suffer
just as greatly. I want him to have to choose to destroy what remains of her.
And I want him to have to live with it… for a little while.”

Professor Zombie smiled and shrugged. “The sequence matters little to
me. I’ll let you call the tune for the moment.” She prepared a large syringe.

“Take a good look, you bozos!” the Flying Squirrel called to the
assembled gang members. “This is what you’ll get if you step outta line! She’ll
turn you into one of those
things
!”
The crowd murmured slightly, but the reaction was less than she had hoped for.

“This would be a real good time
for the cavalry…,”
she
thought.

Suddenly, the house phone rang. Chaos waved his hand for someone to
silence the bell. He wanted to enjoy this.

“What’s that?” Legs McIntyre said into the mouthpiece, straining to
hear over the crowd. “All right, thanks!” He hung up the phone with a clatter.
“That was Gate One! Case Bermel is on his way back! He’s hurt pretty bad, call
the sawbones!”

“What?” Kid Chaos snapped, his eyes meeting Zombie’s in a flash of
concern. “Impossible!”

The elated gangsters turned as one to glare at Kid Chaos.

“It’s true, Mister Chaos,” Legs said earnestly. “Ricky at the gate says
it’s Case all right, leanin’ on one of the meat puppets.”

“One of the…,” Chaos turned back to Professor Zombie. “Gentlemen… two of
the zombies from tonight’s operation were destroyed. The rest are accounted
for.”

“But Mister Chaos, Ricky says–”

“I have no doubt that Ricky believes what he said. But whatever is
coming up that tunnel, even if it were Bermel, it can’t be a zombie!”

“But who could the other one be?” the Professor snapped. “The girl is
here!”

“I don’t know!” Chaos wailed. “Maybe… maybe somehow Bermel survived,
but that zombie can only be him! It can only be the Red Panda!”

“Bermel wouldn’t work with the Panda,” a voice protested.

“He might not have a choice!” Professor Zombie shrieked. “The Red Panda
can control the minds of others!”

“So I hear,” the Flying Squirrel said through a grin.

Kid Chaos raced for the house phone and dialed two numbers. He danced
impatiently while he waited for an answer.

“Gate Two!” Chaos called into the phone. “Do not open those doors! I
said stop! Are you sure it’s Bermel?” The crowd waited for a reply. “What about
the other, the one with him?” Again, the hush was thick with anticipation and
fear. “No! Fool!” Chaos bellowed. “It’s the Red Panda! Open fire!” There was
some debate. “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Kid Chaos screamed.

From down the long, concrete hallways, they heard a volley of machine
gun fire. Kit’s blood ran cold.

Chaos raced for the door. “Come on, you fools! Follow me!”

No one moved a muscle. Chaos stopped.

“I said, come on! Grab your guns and…,” he trailed off.

The Professor glanced over her shoulder to her six remaining undead
monsters.

“Go with Kid Chaos,” she said simply. The giants lumbered forth.

“Come on, the rest of you!” Chaos stamped his feet. He would not be
denied. At last, exasperated, he turned to the catwalk above, where Malcolm
still stood, stock still, Hook Henderson beside him.

“Mister Malcolm?” he called. “What say you?”

Malcolm hesitated. “I ordered the operation,” he said at last.

The gangsters stood blinking a moment, confused.

“Come on, you heard the man!” Chaos yelled. “Let’s go!”

The assembled gangsters poured forth, none of them sure they had heard
what they thought they had heard. All but a half dozen rushed out the doors
after Chaos and the zombie shock troops.

The Flying Squirrel’s head had shot back the moment Malcolm had spoken.
She peered at him, upside-down though he appeared to her. She knew what she had
heard. She knew what it meant. She had her better odds, and she had her
distraction at last.

She just prayed that it wasn’t all for nothing.