Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 14

Fourteen

You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

He hadn’t heard them flying up behind him until the first missile streaked past him. He dived and arced back. Three interceptor jets were on his tail, even as a second set of missiles was launched at him.

Johnny Storm flew downward, and the missiles instantly changed their course. Heat seekers. He strained to speed up, to fly faster. He had to evade the missiles, no matter what.

Doom was attacking him. That meant he had probably done the same with the others. They may have been captured or killed by now. He flew in a tight circle and sent a concentrated blast of heat toward the first of the three missiles. It made contact and the explosion knocked him back for a moment.

Two missiles closed in on him as he arced upward toward the jets. The missiles were on his tail, closing in now. He was incapable of increasing his speed. He couldn’t spare the time to fire another blast at them. He’d get one, but the final missile would surely find its target.

Abruptly, he dived again as a plan was formulated. He watched the missiles spin. There was a several-seconds delay between his actions and theirs. Good enough.

He formed a wide circle and saw the missiles closing the gap between them. It would only be a matter of seconds now.

Straining with all his power, he streaked toward the jet closest to him. The missiles closed in. They were less than thirty feet behind him. In ten seconds they would hit and he’d be blown out of the sky. He pushed on, strained as he had never strained before. He had to pull ahead, just briefly, just for a moment.

The jet was directly above him now, the missiles directly below. Inside the fighter, the pilot saw a blue-red bolt of flame heading directly toward his fuselage. For a moment he panicked; then he remembered—Doom had outfitted the jets with a new flame-resistant asbestos.

Johnny was mere feet from the fighter. Then, suddenly, he arced up and back, flying as far as he possibly could. The missiles began their turn. But they were a moment too slow.

The jet incinerated on contact, destroyed by the very missile it had fired.

Two more jets pursued the Human Torch. They had seen what Johnny had done. They wouldn’t fire their heat seekers until they had him dead in their sights.

Bullets exploded from their mounted guns. Johnny heard them rushing toward him and he extended his heat field. It would slow him down a bit, but the wide heat pattern would melt the deadly lead long before it could hit him.

How to get rid of two fighter jets was the only thought running through the Human Torch’s mind. Deliberately, he flew up and wide, circling the jets and coming down behind them. He fired a concentrated heat blast at them. The jets were sprayed with fire, but they rocketed on undisturbed. Doom had obviously protected them. He expected a battle. Everything to date had been planned.

But what did Doom want? Why did he lure the Fantastic Four to his kingdom? What was he after? Johnny didn’t know, and at that moment he didn’t much care.

Leaving a long stream of flame behind him, Johnny headed toward the mountains. If he kept low and flew between the peaks, he’d lose the fighters. They weren’t as agile as he, couldn’t maneuver as well, and certainly couldn’t land as quickly.

Determined to evade the fighters, Johnny pressed on. The high peaks were several miles off. He could make it and then rest a bit. His flame wouldn’t stay ignited for much longer, not with all the energy he’d expended. He’d flame out in ten minutes and would then have to rest almost half an hour to be at peak capacity again. If he could survive that long.

The mountains were topped with snow. That wouldn’t help him. The cold would make it take that much longer for him to be able to flame on again. But he had no choice. His time was running out.

He flew low over the peaks and cut between two jutting rocks. One jet veered off; the other stayed on his trail. Johnny landed for a moment, caught his breath, then flamed on again. They aren’t going to leave me alone, are they?

There was a deep canyon on the other side of the twin peaks. He dived low. The jet followed him and fired a volley of bullets at its flaming target. If only one got through the burning red glow that surrounded the Human Torch, that would be enough.

Suddenly, Johnny turned right and came up behind the fighter. He matched the jet’s speed and caught onto its tail. It took all his strength to resist the winds which mercilessly battered him. He had to hold on, just a few minutes more.

The twin turbos were directly to his side. The jet may be flameproof, but if he could get in one good shot at the turbos, that would be all he needed.

The jet jerked to the left, and Johnny was almost thrown from it. His hands grabbed the tail wing and he held fast. He braced his back against the wing and with all his power he aimed one full heat blast into the left turbo.

Instantly, he flew up and off as the plane exploded in a massive purple and black cloud of smoke.

Johnny tumbled back from the impact and he saw the final jet circle toward him. He was dead, he told himself. No way to survive this one. His flame was almost exhausted. He had only enough power to land and keep himself warm. There was nothing he could do to attack.

He let his flame fizzle out and he fell groundward. Conserve all his energy, free-fall until the last moment, then flame on again and land safely. It was his only hope. If he could hide himself in the caves, he might make it. Unless the cold killed him first.

He tumbled downward, spread his arms and legs wide, as would a parachutist. He began to glide along the wind currents; he felt the cold breeze invigorate him. He felt alive and fresh and momentarily distracted. Up here he was a different man; nothing could bother him. Nothing could disturb him.

The ground seemed to take its time moving up to meet him. The expanse of whiteness made it difficult to judge distances, but Johnny didn’t care. He would float and float until there were only feet left to fall.

The bitter wind stung his face, and cold froze his open mouth. His eyes began to water and tear, the world became blurry, and all he could hear was his body rushing headlong toward the ground.

How much longer before flaming on? he wondered. He couldn’t see through the tears, he couldn’t make any judgment, yet the thrill of free-fall still clung to him.

Then there was softness and he was no longer falling. He hadn’t flamed on. He hadn’t landed. Where was he? With his hands he cleared the water from his eyes. There was whiteness everywhere he looked. Reality gripped him; then terror overtook reality.

Where was he?

His arms jutted out and felt a plastic softness all around him. He was encased in something, but what?

He tried to flame on, but found he couldn’t. There was some sort of gas in here, something that made it impossible to use his power.

What the hell was going on? What?

He felt tired, his eyes smarted from the gas, his head became thick and cloudy. He struggled to keep open his eyes but found them closing against his will.

He jerked back and forth, trying to rip through the softness that held him prisoner, but he was unable to lift his arms. They fell heavily to his sides as his legs crumpled under him.

He fell to his knees as his eyes shut totally.

And in a moment he was asleep, quiet as a babe, and just as helpless.

The pilot glanced at the monitor to his side. The camera mounted beneath the jet fighter showed part of the cable that hung from the bomb-bay door and the white plastic bubble that was attached to the cable. He could imagine his prisoner asleep inside the bubble.

Dr. Doom had been right. The fool would waste his power battling two fighters, but the third would hang back until he was tired and weak. And then they would have their fourth and final prisoner.

The pilot pressed a button next to the monitor.

Doom paused before the great iron door. Behind him, the Americans waited anxiously. This had been a tour they would long remember. “My friends, I am about to show you my collection of art. No Westerner has ever before seen its magnificence. I do hope you find it as pleasing as do I.”

His iron glove glanced over the electric eye and the door creaked open. Doom stood on the side as his visitors entered. He could hear them gasping with delight. What beauty! What wonders!

Above the door a red light flickered for a moment. No one but Doom saw the faint glow. Beneath his great mask Doom allowed himself a rare smile.

The last of the Fantastic Four was now his captive. And soon, they would all be dead.

Doom entered the expansive gallery and watched the American fools moving from one painting to the next, their eyes wide in appreciation. This was all booty the Nazis had stolen during World War II. Treasures Doom had stolen from them in turn. There were Rembrandts, Goyas, Cézannes, Michelangelos, Da Vincis, Monets, Manets, Picassos, and dozens more. His collection was worth in the tens of millions, and it genuinely pleased him that the Americans appreciated its value.

Tomorrow he would return the Americans to New York. For years they would talk about their journey here, how magnanimous Doom had been, how wonderful was his great castle, how much the people of Latveria loved their Monarch. The time and expense were worth it, Doom felt. Let the world believe I am a merciful ruler. It will only buy me time.

The time I need to garner the power I must have, if I am to accomplish my true objective.

No one heard the soft, sinister chuckle that echoed through the gallery.

To Be Continued...Monday 

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 12

Twelve
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Johnny Storm yawned as he circled the Latverian village. Borrrring! He had come with the others, hoping to get into action. He wanted to do something, anything, to forget about Frankie Raye. But he couldn’t shove her beautiful face from his thoughts. She haunted him every moment. Wherever he looked, he saw her.

Below him, he could see the Latverian farmers staring up in horror. Was he a demon? One of Doom’s treacherous devices come to spy on them? They turned from their flaming visitor and returned to their work. If he was with Doom, he would see them working hard. That would please their iron-clad master.

What I need, Johnny concluded, is to find someone my own age. Not everyone here is old. Or are they?

He flew lower over the small huts and saw a teen-ager tending a small private garden. The boy felt the heat on his back and turned to see Johnny Storm standing behind him. “Who are you?” He stared at Johnny questioningly. Latveria was a small country. No one was permitted entrance; no one was allowed to leave. Soon you learned who everyone was. This blond stranger was not one of them.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “How did you get in here? The gate was locked.”

Johnny flashed a smile. “My name’s Johnny Storm. From America. I was, uh, brought here by your leader.” The boy stared at Johnny. Then his eyes grew narrow.

“Go away. Leave me alone. I do my work. I do not want to be bothered.” He turned and ignored the stranger. If he came here with Doom, he belonged to Doom. It was best not to consort with Doom’s men. You could die that way.

But Johnny was persistent. “C’mon. I’m not with Dr. Doom. You don’t have to fear me.”

The youth turned again and studied Johnny. He was not like Doom’s men. He had an easy smile; his eyes showed no signs of evil. Perhaps he had been too hasty.

“I am Erich.”

Johnny extended a hand, but when Erich failed to take it, he let it drop to his side. “Erich, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find any girls around here. My age?”

The Latverian youth smiled. His fears vanished. With a nod, he bid Johnny to follow him.

Doom continued: “. . . and this is my royal chamber. The bed has been created especially for me. The linens are sewn here in Latveria by my handmaidens. The women among you will appreciate the finely spun cloth and the expertise of the seamstresses. Please, all of you, as you return home accept from me a sample of their work. I insist on it.”

Reed hung back, Ben at his side. “All appears to be normal, Ben. Too normal.”

The Thing nodded in agreement. “Hey, Susie ain’t come back yet. Ya think somethin’ happened?”

Reed suppressed a grimace. “Let me try to raise her on the belt radio.” His fingers fumbled with the switch as he moved from one frequency to the next. He clenched his teeth as worry overtook him. “She’s not answering, Ben. I don’t like this. None of this.”

Ben was ready to move. “That tears it, Stretch. I’m gonna squeeze that tin-can’s neck till he talks.”

“No, Ben. Doom won’t miss us if we split off from the crowd. Let’s check this out first. If we don’t find Sue, then we’ll confront him . . . and we’ll do it away from the others. I don’t want anyone hurt.” He saw Ben was grumbling The big man would love to tear Doom apart for any number of reasons. “Do you understand that, Ben?”

Ben hissed his answer. “I understand it, Mister. I just don’t have ta like it. That crumbbum an’ me go together like salt an’ a wound. Whenever I see ’im, I just wanna clobber ’im but good.”

“If we don’t find Sue, you’ll get your chance. I promise you that. Now, come on, we’ve got work to do.”

They ran through the corridor to where Sue had left them. Reed glanced down the hallway and said, “She could’ve taken either of those doors. We’ll split up. First one to find her, contact the other—immediately. And that means no fighting, Ben. I want the three of us together before we decide what to do.”

“Sure, sure. No scrappin’. I gotcha, Reed.” ’Course, if I just happen ta knock a few heads together ’fore I give ya the signal, what the heck, right?

The door Ben opened took him into a wide courtyard made of stone. Suits of armor stood in the wide archways. Long spears were at their sides. At the far end of the court, there were two mounted knights on stone horses.

Above him was a wide balcony, and a carved stone fence ran the whole distance around it. Directly over him a crystal chandelier hung in place.

To his back was the door he had just entered, and across the courtyard was the door he headed for.

“Blasted place looks like a blamed museum. How can that tin-plated tyrant live here? Ya can’t put yer feet up on a table when the blamed table’s prob’ly worth more’n you are.”

He heard a creaking sound come from behind him. He whirled in time to see a steel door slide in front of the wooden door he had come through. Another steel door slid in front of the door at the far end of the courtyard.

“So, we wuz right, Doom, wuzn’t we? Yer playin’ games with us? Well, yer crazy if ya think a little piece o’ tin’s gonna stop the ever-lovin’, blue-eyed Thing.”

Ben lumbered toward the far door. No use going back. As he reached the center of the court, he heard the squeak of steel grinding against steel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what was making the sound.

“Kiss my fanny. It ain’t possible.” The suit of armor closest to him creaked off its pedestal, its lance in its hand. “I ain’t asleep, and this certainly ain’t no knightmare.”

Stiffly, the armored form plodded toward the orange behemoth, its limbs moving more smoothly with every step it took. A second suit of armor leaped off its pedestal and lifted its lance for an attack.

Ben saw three more such suits move and approach him, slowly at first, but as each became more accustomed to movement, it speeded up, stepped more naturally.

“Awright, ya bozos!” Ben shouted at no one in particular. “Lemme see what yer made of.”

With astonishing speed, he grabbed the first suit. His powerful fingers closed vise-like on its arm. Silently, the living armament thrust its lance into Ben’s stomach. The steel crackled with raw energy. One thousand painful volts of electricity jolted their way through the Thing’s massive hand.

Instinctively, he fell back and dropped to the floor, grabbing his burning hand with his other. “Blasted thing’s hot-wired. Now what’ll I do?”

Ben heard the footstep behind him and he whirled as two lances smashed into him. His rocky hide sizzled and he yelped in pain.

Scrambling, he made his way to the far end of the courtyard. His deep blue eyes grew wide and horrified; ten suits of armor marched toward him, their lances ready for attack, their expressionless faces seeming to leer in ghoulish delight.

They paused and turned their armored heads toward the two corners of the room. At once, the two massive suits poised atop their stone steeds came to life. The horses reared, their legs clawed the air, and then they leaped from their pedestals and galloped toward the Thing.

That was the signal to begin.

They moved in.

And Ben felt the stone wall press against his back.

The door Reed Richards opened revealed a large, seemingly endless series of corridors that crisscrossed each other, came to abrupt dead ends, led back to their starting point, and proved to be nothing less than an intricate maze.

Reed stretched above the maze and saw at the far end an open door beyond which was a one-way mirror. Through the mirror Reed could see Sue. She darted in terror from flashing red lights that appeared for a moment, then vanished, only to reappear from another direction. He saw a beam flash across Sue’s forehead. She grabbed her head painfully. Blood oozed through her gloved fingertips.

“Don’t worry, Sue, I’ll help you. I swear I will.” Reed was frantic. Those lights were undoubtedly lasers. Doom was attacking her, but nothing could keep Reed from reaching his wife’s side.

Instantly, the ceiling buzzed with an electronic hum. Reed saw it lowering. He ducked back into his corridor and the ceiling came to rest atop the maze walls.

This was a game, then. A test. Doom had allowed Reed to see his wife facing almost imminent death. Reed would be anxious now, frightened for his wife’s safety—mad, perhaps to the point of throwing all caution to the wind. He wanted Reed’s veneer of scientific logic stripped away. He wanted Reed Richards dead, but he wanted him to die crawling like the peasant Doom thought him to be.

Reed Richards the scientist was now a trapped rat in a maze. His wife’s safety was his incentive to reach the end of the maze.

And now, to add some impetus to his efforts.

A gurgling sound like water rushing through pipes came from behind Reed. He saw a small grating in the wall of the maze about ten feet up from ground level. Then the water came gushing out.

Only it wasn’t water. Reed recognized the heavy overpowering stench, and it flowed slowly, viscously.

There was no doubt about it.

The liquid that came gushing toward him was—sulfuric acid!

He stretched instantly toward the far end of the corridor and followed its turn to the left.

Three corridors branched off before him. He remembered seeing them from above. One turned back upon itself. A second was a dead end. The third continued to another corridor and another and another. But, which was which?

Then the maze was plunged into darkness.

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 10

Ten
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To anyone who looked, Latveria was a “picture-postcard” kingdom. A great golden castle sat proudly atop a high mountain peak. Small clusters of gaily colored wooden homes dotted the mountainside. Each small home had a pocket-sized garden for growing fruits and vegetables. At the base of the mountain there were several open-air markets where fresh produce and meats were sold.

There were no museums, no theaters, no sports arenas, and no churches, the latter being the only oddity that separated Latveria from the other vest-pocket countries that existed throughout southern Europe.

The humble Latverians were mostly farmers, tilling the great farm that bordered the golden castle. Wheat, corn, and barley were its principal products. Fifty percent of their gains were turned over to the castle’s lord; the other fifty percent they could sell in the marketplace.

To all intents, Latveria was just another nation, neither doing particularly well, nor starving, either. The people seemed contented, though they rarely smiled, the lot of the hard-working farmer, perhaps.

Those men over the age of twenty who were not working the farms were conscripted into the Latverian Army, where they would serve no less than a five-year term. At one other point in their lives, every Latverian male would serve at least four years. Their country was a small one; it could be gobbled up by any of the major powers at any time, or so their monarch had told them.

In truth, however, Latveria was better armed than any other European nation, as well armed as both the United States and the Soviet Union. Hidden within the mountain were missile launching sites. The great golden dome that perched atop the castle housed a massive laser cannon which could be controlled by satellites orbiting far above the Earth.

Patrolling the border were strange, silent guards. They were an army of grim, unforgiving, merciless robots who, when given a command, could turn a human body to pulp in less time than an ordinary man could eliminate a crawling ant.

The Monarch of Latveria was Dr. Doom, the cold tyrant who would brook no revolt, permit no freedoms, encourage no hopes. Yet, the Latverians, save a few rebels whom Doom would quickly eliminate as soon as their existence was discovered, didn’t hate Doom. Surprisingly few ever thought of revolution. After all, their standards of living had sharply risen once Doom took power. They now had food enough for their family, freedom enough for their paltry needs, and unless they raised their voices in protest, Doom left them pretty much alone. What more could these people want? Their last ruler gave them none of Doom’s benefits, and had kept their lives in constant fear.

Keep in line, be humble, do not complain. Things could be worse. These were the key words for a long life in Latveria, and most of the nation zealously observed those rules without complaint.

Old Boris greeted Doom at the small airfield to the south of the castle. “All is in readiness, sire. Living quarters have been provided for your guests.” Doom nodded, pleased to see the old one.

“You are well, Boris? The medicines I left for you have cured your cold?”

“Yes, sire, they have. I no longer ache. I thank you, sire.”

“Good.” Doom turned toward the men and women scrambling out of the massive jets. “This is my homeland. It will be totally open for your pleasure. Feel free to go anywhere. Ask my people whatever you wish. You will learn that Doom is benevolent to his subjects. But, first, you may wish to freshen up. Follow me to the castle.”

Several of the older men groaned as they saw the castle high above them. God, do we have to walk up there? But Doom stepped onto a slick, rubbery roadway and indicated for his guests to do the same. “We have many conveniences here in Latveria, some of which even you Americans have never seen. Observe!”

Doom touched a ring on his metallic glove, and a light flashed from the gemmed surface, striking a steel plate that was half-buried alongside the road. The rubbery surface vibrated for a moment, then began to move. “This is a mobile road. Within minutes it will whisk us up to my castle, without any expenditure of energy to you. Man was meant to spend his time in thought and contemplation, not in the needless waste of energy.”

Reed Richards was impressed but kept silent. An incredible people-mover, but the work force it took to build this must have been equally incredible. And for what? The people here were not permitted to leave the country. Doom had probably forced them to build this extravagance for his own private use.

As if sensing Reed’s thought, Doom spoke again. “It may interest you to know that my robot constructs built this roadway for me. My people are too valuable to have me waste their time. I do not demand their service to me, though I am their official Monarch.”

The crowd was buzzing with surprise. They had always heard Doom was a despot, that his reign in Latveria was tyrannical. Could all the news reports have been wrong?

The mobile road took them into the center of town, where vendors paused in their duties to salute their Monarch. “Welcome, sire. It is good to have you home again.”

A woman with a small child approached Von Doom. “Sire, I beg you to help me, to aid my son. His leg was crippled when our cart overturned. I—I cannot afford a doctor. Is there anything you can do for him, sire?”

The road slowed to a halt and Doom stepped off it. He lifted a heavy metal arm and placed it on the child’s chest. “Surely you know all medical treatments are free to the poor. Take him to my castle; demand to see my private physician. He will make your son whole once again. Doom promises that.”

The woman bowed and kissed Doom’s hand. Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, thank you, sire. You are as good and kind as I have always heard. I will never forget this, sire. Thank you.”

The roadway moved on again, and the Americans saw Doom differently now from the way they had before. Perhaps he wore his frightening armor, but he seemed to be more of a man than they had ever suspected. He seemed to care for his people. What else mattered?

As they turned out of sight, the woman saw one of Doom’s personal guards approach. “Did I do well? I did as you demanded.” She was frightened as the guard raised his hand and struck her swiftly across the face.

“Silence, you stupid female. Now return to your hovel. We will release your husband from prison. Be happy Doom has granted you your wish. If you did not cooperate fully, your husband would now be dead. Go, and never speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

The frightened woman nodded and said nothing about her crippled son. I have been given my life, she thought. I dare not ask for anything more.

To anyone who looked, Latveria was a “picture-postcard” kingdom. The people seemed contented, though they rarely smiled.

There was a reason why.

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 9

Nine
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Johnny landed before the double doors to the Baxter Building and saw O’Hoolihan react instantly. The heavyset doorman opened the door and bowed. “Top o’ the eve, Mr. S. I sure do hope ye be feelin’ good.”

Johnny grinned. “Not as well as I’d like to, O’Hoolihan, but I’ll make it through the night, I guess.”

Inside the massive lobby, people hurriedly rushed in all directions. Johnny Storm moved away from the flow heading toward the elevators and stood in front of a single door set aside from all the others. His hand touched his belt, and an invisible light flashed from the buckle, striking a metal plate to the side of the door.

Instantly, the door slid open to reveal a private elevator. Johnny entered and pressed the bottommost button. The first floor that housed the headquarters of the Fantastic Four contained their bedrooms, dining room, visitors’ reception area, kitchen facilities, and day-to-day living space. These were all kept separate from the other four floors, which housed the F.F.’s intricate science labs, vehicle hangars, and observatory.

All five floors, the tower of the Baxter Building, were owned by the Fantastic Four and paid for by the money Reed Richards earned from the patents on his incredible inventions.

He entered his private bedroom, removed his clothes, and took a shower. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to move out. Get his own apartment. After all, Reed and Sue had their own place, though they spent most of their time in the Baxter Building and still had bedroom facilities there, along with a second room for Franklin.

And Ben had another apartment across town, a three-room bachelor pad he could call his own. Only Johnny Storm lived full-time in their skyscraper headquarters. Yeah, perhaps its time to move on.

He stepped out of the shower and ignited himself. His flames could dry him off faster than any towel. Within moments he was dry and dressed for action. Reed had said he wanted to speak to Johnny about something that had come up. He told him to be ready for travel if he agreed to come with them.

He sauntered down the hall and knocked on their bedroom door. Inside, he could hear the shower running as Reed opened the door, his hair still wet. “Come on in, Johnny. Sue will be right out. We’ve got a problem.”

Johnny was interested. “Lay it on me, leader-man. What’s up?”

It took less than a minute to explain the situation, and Johnny listened quietly, attentively. At long last he let loose with a long whistle. “Whew! Dr. Doom. Doesn’t sound good, Reed. Any idea what he’s up to?”

Reed shook his head. “None. That’s what bothers me. I know Doom too well. Yet he’s given his promise to the others. He guaranteed their safety, that nothing would happen to them, and that he’d have them all back by Sunday night. I know this sounds strange, Johnny. But Doom doesn’t lie. He’s too proud, too sure of himself. If he says the people will not be harmed, despite all his evil, despite everything he has ever done to us in the past, I know he’s telling the truth.

“But the problem is, I also know he would never do anything unless he means to gain something by it. I just can’t analyze this situation. I can’t figure out what he wants.”

Johnny arched his brow. “Maybe he’s telling the truth when he says he’s changed his ways. Maybe he’s reforming? It’s happened before.”

“What’s happened before?” They turned to see Sue dressed in her bright blue action garb, her long blonde hair flowing free to her shoulders. “You said it happened before. What?”

“Johnny thinks Doom may have changed his spots. But like the proverbial leopard, I doubt it. No, he’s up to something, and frankly, I think it’s best that we go along to figure out just what it may be.”

Sue combed out her hair as she spoke. “I agree with Reed, Johnny. You had to be there to understand, but Doom hasn’t changed—not one whit. I sensed he relished it when Ben attacked him. I think he may have provoked the fight.”

Johnny laughed. “I can see it now. My blue-eyed buddy winding up and letting go with a one-two punch, and there goes Doom’s head. It must’ve freaked out that poor orange slob.

“I just wish I could’ve been there. I wouldn’t’ve stopped laughing till tomorrow.”

“Oh, I think you woulda stopped, junior . . . When I laid one o’ my knuckle sandwiches on ya.” Ben Grimm stood behind Johnny. “ ’Sides, you woulda done the same, unless you let that robot punch you out.”

Johnny spun, ready for a verbal battle. “Yeah? Listen, big shot, at least I can tell the difference between a man and a robot. Then, again, looking the way you do, I’m surprised you didn’t start a fight with the cappuccino machine. You know how nasty those little buggers can look.”

Ben thrust his head closer to Johnny’s face. “Says you, matchstick. All yer good fer is settin’ off fire extinguishers. Or don’t ya remember what happened at that movie ya went ta last week? Ya almost caused a panic.”

Johnny pushed even closer to Ben, their noses virtually touching. “I wouldn’t talk if I were you, Quasimodo. One look and half the folks ran out of the picture before it began. And they were playing The Monster That Ate Trenton!”

Reed’s voice broke the string of verbal abuse. “That’s enough out of the both of you. I asked you here, Johnny, to find out if you’ll come with us. I won’t force you. I know you may have other things on your mind, but—”

Johnny interrupted. “Reed, we’re a team, aren’t we? When we were first formed, we agreed to stay together through thick and thin, and, face it, if I could put up with Ben’s ugly face peering over the morning paper before he’s had his first mug of coffee, I guess I can stand trekking over to Latveria to make sure Doc Doom is on the up and up. I’m going with you, Reed. There’s nothing else to say, right?”

Sue spoke first. “That’s better. We’ve got a job to do and we do it. Doom said his jets will be taking off in the morning, that we’re supposed to meet him at Kennedy Airport. I think it may be safer to get a good night’s sleep now. That way we’ll be ready if anything out of the ordinary does happen. Any disagreements? Ben?”

“Don’t look at me, Susie. I’m the sweet one o’ the group.”

“I agree, Sis. I’ll see you in the morning. G’night, Reed. You, too, gruesome”

“Aw, shuddup. I’m too tired ta think of a comeback.”

“That must explain you all the time. You’re always so tired you never think.”

Johnny leaped from the room and ran down the corridor screaming. Ben Grimm was close on his tail, hurling a pillow at the fleeing figure.

Sue turned to Reed and rested her head on his shoulder. “What do you think, Reed? You’ve been unusually quiet.”

Reed grimaced before talking, and when he did, his words were slow, deliberate. “I think we may be in for trouble. I think whatever it is Doom has prepared is so diabolical, he isn’t even worried that we, his greatest foes, will be right beside him all the time.

“I think we’ve got to watch him very carefully, and what’s more, I think we’re going to have to be prepared . . . for anything!

“Sue, I won’t be coming to bed tonight. I’ve got to go up to the lab and do some work. I’ll sleep on the plane tomorrow.”

Sue’s face mirrored her worry. “It’s that bad, Reed? Are you certain?”

Reed answered quietly. “With Doom you can’t be certain about anything. But I know one thing, Sue. If I don’t take the time to plan something tonight, we may not live beyond tomorrow.”

Sue shuddered as Reed left their bedroom, heading to his electronics lab two floors above. It wasn’t like him to be so pensive. He must have some idea as to what was going to happen to them. He has to know. And he has to be very, very worried.

She removed her costume and slipped into her night clothing. She threw off the bedspread and used only a thin sheet. The lights were turned off and Sue closed her eyes.

But it was many hours before sleep would come.

To Be Continued...Monday 

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Seven

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Ben was the first to react. His powerful fingers ripped off his shirt and jacket, leaving them tattered rags upon the polished wooden floor. His pants split along their seams and became more useless rags. Now Ben was clad only in the blue shorts that were his action dress. He felt comfortable this way. Comfortable, and free to move.

He shouted; his voice boomed like cannon fire. “Ya lousy, slimy tin can! How dare ya smash yer way in here?” With powerful leaps, the brutish Thing was at Doom’s side in an instant, and his massive hands grabbed Doom’s iron armor, but the Latverian leader stood stiff and still.

“Take your monstrous hands off me, you oafish clod. How dare you defile a true Monarch with your disgusting touch?”

Ben’s temper exploded, his right arm whirled back, and he formed a massive fist. “Ya tin-plated creep, I’m gonna make ya regret comin’ here!”

Suddenly, through the crowd, Reed Richards stretched his snake-like body, his arms elongating, his fingers curling around Ben’s fist. “No, Ben, don’t. He hasn’t started any fight. You can’t strike him.”

But nothing could stop Ben Grimm now. His fist flashed forward and pummeled the still-unmoving figure. “Monster, am I? Lemme show ya what kinda monster I am, tin-head!”

Ben clamped both hands together and whirled at Doom. The stiff figure rattled, and then his head jerked loose from his shoulders and flew across the suddenly silent crowd. “Whaa? I knocked off his blamed head. I don’t believe it.”

Ben stopped; his hands dropped like anchors to his side. His face took on a shocked expression. “I don’t believe it. I didn’t clobber ’im that hard. I know I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t, you stupid, senescient fool. Do you truly believe Victor Doom would allow himself to be so easily defeated by a monster with the mind of an infant?” Doom stood in the doorway of the gym and lifted the robot body that Ben had crushed from the floor. “I knew my appearance here would cause such a brainless display of violence. And Victor Von Doom abhors such mindles reactions. Perhaps now that you have vented your brutish anger, you can go sulk like a whimpering pup in the corner.”

“I clobbered a robot? That’s what I smashed?” Ben was still amazed, although he knew Von Doom’s evil genius could easily create an automaton far more elaborate than the one he had brought here.

Dean Collins stepped forward, pushing past Ben Grimm. “And you are still as arrogant as ever, Von Doom. I told you many years ago you were never to return here. That still has not changed.”

Von Doom tilted his head quizzically at the small man. With but a minor display of power, he could incinerate this fool. But this was not the time and certainly not the place. He had achieved a minor victory by forcing the brutish Thing to react. Now it was his time to act . . . but with kindness.

Vengeance would come later.

“Dean Collins, I was once a student here, and it is my wish to attend this reunion. Please believe me, I have no wish to create trouble. I merely anticipated my presence here would create violence. My robot was designed to let it harmlessly pass, and then to continue celebrating the festivities.”

Dean Collins fumed. “Doom, I don’t like you. I never have, and I do not care if you did attend this school. I don’t wish you to be here now. Leave, or I’ll call for the police.”

Doom laughed and saw Reed Richards standing behind the crowd, his arm around his wife’s waist. “Richards, tell the man that would be a wasted gesture. As Monarch of a foreign nation, I have certain immunities from your law officials. Besides which, I have done nothing but attend a party open to all my fellow classmates.”

Reed was grim. Doom was right. Even if they could have him removed, which was doubtful, he could not be prosecuted. He enjoyed diplomatic immunity, and Doom used that immunity with pleasure.

“I’m sorry, Dean Collins, but we can’t do anything—not unless he attacks us first.”

Collins let out a low curse. “Damn it, Doom, so help me, if you try anything . . .” He sputtered, not being able to think of anything he could do to the younger, vastly more powerful man who stood arrogantly before him.

Ben stared at Alicia. “He’s playin’ some sorta game, babe. It ain’t like him ta play party.”

Alicia tightened her grip on Ben’s arm, and she spoke softly. “He is an evil man, Ben . . . his voice is harsh and wicked, and he talks with an arrogant attitude. He feels himself better than any man here. Please, Ben, don’t antagonize him. There is no depth to which he will not sink to destroy an enemy.”

With long strides, Doom stepped to the center of the room. Still nobody spoke. The utterly contemptible fools. Look at them, struck silent at my mere appearance.

“I have come here,” he announced, “to offer forgiveness to this university for its rash treatment of me. I understand my actions had caused them some minor grief. Indeed, it destroyed the face beneath this iron mask, so I, too, have suffered for my, ah, sins. But I am here in the presence of my former friends to end the bitterness that stands between us all. I offer a gift few men have ever been given. My castle and all its wonders and glories are yours. I propose that this celebration be moved to my home in Latveria, where you common people will be permitted entrance into the grandest of all the European empires. You will be personally escorted on a tour of my home, and you will be safely returned here Sunday night.

“There is no trick in what I offer. I guarantee your safety—and more, I guarantee you will all be well rewarded for your journey. You will see sights no American has ever seen before. You will witness the wonders of Latveria, and its proud people, who serve me so zealously.

“I offer this all to you, my friends, as a tribute to this university. Without my brief time spent here, I would not be a ruler among rulers today.

“To assure everything I say is true, I invite Reed Richards and his friends to join us. Surely their great power will guarantee that I mean you no harm.

“I have a fleet of my royal jets awaiting us at the airport. We will arrive in Latveria before noon. Tomorrow and Sunday are yours, a gift from your humble fellow student. What say you, my friends?”

Doom’s impassioned speech brought stunned silence. How to answer? Voices murmured in whispers between husbands and wives. A European trip, free? But what if he attacks us? But Reed Richards will be there. He wouldn’t dare do anything. How can we say no? Think of it: we’ll never be offered a personal tour of a royal palace again. Please, say yes. I want to go.

Ben Grimm stood firm. “I don’t know what yer up ta, Doom, but I don’t like it. Count me out.”

Reed Richards shook his head. “I agree, Doom. You’ve never made any effort toward benevolence before. What are you up to?”

Doom was waiting for this; indeed, he had prepared for this very speech. “Up to? My dear colleague, I invite you to join us. Would I do that if I were up to something? Bring along your wife and friend. I want to make amends for our previous encounters.

“I see you do not believe me, Reed Richards. Very well, tell me what I must do to prove I have changed my ways. I no longer wish to expand my power. Indeed, I have decided that little Latveria is enough for any one man to rule.

“I merely wish to benefit mankind from this day forth. If you come with me, I will throw open the door to my many scientific secrets. They will be made available for all mankind to study.

“What else do you want from me, sir? I capitulate, I offer no resistance, should you wish to battle and destroy me now. I have no weapons on me or hidden in my invincible armor. Search me if you wish. You will see I speak the truth.”

“Don’t do it, Stretcho,” Ben said. “He’s up ta somethin’ stinkin’. I can smell it.”

Yet Reed was unsure. Doom’s science was magnificent. To have it revealed to mankind would prove a terrific boon. “I will come with you, Doom, to safeguard these people and to see if what you say is true. But I won’t force Ben or Sue to join us, and if anyone else decides not to come, I want them to be able to leave here now, unharmed. Is that clear?”

“It is clear, my friend. Very clear.” Doom spoke without emotion, but he felt elation. The fools believed me. How easy it is to offer peace. How quickly they grasp at any straws of hope. And how devastating they will find it when they are instantly and ignobly destroyed.

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Five
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As he straightened his tie and stretched an arm into the jacket of his new blue suit, Reed Richards said, “Ready, Sue?”

“What do you think of this, darling?” Sue asked, leaning into the doorway of their Baxter Building apartment. She wore a gold strapless evening gown cut low in front and plunging to her waist in back. The shimmering gown hugged her perfect figure where it was supposed to, and Sue looked every inch the model she had been before she had met Reed.

Appreciative, Reed circled his slim wife and whistled. “You’ll be the center of attention in that—dare I call it a dress? Is there enough material in it to legally call it a dress?” His eyebrow arched upward in mock seriousness.

Sue pouted. “Do you like it or not? And, please, don’t leer. It just doesn’t become an internationally known scientist such as yourself to leer so salaciously. After all, what if our son saw you like that?” She tsked him with a broad smile, then turned away with great flourish.

Reed crossed the room and took Sue into his arms. “I can ask the same, darling. Mothers didn’t look like you when I was growing up.”

He smiled a broad smile and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lovelier: not when we first met; not when we got married. Maybe I’m going crazy, but as you get older you get more and more beautiful.

“You don’t have an old painting aging in the closet by any chance, do you?” He laughed, then bent his head low to kiss her, not the mild kiss of a long-married couple familiar with each other, but the passionate kiss of a couple newly married, still anxious and fresh. It was long, fierce, and warm.

He felt her warm shoulder sway in his arms, and he was unable to remember ever caring about anyone before he had met her. Perhaps he had never even cared about himself.

He had always thought of himself as rather stiff and cold, all too logical. He had been raised in an orphanage and couldn’t remember what it must have been like to be loved and to love someone else in turn.

Work was all he busied himself with: the logical doings of the mind, he always told himself. The endless limit of his imagination could extend itself, should extend itself. He submerged his emotions, thought about nothing but his work.

Then he had met Sue, and she was always warm and laughing. So much the opposite of himself, yet he was fanatically drawn to her—not so much for her subtle beauty, but for how she acted when they were together.

She would readily listen to his hopes and dreams, and somehow she would always say something that would spur him ever on. She understood little of his work, but she cared about what he did because she cared about the man.

Sue Storm was able to make you the whole of her concern; nothing but you mattered while she was with you.

But she didn’t live for you alone. She had her own full life. She had been a model and at one time her all-American face was featured on every woman’s magazine. She was an actress who many considered a natural—“the new Hepburn!” the critics had called her. Her miraculous sensitivity somehow was reflected on the silver screen fifty times larger than life itself.

Yet she left the movies as unfulfilling. “I don’t need to play-act,” she said in one interview. “I have my own life I want to lead; I have things to do.”

At a White House reception for the sciences, Sue Storm spotted a tall, awkward-looking man sitting quietly in a dark corner, scribbling on a paper napkin with a blunt pencil, obviously oblivious to the social function he was attending.

The man was somewhat handsome, his brown hair already gray at the temples. “Excuse me,” she had said. “This seat taken? Your wife here?”

Reed Richards glanced up from his paper, somewhat confused. “Uh, no. I’m not married.” His stare returned to the paper and he continued to scrawl a complex formula on the napkin.

She sat next to him. “Let’s see, now. I take it you’re not one of the caterers working out the cost for this party. Am I right?” Once again Reed glanced up, confused. She was smiling broadly, and he then realized she had been watching him for ten minutes as he wrote down the formula for a non-fossil fuel he was trying to develop.

Her smile was contagious. “I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t know I was being rude. It’s just that I had thought of substituting an alcohol-base compound for—I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I—”

“Don’t apologize. I was bothering you. My name’s Susan Storm . . .” He listened, not connecting the name, or perhaps he had never heard it before.

He put out his hand and took hers. “Richards, Reed Richards. I’m with the institute.”

“Well, do you like it or not? You still haven’t said anything.” Reed shook the cobwebs from his mind and grinned.

“Let me put it this way, Sue. If I had never known you before, I would fall instantly and madly in love. Yes . . . I like it. Does that make you feel better?”

Sue threw up her hands. “A romantic! I married a man as romantic as Swiss cheese. What did I ever see in you, Reed Richards?”

Reed shook his head, wondering. “I don’t know, but if I ever find out, I’m going to package it and sell it as a guaranteed aphrodisiac. By the way, have you seen Ben and Alicia?”

“If ya didn’t, ya just didn’t look in the right places.” Ben’s gravelly voice boomed from behind them and they turned to see the orange-skinned Mr. Grimm dressed in an ill-fitting black tuxedo, a flourished white shirt, and absolutely no shoes at all. He looked like a bizarre grotesquerie created for a comedy film by Mel Brooks.

“Whadda ya laughin’ about, Stretcho? Ya know it ain’t easy ta find a tux in size two-hundred gorilla.” Indignant, Ben looked at Alicia. “Ya believe the nerve o’ them, kid? Sheesh, I tell ya, with friends like these . . .”

Alicia smiled. “I’m sure if I could see you, Ben, I’d probably have the same reaction. From how Reed describes you, you probably are a rather strange sight.”

Ben grumbled. “Just ’cause I look like a monster, everyone’s gotta pick on me—even my gal.” Ben’s voice seemed disturbed, but he knew better. Despite his gargoyle appearance, Alicia loved him—and not because she was blind and couldn’t see his monstrous features.

Alicia was a sculptor, perhaps one of the best in New York. And her blindness only enhanced the empathic sensitivity her work displayed. She had created many statues of Ben in the years she had known him, and they all portrayed his strengths and virtues, somehow clearly apparent even over his seemingly brutish appearance.

She was the stepdaughter of one of the Fantastic Four’s earliest foes, yet she loved Ben and his friends though they had to battle her father time and time again. If only her father, with his two sighted eyes, could see them as clearly as she could, blind.

Ben was sweet, gentle, kind, and giving, and there was something tragic about him that brought out her love even more.

He had been turned into something inhuman, his temper was at times ferocious, and his power was enough to level a city block with apparent ease, yet he could take a wounded bird in his thick, brick-like hands and shed a somber tear when the bird had died.

He may be a monster to some who can only see his thick orange skin, but he had more humanity in him than almost anyone Alicia Masters had ever known.

“Well, we leavin’ or stayin’? I gotta get this monkey-suit back ta the shop by mornin’.” Ben reached for a large cigar and stuck it in his wide mouth. “C’mon, I ain’t got all day.”

Sue turned toward the monitor screen and pressed for Johnny’s room. “Hold on, I just want to say good-bye to Johnny.” The viewscreen flickered and Johnny’s face appeared on it. “We’re going, Johnny.”

Her brother smiled. “Have a good time, Sis, and don’t worry about anything here. Franklin’s off with Agatha Harkness and I’ve got a date. Just enjoy yourself, okay, Sis?”

Sue nodded and flicked off the image. Agatha Harkness was their son’s tutor and sitter, a strange woman who lived in an old mansion in upstate New York, in a place called Whisper Hill. When they hired her, they thought she would merely be a baby-sitter. They didn’t learn until much later that she fit into their extended family better than they could have expected.

Agatha Harkness was a witch, and she was damned good at it.

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Four

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It was almost winter before the bandages were removed and in a mirror he saw the hideous mockery his face had become. His flesh was torn and scabbed, his hair missing and clumped in disgusting patches. Deep scars traced his face like the lines on a roadmap, and it was more than the proud Victor Von Doom could stand.

“God, I’m ugly—disgustingly ugly!” he cried, tears burning the welts that pockmarked his face. “What have I done to myself? What?”

A powerful fist smashed the mirror into a thousand cursed reflections, and blood ribboned down his torn hand. “It is too disgusting, too horrible. No other eyes must ever see my face again.”

He took to Asia and the mountains of Tibet. His mother’s diary told of an unknown sect of monks whose mastery of the Dark Arts made Cynthia’s knowledge pall in comparison.

The winter was especially harsh, bitter winds whipped around every peak, and Doom could only curse the gods for the freezing temperatures and the foul game that occasionally dared the icy snows. But Doom pressed on, remembering another wintry trek he had made with his father. He refused to be defeated then; nothing could stop him now.

The snow blinded him and for days he plodded forward, never knowing if his next step would take him toward his destination, or plunge him into a deadly crevasse.

His throat was parched, his muscles ached, and his bare skin would be cut and blood would instantly freeze to the wound. Hunger drove him mad and demons plagued his nights, yet nothing could stop him. He was Victor Von Doom. He would continue.

Until he dropped.

The snow was a warm blanket that gently covered his unconscious form. In his mind’s eye, he saw the seashore and proud horses, and Gypsies singing around the campfire. He saw his tall father holding his medicine bag tightly to his chest, laughing with the others, singing his bawdy songs.

And when the festival seemed to be at its zenith, he saw only blackness and he knew he was dead.

They spotted him in the snow, his bandaged face buried in a high drift, his parka ripped beyond usefulness, his provisions gone.

Four of them lifted him and brought him to their cave to be warmed by the fire. One robed figure motioned to the other: “Bring me the herbs and remedies.” He said nothing but was instantly understood. A third man removed his dark hood and sat cross-legged before the fire. The legends had foretold that one day “a faceless man will be your master.” Surely this man whose features had been ravaged was the man they had been promised.

For two months Doom slept in a coma; his pains had been eased by these strange, silent monks who prayed to the Dark Gods for his recovery. On Walpurgis Night, the day of Doom’s own birth, the fever which held him passed, and his eyes opened, and he picked himself off the straw cot and proudly stood before the monks, who bowed to him, chanting, “Master . . . master . . . master.”

Doom was satisfied. He was home.

A month later, he was strong. “There is much for me to learn. Your dark sciences and your most ancient secrets must be mine.” The monks bowed in acquiescence. They had awaited his coming for two thousand years. They were his to command.

By fall, there was nothing he did not know. He had mastered their sciences and sorceries with amazing ease. But something still nagged at him. The outside world had probably thought him dead. That insult could not be allowed. He had to return to life.

Then the awesome job began. Using the mouth of a giant idol as a makeshift furnace, the Gypsy son forged the most dreaded battle armor the world would ever see.

Within an unshatterable steel shell, he molded every weapon his mad mind could conceive. His servants took careful measurements: the arms, the legs, the chest . . . they all had to perfectly fit Von Doom.

Intricate computer circuitry was placed in the heavy iron glove, and on the right index finger a small ring was hidden which would unlatch the dreaded mask . . .

. . . that great gray skull-like face that would cover Doom’s own demolished visage.

“Does the armor pain you, Master?”

“Pain? That is for lesser men! What can pain mean to Victor Von Doom? Now—place on the mask!”

“But, Master, it has not completely cooled.”

“Say no more, monk.” Doom’s voice was seething with anger. “I will tolerate no further delay. I cannot wait a moment more.”

The great iron mask, still burning red with flame, was brought by heavy tongs toward Doom. His dark, brooding eyes glowed hungrily as it was placed on his face. “Never again will mortal eyes gaze upon the hideous countenance of Victor Von Doom. From this moment on, I shall be known as—DOCTOR DOOM!”

He stood tall and silent, a nightmare in gray, as a frightened monk approached him with the great green robe of Godhood, which he draped over Doom’s powerful shoulders. Gold-spun cord held by two golden disks fastened the flowing cape in place.

Yet even as he stood proud and regal as a King, Doom knew this iron armor was not yet enough. He needed power . . . the power of a country . . . to give him the immunity he required for his total scheme to be realized. And what better land to rule than the simple Bavarian country of his birth.

He had fled Latveria as a frightened child. But he would return as its absolute Monarch.

Years passed, and Doom gazed out the castle window watching his subjects scurry like mice far below him. They accepted him as ruler as he knew they would. His power assured that simple fact.

They were his people, and he treated them well, and he made their land more prosperous than it had ever been before. He asked little of them except total blind obedience, and his robot guard patrol would assure that.

Doom had his country, but he still wanted more.

“Tomorrow is the date, Master,” the old voice informed him. Doom turned from the window toward ever-loyal Boris. “Tomorrow is the date, sire.”

Doom’s own voice was deep and rumbling. “Yes, tomorrow the first step in realizing my true destiny will be taken. Prepare for my journey to America, Boris. I wish to arrive fashionably late for the festival.

“And I wish to see Reed Richards’s face when I do.”

With that, Doctor Doom threw back his great iron-clad face and laughed a cold, bone-chilling laugh.

To Be Continued...Monday 

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