To Battle Beyond

Introduction

By Ron Fortier

In the early 1930s, America found itself locked in the grip of what historians call the Great Depression. The once flourishing, robust economy of the industrial age had suddenly gone bust and millions of Americans found themselves homeless and jobless.

Amidst this atmosphere of despair, the publishing world brought forth a new kind of magazine geared to alleviate, in some small way the daily woes of the American populace. Cheaply produced on the pulp residue left over in the printing process, these small, inexpensive monthlies with the garishly loud covers were identified as the pulps.

Each and every month hundreds of assorted titles, covering every conceivable genre imaginable, graced the shelves of drugstore racks and sidewalk kiosks.

Among the most popular, and thereby successful, of these pulps were the hero titles. And why shouldn't they be? In a time when most of life seemed cruel and unfair, what reader wouldn't long to find stalwart heroes ready to combat villainy and confirm that in the end, justice, and the good guys, would win. Among this elite group of pulp heroes, the finest were Street & Smiths The Shadow and Doc Savage. Even to this day, generations later, those names ring familiar to folks who have absolutely no clue as to who these heroes were. That says much to the lasting impact they had on American culture.

Of course, as in all literature, for every king-of-the-hill, there were dozens of also-ran; the B and C heroes that are mostly forgotten today, except for the few hundred diehard pulp fans. These old timers keep their memories alive via the many conventions they host throughout the country. Some even started their own publishing ventures and began reprinting those cherished, classics tales. A few years ago I became acquainted with this fan movement and it opened my eyes to the cornucopia of long lost, truly bizarre and wonderful fictional characters that existed in the heyday of the pulps. Attending several pulp conventions, I saw first hand the enthusiasm of the fans and their genuine love for this brand of purple prose. Which is where I began formulating the idea of writing new stories about these old heroes. You see, most of them had long since become public domain, i.e. their copyrights had expired ages ago.

With the help of several colleagues, both writers and artists, I began producing a series of new pulp adventure anthologies and novels. Joe Gentile over at Moonstone Books, had the same idea and put together a truly beautiful anthology featuring The Spider. Joe invited me to contribute a story, along with eighteen other writers. Among of these was my pal, C.J. Henderson. C.J. had made a name for himself with two series; Jack Hagee, tough guy private eye and Teddy London, occult detective. There have been many of others, but these two are the names most often associated with his by-line.

When I learned that C.J. had done several stories for the Spider book, I contacted him about possibly doing something for us. He asked to see the roster of heroes I had lined up for possible projects and after a few days called to say he wanted to do a Black Bat story. But before he did so, he needed to know who the hell this guy was? Anticipating this question from my contributors, I had assembled a pulp heroes' bible listing all our characters of interest.

From the pages of Black Book Detective, Tony Quinn was a young, handsome crusading district attorney on a mission to bring down organized crime. During a murder trial, one of the defendants threw acid into his face permanently blinding him and leaving the area about his eyes horribly scarred. After leaving the hospital, the blind Quinn assumed his crime busting days were over and resigned. He opened a private practice relegating his future to a boring life of a corporate law. Enter the beautiful Carol Baldwin whose father, a local town sheriff, was gunned down in the line of duty. Familiar with Quinn's history, Carol told the doctors she wanted to donate her deceased father's eyes to the former district attorney. A radical new procedure had been developed and Quinn, albeit unconvinced it would succeed, agreed to undergo the transplant surgery and received his new eyes.

Lo and behold, the operation was not only a whopping success, returning his sight, but somehow the unorthodox technique provided Quinn with a remarkable new ability. His new eyes could see in the dark! For Tony Quinn, an unlit room at midnight now appeared as of if it was bathed in the sunlight high noon. Realizing what an asset this unexpected gift was, Quinn devised a new scheme to combat crime. He would keep his regained vision a secret and continue to act the part of a blind man. Meanwhile he created a new persona, a black clad, hooded avenger who wears a black cape with steel rods and scalloped edges to give himself the appearance of a giant man-bat creature. With twin .45 automatics blazing, he became the deadly Black Bat. In this role he was aided by three confidantes, the aforementioned Carol Baldwin, who soon became his love interest, a former conman named Silk Kirby and a rough and tumble ex-boxer, Butch O'Leary.

Once C.J. had this information, he wasted no time in whipping up a great fifteen-thousand-word Black Bat yarn. I was thrilled, thanked him and figured that was that. The story would go into the files until the rest of the book was filled. What I couldn't have anticipated was C.J.'s infatuation with pulp writing. He'd gotten the bug. Within days of submitting the Black Bat piece, he called me with an idea for a pulp novel that would team up several of the characters on our to-use list. To say I was pleasantly surprised would be an understatement. Who was he thinking of using, I asked, at the same time guessing the Black Bat would most likely be among his picks. My hunch was right as he rattled them off; Black Bat, the Domino Lady and Ravenwood. It was an eclectic grouping, as the three were very much different types. Then, before I could digest all of this, he dropped his final coup-de-gras.

His plot idea revolved around pitting these three against a Lovecraftian outer-dimensional monster which would allow him to also include Inspector John Legrasse in the mix. Legrasse is the monster hunter who first appeared in H.P. Lovecraft's seminal horror classic, The Call of Cthulhu. C.J. had, over the past few years, literally adopted the irascible Frenchman and made him his own. Somewhere in all this, I mumbled a whispered okay, still stunned by the entire idea of such a book. C.J. in turned asked me to once more provide him with background data on these other pulp avengers.

Ellen Patrick was a beautiful, twenty-year old blonde with brown eyes and heart shaped lips. She lived in Southern California with her widowed father, politician Owen Patrick. After graduating from Berkeley, the bored socialite/debutante was given a trip to the Far East as a graduation gift from her loving father. While in Asia, she received a telegram that her father had been assassinated. She returned home to bury him and learn the truth of his murder. From various sources, she discovered that her father had been about to reveal to the press the names of several corrupt government officials. The police believed that was the motive behind his killing but without concrete clues, their investigation was terminated and the killer never found.

Incensed by this lack of justice, Ellen pledged to devote her life to uncovering corruption wherever it festered and stamping it out. To do so she became the night time vigilante, Domino Lady. Her outfit consisted of a silver or black form-fitting, strapless evening gown, a shoulder cape and a domino mask. That was it. Part of her ploy was to distract her enemies, most of them pea-brain thugs, by brazenly displaying her rather ample physical attributes. Thus while a crook was ogling her bountiful bosom, she would get the drop on him. This was done with the use of her small, silver plated .22 automatic or by injecting them with the syringe she kept affixed to her shapely leg with a garter; it being filled with a fast-acting knock-out drug.

Logic and common sense had no place in her stories. That a scantily clad vixen could effectively get the upper hand on hardened gangsters and at the same time elude the police was stretching credulity to the max. But pulps, especially the Domino Lady stories, were never about realism. On the contrary, they were about make believe and outlandish imagination. The sexy avenger's career was short lived as she only appeared in six stories via Mystery Adventure Magazine and Saucy Romantic Adventures. Still, she was featured on the cover of each title at least once — which is more than can be said for the third and final recruit in this new adventure.

Many of the hero pulps normally contained one short novel starring the central figure and three to four short stories. Some of these back-up tales were themselves series with recurring heroes. One such that appeared regularly in the back of Secret Agent X was Ravenwood: Stepson of Mystery. Gifted with psychic abilities, this handsome young man oftentimes could predict the future and aided the police of New York City in unraveling some of their more spectacular cases. His origin was typically pulp exotic. His father was American and his mother British. They raised him in India where he was trained by a mysterious man known only as the Nameless One in the strange occult powers of Tibet. When his parents were killed in a plague that swept through their Burmese village, Ravenwood returned to the states accompanied by the Nameless One. The Nameless One never left the solitude of his room in their penthouse apartment, yet via telepathy, he communicated with the occult investigator and continued to teach him in the ways of the mystic arts. Residing with them was Sterling, a tall, stodgy, stereotypical British butler/cook. Sterling was a voracious reader and a walking encyclopedia of the city. He was uncomfortable around the Nameless One and they had an uneasy relationship, held together by their mutual loyalty to Ravenwood.

Of the three, Ravenwood was clearly the hero that would have lots in common with Inspector Legrasse. It was easy for me to understand why C.J. had chosen him. How Ravenwood and Legrasse would interact with the Domino Lady and the Black Bat was something altogether different. Once C.J. had a plot hammered out, he began to pump out chapters and sent them along. Soon it was clearly evident that he was relishing every scene in this book as the characters sprang to life on his pages. As the heroes started to come together, I was impressed by how well he dealt with their individual personalities and allowed those to shine through in guiding these exchanges. Any good writer will tell you, if you write your characters honestly, they will lead the way, revealing new depths to their personalities previously hidden. Thus the writer finds himself on a journey of discovery, as his characters begin to live and breathe in the world he has made for them.

To Battle Beyond is no exception. It is a taut, fast paced adventure with some of the most colorful characters you are likely ever to find assembled in one book.

There is suspense, gruesome murder and pulse-pounding action all in the grand tradition of the classic pulps, with a heady dose of horror thrown in for good measure. C.J. is completely in his element throughout. Oh, and if you are curious as to what became of that original Black Bat tale he did for me, well look no further than the back of this very volume. It's been added here as a bonus. You can find more of C.J.'s work on Lovecraft's acerbic detective in Tales of Inspector Legrasse from Mythos Books. The Domino Lady and the Black Bat joined forces again under his inspired guidance in a brand new team-up story appearing soon in Moonstone's The Domino Lady Chronicles. The guy just naturally keeps busy.

In the meantime, buckle your safety belts, fire up your disbelief and get ready to be thrilled, amazed and completely entertained. You are entering the realm of the pulps—there's nothing else like it in world!

— Ron Fortier 10/29/2007 Somersworth, NH

To Battle Beyond

Prologue

The unprecedented storm had hit in the black depths of night, slamming its way up and down the rocky California coast for hours, then days on end. For all intents and purposes, the raging nightmare seemed to descend on the state from out of nowhere. Despite the accuracy and sophistication of the government's weather devices in the modern age of 1941, none of their advanced machines had been able to predict its coming, and for good reason.

This particular storm was different from any other ever witnessed by modern man. Extremely different. It was not preceded by any of the usual changes in barometric pressure. There was no gradual shifting of the temperature, nor in the humidity levels. The surf did not slowly build to the eventual fever pitch that greeted the black-skied dawn. No, one minute all the world was behaving normally, in the manner made famous by postcards sold from Los Angeles to San Francisco. The next minute it was a tumult, one drowning surfers, smashing pleasure craft and turning a sensible world into nightmare.

What also struck those in the know as off was the fact that usually such storms, ones so massive, so all-encompassing, start far out in the ocean, giving plenty of warning as they traveled toward shore over a matter of days. That was not the case with this one, however. None of the ships at sea, those heading into Californian ports, or sailing out from them, radioed any changes in the weather. Not one—and for good reason. One minute, both the skies and seas had been calm and clear, from Honolulu to San Francisco—from the Baja to Portland. The next moment, however, the wrath of some furious god was evident in every force that nature possessed.

The nightmarish storm that ravaged the Pacific coastline sprang monstrously to life in a blood-drenched instant, full-grown and brimming over with horrible, mind-boggling destruction. The incredible winds set frightening records never before imagined. Roofs were sliced away from houses and sent spinning across the skies. Trees were torn from yards and parks and shattered into splinters. The wind raged and all the air was filled with flying debris—fences, bicycles, garbage cans and milk bottles, even animals.

Even people.

The ever-growing waves coming in off the ocean were equally destructive. They were colossal, gigantic things, near tidal walls of overwhelming destruction. One after another, they battered the coastline driving sand and sea weed more than a half a mile inland. Roadways were shattered, homes washed away, entire families drowned. Water exploded against the unsuspecting edge of America with a power indescribable, destroying buildings, crushing power plants, over-flowing rivers and dams.

The resulting floods flashed up and down the unprotected rim of the continent, swamping hundreds of communities. Nearly every population center on the beleaguered western coast of the United States crawled to their windows in the morning to find water-clogged streets, most with more than one body floating face down in the stinking, brackish spew.

Fish of every kind were found far inland as well, many of them strange creatures never seen before by the eyes of man. Chalk white-skinned and eyeless, their dead, decaying bodies drifted half-above and half-below the surface of a thousand new lakes, the roiling summer heat summoning flies and other vermin to their quickly rotting bodies.

Of course, not all that boiled and lapped and spewed across the land that dark morning had been sent there from the ocean alone. The skies had bled billions of gallons of freezing cold water, as well as massive quantities of a most destructive hail. The majority of the violent bombardment had fallen in the standard sized pellets common to the phenomenon, but far too much of it had not, coming down instead in stone-hard, brick-sized lumps. The withering attack smashed windows, caved in car roofs, and shattered the skulls of those unlucky enough to be caught it the path of the unexplainable occurrence.

Indeed, so violent were the pounding onslaughts of hail and rain that eventually great quantities of the California coast began to lose its cohesion. Those who built there had thought such structures to be safe for a century or more—at least. They had not counted on the coming of such a nightmare falling upon their work, however. By the end of the second day of rain, many mountainsides were breaking apart and sliding downward back to the ocean, taking whatever might be on them down beneath the waves.

Over seven hundred Californian homes were lost simply from being washed down to the sea, if not out to the sea. At least one entire community suffered extinction from having been built too close to the ocean in an age still not prepared to hold nature back with two hands. The loss of life left the entire nation in a stunned silence.

Even before it had ceased, the storm was declared a disaster beyond all proportion. The Pacific coastline of North America had never seen such a devastating lashing. Well, of course, that was the wisdom of the radio pundits as well as the sages who sold the nation's newspapers. And, in their tiny, blindered way, they were correct. Within recent memory, the minuscule sliver of time which began when mankind had begun to chart such events and formalize its records of them, it was, indeed, by far the worst storm humanity had ever recorded.

But, before the ink of man was ever set to paper, there were those whose records extended back far beyond those of the modern news and wire services. Filled with ancient and abominable secrets, the sources of these priests and magicians spoke of elder times when such opulent displays of power were tritely commonplace. Their secret books and scrolls told of times long past when storms of a like magnitude were thought of as simply average weather—as just the way of things. These were times, however, long before mankind held much sway over the doings on the Earth. Times when fierce and terrible creatures held sway instead.

Vast millennia in the galaxy's distant past, the Earth had been a strategic battlefield, a much sought after location prized by various star-faring races, as well as by the mind-boggling God-Things they defied. Over several score millions of years, these beasts and creatures and all-powerful entities struggled one against the other, mindlessly ravaging each other, the planet, and even the rest of the solar system. During their endless combat, more than a dozen entire species saw the end of their existence in the muck and blood-drenched ooze of the tiny world that would eventually be the home of humankind.

One by one, however, as these various races and entities expired, the Earth began to know a rough peace of sorts. As interstellar combat faded within the far-from-central reaches of the end of the galaxy housing the Earth, mammals finally crawled forth timeously from the shadows, picking up the pieces left over from the struggles gone before. In time, man would step forth and claim the crown of master of the world, his ape face smiling idiotically, resplendent in his ignorance of all that had gone before him.

To the human race, the handful of millennia during which it had held sway over the Earth was an endless measure. In truth, humanity had been master of the planet for less time than several of the longer wars that preceded its coming. Thus, blithely complacent in its sweeping arrogance, the race of men could only see the nightmarish storm pummeling California as something new— a test created exclusively for them. Through their utter lack of any perspective, they could only frame the devastating gale as a freak, an aberration. As a thing they could hope would never strike again.

Their hopes were, all too horribly, in vain.

And, their complete and utter lack of understanding as to the true nature of the storm—its ancient design as well as its actual intent—was the key ingredient in a plan put into effect several times before the race of men became conscious.

Foretold it was, that the storm that hit California was only the first of four. The first of four storms meant to end the reign of man, and to usher in the return of the Gods.

Chapter 1

Of all the strange things the inspector had come across in his long and varied career, this was the strangest he had ever seen. The first thing he noticed, as had those few others who had peered into the old house out near the swamp, was the bizarre display of traps all about the doorway. Immediately, there in the front foyer, appearing to be set to surround the mail slot cut into the door, spread in a semi-circle, he had come across two lines of traps.

Mouse traps.

Rat traps.

In here, el Grande...

All manner of snares.

Here is something for you to see...

All agreed that their positioning had to mean that they had been set for something their owner must have felt was actually going to be able to enter his home through the mail slot. Of this there was no question amongst those gathered at the crime site. A quick inspection of the opening showed the passage way to be only one inch by three, covered by a springed hinge that had to be moved with a bit of effort.

Come in and meet the former Hector Claro, and—the officer's voice shifted to a supercilious tone—let me tell you right now, Inspector...

Good and great Mother in Heaven, wondered former Inspector-of-Police John Raymond Legrasse, just what could this man have been expecting to come through such a tiny and hard to open aperture other than his mail?

You're not going to believe this.

Legrasse hated to admit it, but his one-time lieutenant was correct. Even after all of the unnatural things he had witnessed in his time, he did not believe what he found in the next room. It was too odd. Too despairing.

This isn't one of your pranks, is it?

Too perplexed by the oddity of the inside of Hector Claro's home to make one of his usual wisecracks, Lieutenant Joseph D. Galvez shook his head gravely, admitting;

No... I say this truly, I could but wish my sense of humor were this magnifico.

Legrasse nodded, understanding the smaller man without need for further explanation. The scene in the humble home's main room was one snatched from nightmare. Without prompting, the one-time inspector of police unconsciously fell into old habits at once. In less than a minute his virgin notepad was bleeding its first page and a half —

Deceased, identified as Hector Claro, found dead, sitting in an upright position, situated in a corner diagonally as far removed from the front door as possible.

Deceased appears not to have been arranged in corner, but to have died of natural causes. Deceased most likely was facing front door at time of death.

Found in foyer upon arrival: various sizes and strengths of standard rodent spring traps set within the doorway.

Theory: Traps set to catch something deceased suspected would come through front door mail slot.

Immediate placement: three large traps—set out but not baited—spread in triangle formation directly below the mail slot in the door.

Further on, spread outward in semi-circle, two additional lines of traps. These all standard mouse traps, rat traps. This is scene just in the foyer.

Inside the house: traps everywhere—scores? Hundreds? Set out...

Patterns?

Can you believe this guy? asked Galvez. The man's voice was indecisive, unable to either pick a tone, or to slide one way or the other into humor or concern. "He surrounds himself with traps. Okay—he's scared. I understand that. But,