The Apocalypse Four: 93 Million Miles To Gotham
THE APOCALYPSE FOUR: 93 MILLION MILES TO GOTHAM
By Timothy L. Mayer
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Prologue
Aleister Crowley almost died when the ghoul leaped at him.
It carried a large butcher knife in one hand and was intent on killing him in one slice. Crowley, who held a shotgun, swore and fired both barrels at the creature. The ghoul went down in a geyser of blood and entrails. It fell back behind the barricade, which was made of chairs and old tables. Crowley shoved two more shells in the shotgun chambers and snapped them shut. There were much more where that thing came from and more were on the way.
###
Marcus Garvey was a few steps back when another ghoul tried to break through the perimeter. He held a Lee Enfield rifle. Garvey fired and added a fourth ghoul to this evening’s tally. He’d remembered to bring along plenty of shells with him this time. It was something he’d heard on the island: Don’t underestimate the Devil; he has an eternity of tricks and schemes to play against you.
At least the men from the lodge covered his right and left flanks. This mad Englishman…Crowley made such claims over the past few days. So far, he’d held his ground and that was important.
###
Hearst stood at the doorway to the old factory and tried to figure out what to do next. If they were right, and his new friends were correct on many things, the world didn’t have much time left.
Hearst wasn’t the young, strapping lad who took over his dad’s newspaper years ago. Time was hard on his physique. At least Marion appreciated him, even if she was young enough to be his daughter.
He needed to focus on the task at hand. The men outside wanted his actions, not his editorials.
Damn, this was almost as invigorating as the time he’d gone down to Cuba. The Spanish Navy wasn’t half as crazed as the mob out there and the Spaniards had guns. The ghouls’ lack of guns kept them back. However, his comrades might not be able to hold them off for much longer.
Hearst gripped the handle of his gun. He began to walk toward the perimeter line. Hearst looked down at the gleaming revolver and remembered when he’d received it. His father gave it to him years ago. The old man had kept it by his side during the days he’d been a miner. It was the one thing those claim-jumpers understood out in the Western territories, he’d been told. Dad gave it to him years ago, right after college. He thought his son needed protection.
Somehow, Hearst thought, dad never considered when it would really come in handy.
###
Nikola Tesla finished his last calculation inside the old factory. He looked up at the oculus where the moon was visible. Even in the backlight of Manhattan, you could see it. Still, there were a few more things he needed to accomplish.
His attention was focused on the cylinder before him. They only had one chance to make it work. Should it malfunction, there would not be a second opportunity.
For this world or anything on it.
###
Garvey still wasn’t sure they could hold out for much longer. It was Saturday, April 8, 1917, a few days after Congress declared war on both Germany and the Austrian-Hungarian Empire.
Hard to believe that the war was in front of his mind last week. England and the rest of Europe were still killing each other, years after the carnage began that no one wanted. It was a distraction to him and his mission. So long as the war raged overseas, the British Empire could make demands on its subjects and they would have to go along.
He watched the mob of ghouls begin to form across the vacant lot the old factory faced. They’d been humans once upon a time. He could see plenty of workers in blue clothes transformed into the mindless creatures sent out against them days ago. Black, White, Chinese, the entire city was represented out there. He had no idea where they were found. The mob had the distant, blank look in their faces of the men in the trenches. The ones who’d suffered under constant barrage from artillery fire.
“Watch the line!” he yelled to a group of men to his right. They were local chaps, not from the islands as him.
###
Tesla turned around and glanced behind. The factory floor was empty. Crowley and the others were outside. They needed to keep those things away from the factory until he finished his work. Tesla looked down at the notes on the table before him. Usually, he could keep all the information in his head, but this time he needed to spread it out on paper.
He closed his eyes and calculated in Serbian, the language in which he still thought. It was natural to him, even though he’d learned the other languages at an early age.
He’d told the others there was a way to stop the destruction of Earth. It lay in his experiments. Funny how the mysterious benefactor had made the funds available the moment he hit on the idea. Even Westinghouse wouldn’t answer his letters, but this person, who remained anonymous, gave Tesla all the money he needed, even after he repurposed it. His unknown benefactor didn’t even flinch at what Tesla needed for the final, questionable parts.
###
Hearst looked up and saw a better position on the roof. He turned to the right and noted a staircase that ascended all the way up to the top. Good thing he didn’t need to be inside to reach it. Time was running out and Tesla had to finish what he started.
Assuming it works, Hearst grumbled to himself as he walked up the stairs. Tesla demonstrated the process a few days ago, but Hearst wasn’t sure it would function on a larger scale. Christ only knew how much money was dumped into this project. Tesla’s mysterious benefactor was hard to reach.
He smelled the smoke from the fires the ghouls had started outside the perimeter. For such mindless automatons, they were able to do some basic things. At least Marion wasn’t part of the group that tried to bust through the last time.
He stopped and thought about her. Such a precious child who showed him how much she appreciated the cash he’d spent on her. Now, Hearst wondered if the others might be correct. Perhaps Marion was only nice to him because of the money. Dammit, she wouldn’t be the first. But with her, he felt special. If only his wife hadn’t found out….
Hearst tried to spot her down in the mob and gave up. It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t make the device functional. According to Tesla and the others, their time was almost up.
He made it to the final step with a bit of exhaustion. The years weren’t easy on him and the weight gain hard to justify. Too many dinners at Delmonico’s. He once prided himself on his lack of sleep, but now he needed more of it.
Hearst checked the revolver as he walked out onto the roof. He remembered target shooting with the old man out in the desert. Those were hot days in the direct sun. Even a hat didn’t keep the heat out of your brain. He remembered how his father squeezed the trigger and popped a can at fifty yards. He lectured to young William on the importance of keeping the gun clean. This would lead to another lecture on keeping yourself clean. The old man obsessed over that one.
Hearst leaned on the wall in front of him and looked down at the scene below. The barricade would keep the mob back only so long. Where the hell was the police? Why didn’t the insane mob attract more attention? Christ, this was Manhattan; the damn island was filled with people. Where were the teaming masses that turned out for every street brawl and tenement fire?
###
“Al-ee-star!” Crowley heard the East European voice cry out from the doorway to the factory. He lowered his shotgun, backed up, and turned around.
As expected, it was Tesla who called him. The ghouls on the other side of the barricade howled nonstop. This made it hard to hear over their sounds.
The doorway was filled with the lithe form of the great inventor, the master of electricity who lived in a hotel not far away. Nikola Tesla, the genius from Serbia. The man responsible for it all.
“What is it?” Crowley snapped back. He rubbed his bald head and was glad he’d shaved. The weather was still cold outside. His wool coat didn’t help much; too many holes.
“I need your help,” Tesla called back. “I need you to watch a gauge while I do something. Marcus and the others can keep them back long enough.”
“I certainly hope so,” Crowley snapped again. He cradled the shotgun under one arm and walked in the direction of the doorway.
“Quick,” Tesla told him as Crowley reached the entrance. Even today, Tesla was dressed in spotless clothes.
The device stood on its base in the middle of the factory floor. It shined from the light of the incandescent bulbs aimed at it. They cylinder pulsed with its own internal energy. Tesla explained to Crowley several times how it functioned, but he couldn’t remember much.
“I need you to watch this gauge,” Tesla told him. He handed Crowley a glass tube attached to a rubber hose. The tube was filled with some kind of liquid. A scratch on the exterior of the glass indicated an endpoint.
“If it gets too close to the mark,” Tesla informed him, “let me know right away.”
“Can you give me some bloody idea of how close is too close?” Crowley tossed back at him. “I don’t even know what you’re doing.”
“It would take too long to describe,” Tesla replied. “If it gets about an inch from the line, yell for me.” Satisfied that Crowley understood, Tesla walked away.
Crowley looked at the tube and tried to figure out what was inside. It resembled mercury, but the liquid could be any material Tesla found useful. The man had the mind of a Babbage Machine. He could bring up any obscure bit of data needed. It was an amazing thing to see, but limited to what he needed.
Tesla vanished behind the cylinder. He was busy at work a few seconds later. This left Crowley standing with the tube in one hand. He fumed. The entire world was about to be destroyed. He couldn’t contact his Holy Guardian Angel. Worst of all, this week he’d found out his mother was dead. She hadn’t left him much; most of what the old horror had scurried away went to his Uncle Tom.
There was a loud cry from the outside, which caused him to drop the tube. He turned and saw the thing he most feared.
“Nikola!” Crowley screamed, “The ghouls broke through!”
Chapter 1
April 1, 1917
Crowley awoke in the garret room he used. It wasn’t much of a space to call home, but, due to his current financial situation, it would have to do. The artist who let him use it was a decent chap and a good friend. They’d spent the previous night talking about many things, but Crowley needed to get up early the next day. Last week, another female admirer had sent him a letter desiring a meeting. Crowley smelled an opportunity. He agreed to meet with her at a small place down the street. Perhaps it would lead to something more.
Crowley put on his hat as he shuffled out the door. There should be a pushcart vendor somewhere down there, even on a Sunday. Strange how possessive these Americans were about their Sabbath. They even made the Jews take it off. He shook his head and began to walk down the stairs.
He was on the first landing when it occurred to him that he’d neglected his morning routine. Crowley stopped. He faced the rising sun that sent its warm light through the window.
“Hail unto thee!” Crowley began his morning salutation to the solar disc. He kept his voice low enough not to wake the neighbors. This wasn’t a beach in Mexico where he could perform his salutations in all their glory.
Finished, he continued down the stairs. The room where he stayed wasn’t the best place in town, but it didn’t cost him a thing. For the time being, he would have to forgo hot water and a private bath. Surely, his situation would improve when the war in Europe was over.
As Crowley walked out onto the streets of Manhattan, he tried to remember when his last letter was sent to the British Embassy. They had to know he was ready to serve the British Empire by now. All those years he’d tried to pose as a renegade were over. Surely, no one would believe him a traitor.
It stung, it did. All those allegations he’d worked for the Germans in America after the war took off. No one ever listened to him. Only a few people and they were his closest supporters. At least he was back in New York City, where a man could find intellectual stimulation and a good game of chess. He’d spent the previous few months in Florida with his insane relatives. It was more than a man should have to bear. He’d tried one night to dispute the origins of the New Testament with one of his distant cousins. The man screamed at him for three straight hours about the power of Christ.
He bought a roll from one of the pushcart vendors and looked up at the sky. The weather seemed good for this time of year, but it could always change. He regarded it as a major failure that the weather wouldn’t respond to his own personal invocations.
Crowley stopped when he heard a conversation in Russia behind him. He turned around, roll in hand, to face a medium-built man. He was in a deep dialogue with another gentleman. Both wore glasses and had bushy beards. Crowley spent enough time in Tsarist Russia to follow conversations, but not a whole lot. Now the Tsar was gone and no one knew who would replace him.
“Pardon me,” Crowley said to the man who stood next to him, “but did you just say you are headed back to Russia?”
The taller of the bearded men turned at looked at him with curiosity. “You speak Russian?” he asked.
“A bit,” Crowley responded. “I was there for a few months before the war. Why on earth do you want to go back to that place? The government may be new but it’s still at war with Germany. Here is a much safer place to be.” He munched on his roll.
“You seem familiar,” the man asked him. “Have you attended my lectures?” He stared at Crowley through his glasses with intent.
“I don’t think I have. I returned a few weeks ago to the city. I’ve been away for a long time. When did you start your lectures?”
“About five months ago. What is your name, if I might ask?”
“Aleister Crowley,” he responded with a stiff back. “And who might you be?”
“Leon Trotsky,” the other responded. “Ah, I now remember, that English mystic who so often causes trouble for the bourgeoisie.”
“I’ve heard of you too. You’re the dangerous revolutionary that makes many people uncomfortable. Going to take a job with the new government over there? I wouldn’t, it probably won’t last very long.”
“It won’t last long at all if I have anything to do about it,” Trotsky sneered. “Those foolish upper-class types think they have the Will of the people. They’ll soon learn how wrong they are.”
“I see. And you, who’ve been away for so long, can manipulate the Will of the people.”
“I don’t have to manipulate anything, sorcerer. I have the fundamental knowledge of the forces that drive history. I don’t need to summon up ghosts to tell me what to do.”
“I haven’t seen too many ghosts,” Crowley responded. “I rather guess Europe is full of them after all these years of war. I wish you good fortune on your great work. But remember, love is the law.”
“It powers no law to which I am aware,” Trotsky snapped back. “Now if you will excuse me, I have much packing to do. Our ship leaves today.” He continued on his way down the street. The other man followed.
Crowley sighed and continued to eat his roll. At least he didn’t have to worry about that war from this side of the Atlantic. Plenty of people he’d known already we
re dead because of it. It was a foolish affair and he was glad to be free of it.
Still, there was much work to be done if he would ever make humanity see him as the true prophet it needed. It all seemed so clear to him years ago when he was with Macgregor and the others. But then the group of Freemasons split apart and went their separate ways. He’d tried to intervene and put things back together, but to no avail. Even after he found that document that Rose received from the secret chiefs, no one would listen to him. Mountain climbing gave him some relief for years, but now he had little time to do even that.
He waited around the front of his building for a good hour before Crowley decided the new prospect wasn’t about to show. The Englishman cursed in silence. He’d done a reading last night that showed a high probability for success today. Or did the spirits tell him that today would bring about some monumental changes? He couldn’t remember. When he had time, he needed to check the position of the stars. The stars were in the sky for thousands of years. Astrologers had documented occurrences that followed their positions. At least there was a determined record.
He looked at the clock in a nearby store window and decided she wasn’t going to show. Crowley fished through his pockets for a cigar, but couldn’t find one. He still had some money left. There were a number of tobacconists on the street. He could still afford a decent cigar. Crowley headed over to the nearest tobacco shop.
The tobacconist was an older man who gave him a discount on a cigar from a smaller company. Crowley looked it over, inhaled the fragrance, and paid the man. He left the shop with its exotic smell. Crowley was back out on the street in minutes. He’d managed to bring along some matches, so at least he had a way to light the cigar. Now, all he needed was a quiet place to smoke.
A small park next to the street intersection provided him with what he needed. Crowley worked his way around some women who pushed baby carriages on the sidewalk until he found an unoccupied bench. He’d waited for this opportunity the moment he purchased the cigar. Nothing like a moment of peace and quiet as you inhaled the fresh scent of a good one.