by Paul and Mike Cocker

Like clockwork, Earl Stafford awoke dry-heaving. He stiffened then relaxed in the drenched sheets. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, sliding past furrowed skin and down to his angular jawline. His lips quivered with distress. He felt his pulse thunder through his temples and, fearing his brain might suddenly burst from the pressure, held the sides of his head.

Weakly, he rose from the bed, and stumbled through the darkness of the motel room toward a slight band of light in the distance. Ever since the withdrawal resurfaced, he'd taken to leaving the bathroom light on during the night. It was his beacon of relief.

Stafford's stomach muscles wrenched as he pushed open the door. The mirror on the medicine cabinet greeted him with the most drawn, homely face. A haggard man, white-haired and lined with age, stared at him with such frailty. He tried to ignore the image and opened the cabinet door. A wretched smile split across his face as he reached for a small bottle of pills inside. Desperately, Earl fought with the bottle, finally opening it. He ingested one of the pills whole.

As soon as he swallowed it, a surge of vigor rushed over him. The pill immediately ate away the pain inside him, giving him a new found strength. His pulse shortened, changing tempo, changing rhythm, repeating over and over. His tense body eased and regained posture. Earl felt so rejuvenated. He felt like he could throw a car.

He turned the faucet on, splashed some cold water on his face and rinsed the taste of bile from his mouth. He immediately began brushing his teeth then washed away the last lingering effects of the withdrawal. He stared at his reflection in the mirror again. A rugged yet venerable man with broad shoulders and a tight, firm torso looked back at him. Stafford breathed with a sigh of relief.

Refreshed, Earl didn't return to bed. It had become his routine to wake up like this, in such agony, to remind himself that he was still human. He'd sleep until the urge for the T-Formula wracked at his body and mind, not only waking him to feed his fix for the serum but also to ready him for his job. It was his sick idea of an alarm clock.

Stafford began his morning, as usual, with calisthenics. Every day without fail, he started out with ten minutes of stretching and forty-five minutes of crunches, push-ups, pull-ups, and jumping rope, followed by thirty minutes of working with weights. Earl's job demanded for him to be in the best shape possible. Most dedicated athletes might use the more high-tech workout equipment out in the free world, but Stafford preferred the crude mainstays. He'd first begun his daily regimen fifty years ago while training for high school football. The regimen had stood the test of time. Though he prided himself on physical fitness, time and circumstances had eventually taken their toll.

Just as Earl curled his hundredth rep with the ninety-pound dumbbell, the pager on his night stand went off. He immediately set the weights down and walked across the flophouse room to the closet. He didn't even bother checking who had paged him.

Earl opened the closet door, his eyes narrowing on the star-spangled outfit before him.

It was early November in that dark, bony-branch period immediately after Hallowe'en. A deep, green mist swathed the whole of Hell's Kitchen. Thick, still, and impenetrable, it loomed over the city like a poisonous shroud. Coydog sat behind the wheel of a late-model Dodge. He nervously drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and kept glancing from his watch to the service entrance of the warehouse, waiting for his boss. C'mon, c'mon. Coydog didn't like waiting. Not under these conditions. Get your ass outa there, man.

The streets in and around the lower parts of midtown Manhattan's West Side had never been really safe. Knife fights had given way to gunfights, and handguns had given way to automatic weapons. And now with the threat of the ever-lingering noxious gas released by Apocalypse Now, turf wars between rival gangs had grown increasingly more deadly. In some neighborhoods, the murder rate had reached all-time highs.

Coydog knew that it would take something on the order of the National Guard to stop the killing. But who was to say that this would happen before the gangs wiped each other out entirely?

Inside the warehouse building, Jakob Khan leaned against a rusted railing in silence. He reached in his duster pocket and pulled out a cheroot. A match then flared brightly and lit up his overshadowed face. He brought the match in closer, setting the cigar that dangled from his mouth aflame. Tendrils of smoke escaped his nostrils as he exhaled.

Jakob didn't mind standing in the darkness; his vision wasn't inhibited by it. The building he stood in was absolutely disgusting. Water damage had stained the walls and floor, and the ceiling bowed in many places. The malodorous smells that Jakob picked up would have knocked out a normal man, but he had grown accustomed to scents, even the most foul and rank.

"I really like what you've done to the place, Master." Jakob said, chewing on the end of his mangled cigar. A bitter taste entered his mouth when he called the man by his name. He hated the whole subservient suggestion of it. "And by the way, do ya go by another name. If I have to call ya Master one more time I think I'm gonna puke."

"Absolutely, Jakob," replied the man before him. "You may call me Black Priest. That is, of course, if I may call you Mastiff."

A slow grin crept across Jakob's face. "Heh heh, whatever, Black Priest."

Black Priest had four individuals in hooded robes with him. Their cowls blocked their features and they varied in size, but Jakob figured they were bodyguards. Two female shapes flanked Black Priest's sides, one hulking shape slipped in the shadows at back, and the last figure, a lanky male, stood by Jakob to trip him up if he tried to attack. With the exception of the powerful one at back, the bodyguards didn't seem like a threat. Good protection, after all, came dime-a-dozen common in the organized crime business, so Jakob barely gave them a conscious thought. His confidence stemmed not only from arrogance, but also from knowledge of his own abilities.

Black Priest stepped forward, beside a boarded window. Oblong rays of moonlight seeped through the cracks and cast a menacing glow over him. His skin was cold white, offsetting the ebony fire in his eyes. His black hair was slick, cropped, more closely resembling a burnished skullcap. He wore a lavish cape, and its high crimson collar framed his head while its ends played about his ankles. The cape also obscured the bodysuit that hugged his well-sculpted frame. The man smiled encouragingly, which was somehow more foreboding since his lips were as black as death.

"So, whatcha think of it?" asked Mastiff, looking at the runic, gold-shod staff Black Priest held.

Gloved hands worked their way along the wooden skin of the shaft. The ominous man looked over it much like a jeweler who examines a rare gem. "Quite exquisite, and most certainly genuine."

"Of course it's friggin' genuine. The thing'll make your ass pucker, I'm tellin' ya."

"Indeed," Black Priest said.

"Anyway, as much as I just love shootin' the shit with ya, I've got things to do. So, let's have the money."

Black Priest waved his hand to the hooded man beside Mastiff. With a slight bow, the man lifted his arm, producing a small briefcase from the folds of his robe. He opened the briefcase to display its contents.

"Looks about right," Mastiff said. "Smells about right too."

The man handed the briefcase to Mastiff.

Black Priest studied Mastiff for a moment. "The Truant tells me your quite a formidable enforcer. Very loyal."

Mastiff's cigar danced. "I don't take shit, if that's what he means. And he pays me, so I can't complain."

Black Priest stood perfectly still, composed. All the while the ends of his cape billow preternaturally about him. His coal-black eyes gleamed, like an ember touched by a calm breeze. He continued to study Mastiff.

"I can sense your wrath, Mastiff," the ominous man then said.

"Uh boy. Ya gonna preach now or somethin'? "

"Not exactly."

"Good, 'cause I don't got time."

"I can see that you are a man of vengeance."

Mastiff's nose cringed. "Okay, bud, gotta go."

"The man named David Spector, the bounty hunter from Florida, Omega Corp. and the CIA. I know." Black Priest droned on, but his voice seemed distant. "Be not too quick to refuse your destiny, Mastiff. I alone know the secret you have sought so long."

Mastiff's eyes narrowed on Black Priest. "Enough with the fortune teller shit, okay."

"The riots outside. The chaos. Consider the role you were summoned to play." Black Priest's eyes turned a glowing red. Mastiff stepped back, regained his balance. A surge of power -- enlightenment -- overwhelmed him. "Be one with the Hunt."

Mastiff winced from the surge, sighed, then gathered himself. He left the building without another word.

"Ah, there y'are," Coydog said as his boss approached the car.

"Yeah, here I am," said Mastiff. He tossed the briefcase in the car. "Go on and catch up with the boys. I've got somethin' to do."

"Uh, okay."

Something was very wrong, Coydog realized as his boss walked down the darkened alley. In all the weeks he'd worked for him, he could remember no time when Mastiff acted so strangely. Granted, he knew his boss was a psychopath, and every time he looked at him he saw the craze in him. But this evening was different. He looked so... bound. Perhaps the gas in the air was getting to him.

The hours went by like grueling torture, the longest quiet night since the lootings first went rampant. Old Glory had slept little since the Apocalypse Now bombing in New York City, patrolling the streets, trying to stop the gang wars and riots.

The depth charge that released A.N.'s nerve gas turned out to be a homemade job. Any moron with internet access could've put it together. The chemical agent, however, was another story. A unique cocktail of nitrous oxide and cyanic acid, the poisonous gas was absorbed by inhalation, carried by the bloodstream into the brain. Undeviating arousal to the portions of the amygdala controlled emotional stimuli. The stimulation, in turn, lead to an uncontrolled sensation of euphoria and well-being. Unrestrained laughter then resulted, and ultimately ended with the victims laughing to death, suffering from an acute cardiac arrhythmia. Such an incredible knowledge of neurochemistry was required.

Old Glory reached for his radio receiver as he sped north along the harbor front. "It's me," he said, a nasal produced by his gas mask. "Anything new at your end, Centurion?"

"That's a negative," replied a synthesized voice. "I don't like it though. The tension level's escalating, like a calm before a storm."

Old Glory felt it too. "Maintain your concentric search pattern and keep me informed."

"Roger that."

"Stronghold, your situation vacant as well?"

A female voice immediately responded, her voice strangely lacking emotion or intonation. "That is an affirmative, Old Glory. There are no signs of criminal activity, urban strife, or domestic terrorism."

"Stand by, Stronghold."

"Roger."

A slight motion of his wrist against the handle bars and Old Glory's bike suddenly darted into an oncoming side road like a silver bullet. Block after block became a blur through his windshield, and the Hudson piers gave way to the squalor and decay of lower Manhattan. In the streets, all manner of vermin fled at his approach, his headlight cutting through the toxic night. One road was unusually dark, the streetlights having been recently shattered, no doubt to hide a rumble or rape. Blood and broken glass littered the street.

He slowed down and took in his surroundings, seeing them vividly despite the darkness, a setting forever branded into his memory. Old Glory made use of the gloom and parked where the shadows were darkest.

The whole damn city's gone to hell, said the patriot inwardly. Bloody Apocalypse Now, they're making a blatant mockery of humanity. All the casualties... And the victims have smiles on their faces! The sick bastards, do they want New York to be under Martial Law?

Somewhere in the near distance, something moved.

Relying on the shadows and his stealth, Old Glory held very still and listened. A rustle to his left, coming from a narrow laneway across the street. Three, maybe four people, headed toward an army surplus store. He saw a slight flicker of a glass bottle in the shadows, caught by the pale moonlight. A grim smile raised the corners of his mouth, and he waited.

One of the shadows stumbled. Another shadow whispered angrily, "Wouldja watch it, ya dink! Ya screw up an' I'll friggin' cap ya myself."

"I can't help it, man," the other said. "I can't see. Why can't we just jet, man? The cops're prolly on the beat. Or worse, maybe the supers."

"Fawk 'em. And fawk you if ya gotta prob with this. Go on, Lou, go home. You too, Franky. I don't have time for dis shit."

"That ain't what I'm sayin', man," Lou whispered. "I just think we should wait til it's less hairy. Why we need to hit 'em when all this gas outside?"

"Bullshit!" the shadow said. "We hit 'em tonight! That's why we're here, goddammit! Now look for the gas masks!"

"My ears are burning," Old Glory said aloud. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna allow anymore gang wars."

Startled, the three stopped moving. Franky dropped whatever he'd been holding and it shattered on the floor. There was a smell of gasoline. The leader squinted, finally making out Old Glory.

"Hey, buddy, you're a little late for trick an' treats," laughed the leader.

Towering over the punks, Old Glory stared at the remains of the Molotov cocktail and seized the leader roughly by the jacket. "Ah, I see. You think this is some kinda joke? What's the hell's your problem?"

"Eat shit," the leader spat. There was hate in his eyes. Old Glory could see it. His allies recovered quickly and moved behind the crimefighter, drawing out a MAC 10 .45 and an HK MP5.

Still holding the leader, Old Glory glanced over his shoulder at them, his eyes narrowing viciously. "Just try it."

The two squeezed their triggers, and three sharp retorts exploded at point blank range. The toughs were never quite sure what happened next. From what they could see, the air started to ripple around Old Glory, and the bullets stopped just inches from his back and careened toward the toughs, sparking the floor all around them. Lou and Franky froze in their tracks.

"Drop the guns." Old Glory's voice was ice. "Now!" Christ, I doubt if my suit could've handled that kinda firepower at close range. Better thank the DARPA techs for adding the overload belt.

Both Lou and Franky looked at Old Glory, then looked back at their friend in his grasp. They dropped their weapons without a second thought, their hands locking behind their heads. The closed his eyes in disgust.

Within minutes, police were on the scene, handcuffing the men and reading them their rights. A sergeant tipped his hat to Old Glory. "Can't thank you enough. We're pretty shorthanded right now. Most of my men were shifted to help precincts under the curfew. Others are across town to help with the incident at the Quartz detention facility. It's really been a brutal week."

"What incident?" Old Glory asked.

"You didn't hear?"

"No."

"Mastiff's just broke into the Quartz building."

Quartz detention facility, a high security station for a special faction of the FBI, rested in the middle of a four-acre clearing. A helicopter pad filled one corner of the clearing, and the only road was on the other side of the building. The rest of the clearing looked like nothing more than close-cut shrubs and evergreen trees. In actuality, an array of infrared sensors and surveillance cameras were well-placed about the facility. As with normal jail cells within police stations, the building was designed to detain superhuman criminals awaiting trail, not to withstand an assault from outside.

But tonight the detention facility received an assault from outside.

Bodies lay strewn about the perimeter of the complex like discarded sacks, torn and broken and lifeless. Six Quartz guards were dead, ripped apart as if by a crazed animal. Despair filled the officers on duty. Sickened by the carnage, the police stood there, horror and revulsion sweeping through them, a single word shrieking in their minds.

Six and a half feet tall and several hundred pounds of raging, stalking death, Mastiff was still, nevertheless, human. Which, of course, made him even more dangerous. For humans were the most cunning animals on Earth. Animals thrived on instinct, and Mastiff possessed the single-mindedness of the beast, but he also had his own hidden agendas, future plans, and deep, dark secrets.

Mastiff was a force of nature to be reckoned with.

Even now, he moved menacingly throughout the dimly lit Quartz building. He'd circumvented the security systems, preventing the cameras from recording him and jam-locking the heavy, steel pneumatic doors on the NYPD outside. The auxiliary generator hummed mildly. He was free to frolic, maim, and most importantly, release the Carver.

Two guards strolled a corridor with alert eyes. The NYPD radioed the Quartz members, warning them of Mastiff's presence. And with that, they patrolled the interior with their stunners at the ready.

The stunners were small rifles, designed to stop paranormal beings without killing them. They fired an invisible cone of concussive white noise able to disrupt electroneural activity for one second. On a normal human, a single blast caused about an hour of unconsciousness followed by nausea. They didn't know if this was enough to stop the likes of Mastiff.

Mastiff nearly laughed out loud at the hilariously surprised expression on the face of the first guard as he snapped the man's neck. But he contained himself. He knew that he needed to maintain stealth as long as possible. Once he'd been discovered, it would be a bloodletting.

The second guard continued to walk the hall. He was of so little concern to Mastiff that he didn't bother wasting time on him. He loped silently past the Quartz member, a wry smile, malevolently punctuated by sharp canines, stretched across the large man's features. He sprinted, his speed extraordinary, and veered down another corridor.

The guard whirled around only to spot nothing.

Police Captain Robert Jenkins and Inspector Margaret Hallowell stood at the head of the squad of armed police officers, blocking the path of Dr. Freund and an equally armed squad of governmental agents. Hallowell glowered. "Listen, you Omega Corp. prick, I advise you and your spooks to turn around and goosestep outta here!"

"I'd listen to the inspector if I were you." The captain unbuckled the guard of his holster.

"You and your NYPD don't impress me, Captain." Freund coolly withdrew a folder from his trenchcoat. "I run a special project for Omega Corp. that's in direct council with Congress. And under section five of the Special Crimes Act, I am authorized to collect for study the bodies of any superhuman killing if it is specifically for the betterment of National Security."

"Yeah." An agent beside Freund had his rifle cocked and pointed at the police line. "Step aside 'cause things could get messy."

"Stand down!" Old Glory raced his motorcycle up the parking lot, astounded at the chaos he found. "What's the meaning of this nonsense! I want answers!"

"Ignore that order!" Freund scowled. He hadn't expected Old Glory to be present, and he sure wasn't going to let him foil his attempts at studying Mastiff.

Several of the agents stammered, the sight of the living icon struck fear in the eyes of the older members. "You can't pull rank, Doctor. Not here, not at this juncture." He drew himself up off his silver bike, crossing his arms defiantly. He stood tall. "Now, show some respect for the dead!"

"You heard the man," said Centurion as he descended to the ground, streamers of exhaust trailing from his boot jets. He looked at the dead bodies through the two eye slits on his gilded, featureless mask. The armored figure landed beside Old Glory. He stood over six feet, with two-tone green plating covering the exaggerated musculature of his metal suit. He looked more like a robot than a human being and his voice, electronically amplified, sounded like the artificial ring of a megaphone. "Back off. This is a federal building."

"You can't muscle me," said the doctor. "I have authorization."

"In all actuality, Doctor," added an imposing, quite alien female. She apparently stepped out of the growing crowd. "I have just done a boolean string search on this supposed Special Crimes Act, and I also cross-referenced it with several Congressional mandates. There is no act by such a title."

Old Glory smiled wryly, nodding at the lady.

She stood just shy of seven feet tall, and her skin was a pale gray. Her green eyes were elliptical, like those of a reptile. But by far her most striking features were her four arms and her bionic supplements. She was called Stronghold, and though she had been a fixture with Quartz for several months, there were still many who felt uncomfortable around her.

Old Glory was never one of those. Quite to the contrary, he found Stronghold fascinating. The lithe, exotic lady reminded him of a benevolent product from an old sci-fi pulp novella of his youth, and that image wasn't far from wrong. Stronghold, he knew, was recreated by Quartz' biotechnicians and cyberneticists. She bridged the gap between humanity and computer technology.

"I don't know what's your real interest here, Doctor," said Old Glory. "But you're in direct violation of civil and federal laws."

"This is an outrage!"

The patriot's eyes went wide. "Stand down."

"You're making a huge mistake."

But Old Glory didn't reply. He stood his ground firmly, his stern expression unmoving.

Dr. Freund grinned and threw a mock salute. "You heard the man," he said. The agents set their weapons back to safety and dropped them to their sides. They began to walk away. And then Freund too walked away.

Old Glory watched as they headed to their vehicles. Then with whispering strides, he turned and walked toward the complex. Old Glory tested the brick of the building façade with gloved fingers and began to scale in utter silence. He slid over the roof edge like some adventurer out of a Jack Kirby fantasy. He looked down at the armored man and cyborg female.

"Centurion, blast the door open if you have to," he said. "And Stronghold, try to get the security systems online. I'm going in through the ventilation shaft. There's no telling what kind of mess is inside."

With a swirl of his cape, Old Glory disappeared.

A constant lunatic rhythm echoed through Mastiff's brain, a rhythm driving him throughout the corridors of Quartz. He had cleared himself a path, but the guards had more members than he'd expected. And they got smarter as more of them died. Now they were waiting for him to make a break for the security cells so they could pick him off. Little did they know that he could smell each and every one of them with a little focus.

Hell, let 'em shoot, he thought. It wasn't far to the cells, and his true objective was there. His passion for violence became sated. He grew bored of it.

From the shadows, he sprang into the open area of the control room. Instantly, several of the guards appeared and fired on him. Mastiff didn't even wince as the stunners clipped his side.

"Not another step, Mastiff!" a bold voice shouted.

Mastiff looked up, ready to strike. He didn't take orders from anyone. His lips curled back from his canines as he saw Old Glory stride towards him, his cape wavering like a flag.

He's bigger than I imagined, the crimefighter thought in awe. I'll hold him back until Centurion get's here, then we'll incapacitate him.

"Bring it on," Mastiff smiled.

Old Glory leaped forward and attacked Mastiff. It was a simple punch, straight to the jaw. It should have fazed the madman long enough to let Old Glory close for a few more strikes, but he didn't put enough strength into it. Maybe some subconscious softness balked at knocking out  his teeth, most likely an instinct induced from fighting so many normal human criminals. The impact barely rattled Mastiff.

Old Glory felt like he was frozen. He just stood and watched Mastiff dive, tuck, and roll. Then the madman was upon him, knocking him back violently. Down Old Glory went, head slamming against the stone of the control room floor. For an instant he thought he would black out. Clawed hands raked at the air, struggling to reach him. But the crimefighter fought the dizziness and the pain, and then thrusted his legs outwards. Mastiff sprang back in frustration and circled silently away.

Dazed, Old Glory scrambled to his feet. His body slightly ached from the force of Mastiff's attack, and there were spots dancing before his eyes. With an effort he kept himself erect.

Mastiff moved by him, springing at a terrified computer technician. Old Glory fumbled for his utility belt and withdrew a weighted baton. His arm blurred out, throwing the baton into the back of the large man's knee. Mastiff fell to the floor.

"Move!" Old Glory ordered the technician.

The tech stammered, then fled the room.

In the next instant Mastiff was on his feet again, lunging for his attacker. Old Glory wouldn't have believed that such a huge man could be that quick. Almost before he could act, Mastiff was before him, claws ripping downward. Old Glory staggered beneath the large man's weight, his knees almost buckling. He thought he could keep the maniac at bay. Now he was no longer certain.

Something slammed into Mastiff from behind. He fell forward and past Old Glory. Dazed and surprised, it took him a moment to recover, pain coursing through him.

"Give up, Mastiff!" Centurion bellowed, smoke trailing from the barrel of the minicannon on his left arm. His synthesized voice sound like an angered Darth Vader. "You're outmanned."

"Heh, not friggin' likely." Mastiff pounced at the armored man, superhuman muscles driving the metallic figure into a bank of computers. He clamped his hands down on Centurion, shoving him deeper into the sparking crevice he made. Servomotors ceased and mechanical limbs froze, Centurion was down.

Several Quartz guards fired stunners at Mastiff. Mastiff laughed.

With Olympic speed, the beleaguered Old Glory bounded over the heads of the guards and again confronted Mastiff, face to face. Anger burned in Mastiff's eyes, and Old Glory returned the stare. Gotta hit him hard. Can't waste time by pulling punches.

Mastiff eagerly lunged forward, and Old Glory answered with a haymaker to his chin that echoed like a shot from a gun. Mastiff's jawbone gave way, and he staggered back a step. He shook his head, and his eyes widened in wonderment.

"Nice punch," Mastiff said.

Teeth gritted, Old Glory came in close, ducking and weaving to avoid Mastiff's swipes as he fired punches and kicks at the large man's midsection. Was it his imagination, or was Old Glory's assault starting to have an effect on the madman.

With a snarl of rage, Mastiff grabbed the winded Old Glory and threw him to the ground, shattering the floor. As the patriot struggled to stay conscious, Mastiff lifted him high overhead and tossed him through a door, plaster and wood splinters showering down on the hero.

Mastiff darted out of the control room and down another corridor. He padded soundlessly across the smooth floor, passing many security cells, glancing briefly at the prisoners within them. Grim-faced, he marched up the metal steps to a platform atop which a special containment room rested, and began tapping the keypad on the wall beside it.

He could see a patch of man-shaped darkness move toward the cell door. Mastiff grinned. "How ya doin', Carver, buddy?"

He tapped more keys, ignoring the ever-present strains of "It's a Small World" playing on a loudspeaker. Instead, he concentrated on the sounds of metal slabs sliding, shifting, unlocking.

Suddenly the lights came back to life. Mastiff whirled around to see Old Glory and the armored figure, armed and ready to fire. At the other end of the hall an otherworldly woman walked mechanically, her four arms moving in unison, leading a team of Quartz guards.

"I was able to reboot the main power systems, Old Glory," she said. "The facility's security override programs are back online."

Old Glory nodded, but kept his attention on the madman. "You hear that, Mastiff? The gig's up. We have you surrounded."

A feral growl escaped Mastiff's throat. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean you have me."

With that, he crouched, powerful muscles tightening like steel springs, and launched himself upwards. Aluminum gave way and ceiling panels broke as Mastiff tore his way through.

Before Centurion could react and fly after him, Old Glory grabbed his steel arm. "No, we have to let him go," he said. "Our efforts are needed here right now. Mastiff can run, but he can't hide." When things quiet down, we'll hunt him down.