Ripper

PROLOGUE

Mary Jane Kelly stood silent and still as the man watched her from a rickety chair in the darkened corner of her shabby two-bed flat. The oil lamp had been dimmed on that side of the small room so the only thing Mary could clearly discern were the shiny white spats that covered the tops of the man’s expensive shoes. The ornate cane the invisible visitor used was propped between those shoes and would move only when the man spoke in his accented English.

Mary tried her best to control her breathing as she felt the man’s eyes roll over her in that infernal darkness. But it was the well-dressed man’s voice that unnerved her like no other she had ever heard — it was as though she were hearing the voice of the Big Bad Wolf from the nursery rhymes she heard when she was but a child. She could feel the rage boiling just beneath the surface of her visitor as the hate emanated from the dark recesses of the room.

“You’re so lovely my dear. Perhaps you could sing me a little song, something sweet — a song from your childhood. It will help cool my blood.”

For the first time the man blinked and she saw the glow of the eyes. At first she thought it was a trick of her imagination, but then the eyes flashed again, and this time Mary knew she had seen a ring of yellow and one of red surrounding the black abyss of his pupils, which were the largest she had ever seen.

Mary closed her eyes as she stood before the man. In her fear she tugged on the white linen apron she always wore over that same moth-eaten skirt and blouse she wore at least four days of the week. She opened her mouth to comply with the visitor’s request, but any memory of a happy childhood song had fled her terrified mind. She tried to open her mouth once more and the first words of a song came pouring out.

“London … bridge … is falling…,” her cracked and halting words stopped as Mary sobbed, and then her right hand shot upward and covered her mouth to stop the scream that threatened to escape her constricting throat.

In the far corner the glint of metal in the dim light and then a gold coin appeared as if by magic. Its glimmer shown in the weak light from the lamp. She could see that the coin was one she had seen before on more than one occasion in the drinking establishments that lined the streets of Whitechapel. It was a twenty-dollar American-minted gold double eagle.

“Perhaps this will persuade you to help soothe the animal that is awakening inside of me. Sing well and there will be two more of these at the end of our … session.”

The word session sent chills up and down the fine skin of Mary’s neck and back. She knew who this man was. The entire city of London had been terrified of what and who this man was in the months leading up to this night. Her eyes went from the sparkling coin to the door. The slide lock was in place, and Mary knew she would never be able to open the door in time before the man would be upon her. She opened her mouth to start the song again, but the only sound to exit her mouth was an even louder sob than the one a moment before.

The coin disappeared and the man made a sound that made Mary Kelly cringe. It was so animalistic that she came near to swooning. It was a low growl that came from the deepest recesses of the faceless man’s throat. She kept her eyes closed.

“Very well,” the words were far harsher than the ones uttered before them. “Perhaps we should conclude our business.” The cane moved between the man’s feet and then the tip was tapped three times in succession. “You may remove your clothes my dear.” At the end of the request, the word dear was sounded through a growl, as if a wolf were speaking to her from the darkness of a long-ago dead forest.

Mary removed her apron first and let it fall to the floor. She heard the man remove something from his breast pocket and then realized he was holding a piece of paper.

“No, no. Fold your clothes as you remove them. Neatness is a virtue my dear — a virtue!”

The shouting of the last two words drowned out Mary’s involuntary cry as she reached down and hurriedly picked up the apron.

“You have a physician that treats you and your … colleagues for the harsher social diseases and problems that may arise with unwanted conception?”

“Yes, Doctor Freemantle,” Mary said through whispered words that actually made her feel weaker than she was.

“You are with child?”

“Oh,” she moaned through her tears.

“You are with child?” he asked once again with the low-based growl sounding once more with a steadily increasing crescendo.

“Yes,” Mary answered as she closed her eyes tightly.

The man suddenly stood in the darkness and emerged into the dim light. This time there was not the glimmer of gold that shown in the dim lighting, but the chromed blade of a large knife that froze Mary Kelly’s heart.

The next twenty minutes were the most violent of all the attacks that took place in Whitechapel that summer and fall.

Jack the Ripper was not the man the newspapers described as meticulous. It was an attack that symbolized the violence of the times that were coming and would lead to a legend being born that would haunt mankind for a century to come.

Blood flew as the flesh of Mary Kelly, the attractive brunette that had no enemy outside of her landlord, was cut and hacked until the young woman was unrecognizable as anything resembling a human being.

Outside the rundown flat in Whitechapel, the fog started to roll in from the river.

The man’s eyes watched as the policemen came and went from the small room that had quickly become the most vicious crime scene London had ever been witness to. He saw the familiar form of the chief inspector for the municipal police force as he stepped from the small flat. The tall man and his constant companion pushed through the crowd of curious onlookers who had gathered after the body of Mary Kelly had been discovered at eleven that morning. As the two men approached the chief inspector they could both see he was not feeling that well after seeing the body. The chief inspector gathered his wits and then noticed the man in the tweed suit with his companion close beside.

“You two again,” the inspector said as he angrily eyed the two men. “I am obliged to ask what you gentlemen are doing here at my crime scene.”

“Chief Inspector Abberline,” the taller of the two men said as he removed his bowler hat. “What have we here?” he asked as he first eyed the gathered residents of the area and then the house itself.

Frederick George Abberline looked the man over and then his anger rose even more than a moment before. He took the man by the arm and pulled him away from onlookers who took no notice of the three men as the body was finally being removed from the shabby flat. Abberline glanced at the covered remains and cringed as an exposed arm of the victim fell free of the sheet that covered her.

“My cooperation with Her Majesty’s armed forces has come to an end until I get some explanation of your interest in this and the other murders, do you understand Colonel?”

Colonel Albert Stanley stopped and pulled his arm free of the chief inspector’s tight grasp. He gave the smaller detective a look that broached the subject of him being manhandled. The colonel looked around and then reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope and handed it over to the inspector. “Perhaps this will be explanation enough.”

The chief inspector, a man who had handled the Ripper case from the beginning, turned the white envelope over and looked at the wax seal that held the document secure. The image in wax of twin facing lions made Abberline close his eyes. He then opened them and quickly broke the wax seal. He pulled the single sheet of paper free and read the letter. It was brief and to the point.

After reading the words on the fine paper, the chief inspector folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. He started to place the document in his coat pocket, but the small man standing next to the colonel reached out and took the order from the inspector’s hand. He replaced the order in his own coat pocket.

“Apologies, Chief Inspector, but the letter was for your eyes only. As far as your colleagues are concerned, Her Majesty’s request for your cooperation with her armed forces was never given. You never read nor ever saw the letter. Is that clear?”

Abberline didn’t respond. He glared at the taller man before him.

“Now, the circumstances surrounding this latest victim, what can you tell me to this point?”

Abberline finally came to the conclusion that he was in a corner. The two men standing before him had been seen by him at every crime scene generated by the Ripper case since the start. They would show up, look, listen, and then vanish into the day or the night.

“Quid pro quo, Colonel — or tit for tat as they say, why don’t you tell me just what Her Majesty’s army has done here in Whitechapel? Don’t bother to deny it — I can see it in your eyes. I have been a policeman for far too long not to know. And now my suspicions have been confirmed by the queen herself. Just what is it that you have unleashed in my city?”

The colonel stood his ground and then looked from the corpse being loaded onto a rickety wagon to those of the chief inspector. His dark eyes bored into Abberline’s. “The army has nothing to do with this mess Inspector. The queen has nothing to do with it. Perhaps you can keep that in mind if you like … well, if you like living. This thing may be well over your head, both professionally and politically — now, the crime scene please. More importantly, was the poor girl … how should I put this … was she missing something that the newspaper boys will never hear about?”

Abberline heard the harshness of the last words and then made his choice — one made in the name of self-preservation. He pulled his small notebook from his pocket and then looked at the last five pages he had written.

“Mary Jane Kelly, prostitute. Her body was discovered this morning by the landlord’s assistant. Age, twenty-five years. Last seen, or I should say last heard from, at one a.m. last night. A neighbor heard the snippets of a song coming from the room at that time. Nothing after.”

“A song?” The colonel looked from Abberline to the shanty standing before him. “That doesn’t seem to fit our man’s profile at all, does it Chief Inspector?”

Abberline was in no mood to expand on his written notes. “For the first time we will have crime scene photographs of the victim.”

“Good, I expect copies to be forwarded to my office as soon as they are ready.”

Again, Abberline didn’t comment or respond to the colonel. “The woman’s clothing was folded neatly and placed on a chair next to the bed.” Abberline swallowed and then continued reading from his notes. “Her carotid artery was severed. This was the main cause of death.”

“A little less than the others, perhaps this was an isolated murder,” the small man standing next to the colonel said as if he were bored to death.

“Allow the chief inspector to continue Sergeant Meyer. I believe he has more to add.”

“Her attacker had hacked off her nose and ears, slashed her, and removed much of her face, leaving her with no features that would tell if she were a man or a woman. Her body had been sliced and split open like a melon. I believe from my viewing that some, or even all, of her organs had been removed and left upon the table top. You could never tell that the woman had been pregnant at all — that is what you are worried about, isn’t it Colonel? That is the one item that warns that this is the man you have been tracking … or is it watching?”

Only the sergeant reacted to the last bit of information and the innuendo from the inspector. He turned away and swallowed heavily as the chief inspector had done moments earlier as he realized what had been done to the whore inside her rundown flat.

Abberline lowered his small notebook and looked Stanley in the eyes. “This was not a murder, Colonel. This was a butchering. Something akin to a monstrous rage took place in that room. Violence was done to her just as the other victims. You see, I did a little investigation you didn’t know about, sir. Every one of the victims was with child, no more than three months, but pregnant nonetheless. And this fact is verifiable through their doctor.”

“Ah yes, the physician who usually treats the whores in this district for various social diseases — Doctor Jonathan Freemantle, a rather despicable sort who just happened to have a severe heart attack this very morning. Pity he cannot verify what you have learned.” The man’s eyes gave credence to the warning he had just delivered. “Thank you, Chief Inspector Abberline. Your cooperation will be reported to the very highest authority. Now please remember to send me the pictures of the crime scene, that’s a good chap.”

With those words, Abberline watched as the colonel and sergeant turned and left, looking around casually as if they were just on a morning stroll.

“I think I would have better luck finding the Ripper by following you my dear colonel, than by chasing my own tail in Whitechapel.”

Frederick George Abberline, chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police, sat at the small table where he normally found himself at such a late hour. He had to come here to wind down and relax before heading home to a restless night’s sleep after the events of the past year. The Mary Kelly case five months before had been the last of the killings, but that didn’t stop the nightmares Abberline faced every night when he went home to his darkened flat.

The restaurant was small and owned in part by a former colleague of his from the London police force. The small eatery was kept open late for policemen changing shifts from all areas of the city. Even at 1:20 a.m. the restaurant was filled.

The area of the establishment with the most boisterous patrons was the separate barroom where men of the law hoisted pints of bitters and other liquids designed to numb the senses of a dark and lonely city that was reeling from the nightmare of their times.

Chief Inspector Abberline sat and read a report from one of his detectives regarding a recent kidnapping. Abberline shook his head and then reached for his cup of tea. He grimaced at the weakness of the drink as he placed the cup back onto the saucer. During the times of the Ripper case the inspector had become used to drinking strong coffee, of which he was trying to wean himself. Still, the weak tea did nothing for his palate. Abberline placed the report on the table and closed his eyes as he remembered the tiredness he felt for the past year’s hard work and knew long before this moment that he was no longer meant to be a police inspector. The horrors he had seen in the recent past had successfully driven his desire to help people straight from his heart. The world was mad and he knew if he didn’t leave the service he would end up just as insane as the men and women he chased.

Abberline leaned back as a waiter brought him his kidney pie. Once the waiter had left the inspector placed his napkin in his lap. He stopped short of his fork digging into the crust of the meat pie. He tapped the cooked dough several times with the tip of his fork and then glanced outside and into the thickening fog beyond the large window that looked out onto the street. Its white veil had moved into the city not long after his extended shift had ended. He turned away and looked at his meal one more time and tossed the fork onto the table and then waved the waiter over and handed him his cup and saucer.

“Bring me coffee, please,” he said, and the waiter turned away. Abberline thought quickly and then called out. “Apologies old boy, but would you make that a double scotch?”

“Double scotch, sir,” the waiter said and then moved off.

The inspector grimaced as he took in the hot kidney pie and then slid it as far away from him as his arm could reach.

“Inspector Abberline?” the voice said from his shoulder.

Abberline closed his eyes, angry at the interruption. He knew if he opened his eyes and saw a newspaper man, who was not allowed inside this particular building, he would be tempted to use the butter knife in front of him to stab the man in the heart.

Instead of following through with his imagined murder scenario, he said, “Yes?” as he opened his eyes and saw a rather tall, thin man standing next to him. The well-dressed gentleman was twisting his hat with anxious hands.

“Sir, my name is Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson, perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you? I wrote you a letter three months ago?”

Abberline looked over the tall man with the brimming moustache. He saw that the man didn’t look well at all as he nervously twisted his hat into ungodly disarray. The words were spoken with a barely disguised Scottish accent. As he saw the man looking down with worry etched into his dark eyes, Abberline gestured to the empty chair across from him.

“Who wouldn’t recognize the great Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson? Sir, please, have a seat.”

Abberline watched as the man hesitated. Stevenson walked the short distance to the chair, but then looked lost as to what to do with his hat.

“We lack the formality of one of the nicer establishments Mr. Stevenson. Just place your hat on the table, it looks as if it could use a rest.”

Stevenson looked flustered as he glanced at the crumpled hat. He grimaced and then placed it on the white table cloth. He half smiled as he pulled the chair out and sat.

“May I offer you some refreshment? I know it’s a little late, but I just ordered scotch for myself.”

Stevenson swallowed and then nodded his head meekly. The chief inspector waved at the waiter standing at the bar and signaled for two drinks instead of the one.

Abberline turned and watched the man sitting before him. He was silent and waited for the famous author to state his piece.

Stevenson looked at the men around him as if he had stepped into a lion’s den.

“If you wrote me a post in advance of this date, I can tell you I have received none.” Abberline then fixed the man with a hard stare. “So, if your lost post was to attempt to get information on … well, on one of my cases, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question.”

“Excuse me?” Stevenson asked, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, oh, you think I’m here to ask you about the Ripper case for a possible book? That was not the intent of my letter to you Chief Inspector. And, I not only sent two letters from the States where I was on holiday, I sent three more upon my arrival in London.”

“Isn’t that why a famous author such as you would visit such an establishment as this at one o’clock in the morning, to get a good yarn to write yet another lurid and morbid novel?”

“No, Chief Inspector, I am not here for that. In case you hadn’t noticed I have already done my horror novel and have no intention of ever writing something like that again.”

Abberline raised his brows at the man’s statement. He knew that Stevenson’s foray into the horror genre came with his novella the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published two years before to far-above-average sales. He was surprised at the author’s venomous reply to his reference to that particular story.

“So, Mr. Stevenson, what you’re saying is that your letter had nothing to do with the Ripper case? If you weren’t seeking information, then what pray tell prompted the notes?”

Once more Robert Louis Stevenson turned and watched the men of London’s finest as they talked in loud voice and laughed with even more zest. He finally looked satisfied that no one was listening. As he leaned back to face the chief inspector, the waiter returned and placed the two drinks on the table. Stevenson immediately took a sip and then grimaced. He placed the glass back down and then looked at Abberline who ignored his own double scotch as he waited for the writer to answer his question. He himself was aware that he shouldn’t be discussing the Ripper case with anyone from outside his offices.

“I am not here to ask questions of you Mr. Abberline. I wouldn’t do that,” he said as he once more nervously looked around. “I am being followed, have been ever since docking three days ago in East Hampton. I suspected even in San Francisco I had company following my every move.”

“Mysterious indeed, worthy of a novel in and of itself, wouldn’t you say?” Abberline waited for a reaction; he didn’t have to wait long.

“I believe I stated sir that I would never attempt such a literary farce again,” he said with his eyes bulging. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde may have contributed to—”

Abberline watched as the words froze in the throat of one of the most articulate men in the history of literature. After a brief flare of emotion, Stevenson closed his eyes and then shook his head.

“I know who your Jack the Ripper is.”

Abberline froze. His eyes never left those of Stevenson. “I believe you have to explain that rather remarkable statement, Mr. Stevenson.”

“I met him in California during my research for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He is an American, a professor of chemistry, and … and … something to do with flowers. I’m sorry, but my notes for the book have been misplaced, or stolen, I am not sure which. But I’m sure it had something to do with flowers, which was part of his work he wouldn’t discuss.”

Abberline looked at the man sitting before him and knew that the odds of his notes being misplaced was the better of the two scenarios. He could smell the paranoia coming from the frightened man before him.

“Who is this gentleman?”

With one last look around the crowded eatery, Robert Louis Stevenson related how he had met Professor Lawrence Ambrose and researched material for his upcoming novel, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, due to the good professor’s work with aggression and metabolism changes that could possibly occur in the human body. Stevenson spoke for close to an hour.

Abberline listened politely, refraining from making faces or leaning one way or the other in his uncomfortable silence at the fantastic tale being related to him from one of the most influential people in all of the Empire.

Silence hung over the table and the two double scotches sat untouched in front of the two men.

“Mr. Stevenson, you are an educated man, probably far more than myself, so I will be careful when I use the words too fantastic to believe, sir.”

“Which…”

“Everything, Mr. Stevenson, from the science you claim this man has developed to Her Majesty’s government trying to silence you. Take your pick, sir, it all sounds rather far-fetched.” Abberline checked his anger at this obvious waste of time. He reached out, took hold of his glass, and raised it to his lips; with one last shake of his head he downed the double dose of fire without a grimace.

“Chief Inspector, I saw this man actually change into something he is not. Not just changes in his demeanor and attitude, but physical changes to his body as well.”

Abberline placed his glass on the table in front of him and then reached for Stevenson’s untouched glass. He pulled the glass forward but hesitated before he drank.

“And this, this … Dr. Jekyll, and your Mr. Hyde, how did you come about meeting him in America?” He finally lifted the second glass and downed that also, all the while holding his gaze on the famous author.

“Inspector, this needs to be resolved now, and not wait for—”

The angry gaze stopped Stevenson from continuing. He realized that policemen do things at their own pace and are even slower sometimes when confronted with an obvious truth. Robert Louis Stevenson could see it in the chief inspector’s eyes — he believed his story.

“I met the gentleman in San Francisco three years ago through a friend who works with Corvallis Lens Company of London. He was there to deliver the most unique set of lenses ever created by his company. These lenses were specially ground, beveled, and buffed for the man who ordered them to use in his laboratory work. These lenses are so well constructed that Ambrose is now seeing things that were once only seen in the realm of the imagination. This man is actually discovering the origins of thought, the use of the human brain, and the power that is hidden in us all. The reason my friend thought I would get along with this professor was due to the fact that this man was slowly piecing together the most unique and advanced microscopic viewing system ever. Intrigued, I went to meet this man for my research.”

“And this Professor Ambrose was accommodating?”

“As accommodating as anyone I have ever dealt with in the business world. He couldn’t stop talking about his work into the naturally occurring aggression that occurs in all living animals. He scared me to the point I had to slow down the real science or my readers would have never understood it. He has the ability to change into something other than he is, and that was three years ago Chief Inspector.”

“And you think your Jekyll and Hyde is my Ripper? Is that what you are saying, sir?”

“One and the same.”

Abberline watched the man closely. He was as experienced as anyone in spotting someone not telling him the truth. But he could see from the demeanor of Stevenson that he was telling nothing but the truth — at least as far as he was concerned.

“As I said, my letters have been intercepted. I have written to you on many occasions, only to have my inquiries go unanswered. Finally, I had to come after hearing the news of this last victim of the Ripper.”

“And why was that?” Abberline said as he continued to look at Stevenson for the lie that would soon surface.

“Because I finally have proof, Chief Inspector,” Stevenson said actually smiling for the first time, and for the first time Abberline could see the exhaustion in the man’s eyes and face. Stevenson reached into his pocket and brought out a folded daily. He swallowed and actually shivered as he opened the newspaper. “This is the London Times, but the picture I am about to show you was picked up by hundreds of newspapers around the world, and this one, the San Francisco Chronicle was no exception. This is why I came as fast as I could.” He pushed the paper toward Abberline who looked from Stevenson down to the paper.

The picture was a rather famous one now. It was taken on the morning of Mary Kelly’s murder. Abberline saw the picture of himself at the crime scene. He looked up at Stevenson without saying a word.

“Chief Inspector, that man standing next to you in the photograph?”

Abberline didn’t have to look at the grainy photo again; he knew who Stevenson was talking about. It was Colonel Stanley of Her Majesty’s Black Watch. Stevenson was pointing out the man who had dogged this Ripper case since the beginning.

“He’s the man that was tailing me three years ago in the United States, and this very same man ransacked my room this very night.”

“And you believe the Ripper case, your Jekyll and Hyde, and this gentleman are all wound together in a nice little ball? And that this Professor Ambrose is making monsters for whatever reason there may be for doing so.”

Stevenson looked confounded. He closed his eyes, thinking he had failed to convince the chief inspector.

“When I met him, Ambrose was working closely with the military aspect of his medicinal application, that’s all I know. The only evidence left from my research is this,” Stevenson said as he pulled a small kerchief from his coat pocket and then looking around suspiciously once again, slowly slid the folded kerchief toward Abberline who made no move to touch the small bundle. Stevenson flipped the kerchief open and Abberline was left looking at a small square of what looked like dried clay.

“Interesting,” Abberline said, still not even giving Stevenson the courtesy of leaning forward to look at the item.

Robert Louis Stevenson looked exasperated as he reached out and picked up the object and then slid over closer to the chief inspector.

“Do you know what this is?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Chief Inspector, this is what is called a relief.” Stevenson looked frustrated for a brief moment when he didn’t see recognition in Abberline’s face. “It’s a proclamation. Or a warning … or maybe just a take. See this hole here at the top? Well, it used to be a hole, it’s broken now after two thousand three hundred years. This was a warning placed on the line of retreat taken by the Greeks from Northern India. It’s in Ancient Greek.”

“Again, Mr. Stevenson, very interesting.”

“See this here,” Stevenson turned the tablet over, carefully exposing the inscription on the back. It was hard to read for Abberline, but Stevenson easily ran his finger across the ancient script. He made sure the chief inspector could see the inscription as he read. “It warns all Greeks to follow the line south and stay out of the jungle and beware the jhinn. It’s like a genie from the Arabian Nights, only of course it’s an ancient Indian legend that originates in the Delhi area and is virtually unknown throughout the world, and this tablet is the only historical reference to that legend. This placard was given to me by Ambrose with a tale that froze my blood.”

“You have my interest piqued, sir,” Abberline said as his eyes were locked on the strange-looking clay tablet.

“This tablet tells the tale of magic … magic that was used against an invading enemy. Truly the power of nature. Beasts that attack alone, in packs, they kill without remorse and follow their orders to the death. The Greeks were attacked from the North of India all the way through the heart of that country. They were running scared from something let loose upon them by a magician.”

Abberline refused to say a word as Stevenson spoke. He thought he would let the man run his course.

“Do you even know what Greeks I am speaking of Chief Inspector? It was this retreat and the legend of the magic used against them that set Lawrence Ambrose on a trail of invention that has become murderous beyond measure. The professor researched the ancient legends of magic from all over the world, and in the deep valleys and vast area of India, he found it. And the legend was believed by one very important man in world history, and it was this man that sent Ambrose off in the right direction.” Stevenson then turned the tablet over and showed Abberline the bust. When the policeman showed no sign of recognition, Stevenson almost angrily pointed to the word just below the relief of the ancient Greek. “Μέγας Άλέξανδρος, or in its more familiar tongue, Mégas Aléxandros,” the writer said, smiling.

Chief Inspector Abberline looked from the clay tablet into the eyes of Stevenson.

“That signature on the warning is Alexander the Great of Macedonia.”

“Now I have heard of him.”

Robert Louis Stevenson rolled his eyes. “When he found he couldn’t defeat the many armies of India, Alexander started heading south, looking for an escape route off the subcontinent. He left a rear guard of one thousand of his best men. For six hundred miles these men fought a running battle with a force of men that could not be killed. One would attack many. Tales of men in the attacks taking seven, eight arrows and still fighting. This tale is straight from the mouth and signature of Alexander the Great. You see, Ambrose discovered the facts behind the legend and the truth behind not just the magic of what happened to the Greeks, but the real chemical science behind the slaughter. There are many more tales of these … these Berserkers. It happened several more times, far more recently in India against the Raj, the uprisings, the slaughters of British soldiers by inferior forces of the Sikh and others. There always seems to be magic coming to the aid of the lesser armies inside of India. Why I … I—”

“I believe your tale, Mr. Stevenson,” Abberline said directly.

“But, I thought—”

“The man in the picture is named Colonel Albert Stanley. He is Black Watch, the Queen’s own. If this man Ambrose is who you say he is, he has powerful friends in the highest of places, Mr. Stevenson, far more influential men and women than I’m sure your address book could help but fall short of. This Colonel Stanley is in the Ripper case up to his eyes, and I smelled a rat long before you stepped into this room tonight. He’s protecting someone, and this someone is possibly this Professor Lawrence Ambrose you met in America.” Abberline quickly brought out his notepad and scribbled the names down.

“It had to be more than just that picture that convinced you Chief Inspector. What was it?” Stevenson asked as he finally relaxed for the first time since entering the restaurant.

“It’s not the evidence you brought Mr. Stevenson, but the terror in your eyes. For a man who wrote the most popular horror story since Frankenstein, you show an immense amount of fear when you mention this man’s name, this Ambrose. I see and feel the fear coming off of you. That is why I believe you Mr. Stevenson.”

The chief inspector turned away from Robert Louis Stevenson just as one of his men, Harold Washington, a veteran of the Ripper horrors, walked toward the table at a brisk pace, fast enough that Abberline’s heart sank. He quickly raised his hand at the waiter for more drinks.

Washington was a young man who looked as though he had also lost his zeal for police work since the murders had begun in Whitechapel. If only the lad knew the real truth as he himself had just learned, he would have gone running into the night on his way to resign. Even with not knowing the truth of Mr. Stevenson’s story, Abberline could see the young man’s anger and his feelings of helplessness in his written reports on other crimes in the area. The boy was like him, he just couldn’t do it any longer. With the Ripper investigation officially ended for at least Abberline and his department, he knew his career would end on that failure. The Ripper had escaped justice and the inspector knew it was because of interference from the palace. And now here was an independent witness, one that not even the queen could silence if he chose to go to the newspapers.

“Washington old boy, may I introduce Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, I believe you may know of his work?”

“No, Chief Inspector, I do not know of him, and if you don’t mind I’ll also have what you just ordered from the bar.”

Abberline tried not to show his surprise at the boy’s request as he knew the young man was not a drinker. Washington drowned his worry and sorrow every night with the help of a young wife, not like the chief inspector, with libation.

“By all means, Washington, please have a seat and explain why a young man such as you would need a drink at this late hour, and whilst he is on duty.”

Washington tossed his hat on the table and then sat, practically ignoring Abberline’s disapproval and the way Stevenson looked at him. “I have just come from Whitechapel.”

Abberline closed his eyes, fearing what the boy was about to say.

“That is over with. It’s been five months since Mary Kelly departed this world for a better one,” Abberline said as he raised his napkin and covered his lower face so the patrons couldn’t see the mask he had become adept at placing over his emotions when it came to Whitechapel.

“I have closed and secured the scene. Only our people know about it, sir. I don’t know how long we can keep others out of it.” He leaned in closer to Abberline, trying to talk below a whisper so the stranger sitting at the table couldn’t hear. “Two victims, a shavetail prostitute and one of our own boys in blue. The heads were completely removed, unlike the other murders, but the proximity to the hunting grounds of…,” he looked around to make sure no one was listening. His eyes locked on Robert Louis Stevenson and then back to Abberline, “you know who? I thought it best—”

The waiter brought their drinks and placed one each before the three men. Abberline ignored his while Washington and also Stevenson took the double scotch and drained the two glasses. “Chief Inspector, I do not know how long we can keep the area secured. You must come now.”

Abberline opened his eyes and took in his young colleague. It seemed he was having a hard time swallowing, but he stood nonetheless. He braced himself against the table for the briefest of moments and then waved the waiter over and asked that the drinks and the untouched meal be placed on his account.

“Mr. Stevenson, I think you better come with us. I don’t think the government is too happy about you having certain information.”

“I’m not brave enough to take on the queen herself,” the writer said as he stood along with Washington and Abberline.

“Don’t worry about that, sir, because after tonight the queen may have to do some explaining herself … if that’s what she chooses to do after we stop this Ambrose … tonight is the last night of the Ripper,” Abberline said as he slammed his hand down on the white tablecloth. “It ends here, tonight.”

More than just a few of the off-duty policemen saw the famous chief inspector Frederick Abberline stumble as they moved past their tables, and most nodded as they understood the man’s possible drunkenness after what he had been through with the Ripper case. After all, who more deserved to hoist a few now and again than the chief inspector? Most understood that Abberline had been witness to one of the most horrific murder sprees in modern times. What most didn’t know however was the small fact that not only had the murders started again, they were about to spread across the seas to a place where few were afraid of the dark — the Ripper was returning home.

The carriage and the twin black horses pulling it raced through the streets of London cutting dangerously close to the fog-shrouded corners where the gas lamps could not penetrate. Abberline sat beside Robert Louis Stevenson with Washington sitting across from them. The chief inspector held on to the right-hand strap and swayed with the carriage without saying a word. Stevenson tried his best to still his shaking hands.

“Perhaps I better tell the driver to slow a bit in this wretched fog, Inspector,” Washington said through clenched teeth as the carriage took another corner on its two right-side wheels.

“Sergeant Anderson knows what he’s doing,” Abberline said as he stared at nothing. Suddenly he pulled the window down and leaned his head out into the humid night, not noticing as his bowler hat nearly went flying from the carriage and into the white night. He held on to his hat and then shouted out, “Sergeant, faster man!” As Abberline sat back into his seat he looked into the younger Washington’s surprised face. Then he took a quick glance at Stevenson who seemed to be deep in either thought or prayer, Abberline didn’t know which.

Suddenly the horses screamed and the carriage slid to a halt, throwing Abberline forward and forcing Washington to catch the chief inspector as the carriage wheels finally came to a sliding stop. Stevenson was still holding his strap and seemed to be muttering to himself.

They heard Sergeant Anderson cursing at someone unseen at the same time they heard footsteps approaching the carriage door. As Abberline straightened and then nodded his thanks to Washington for saving him a nasty headache, the door opened. As the inspector sat back into his seat he saw a familiar face, only this time the man was dressed in his scarlet army uniform complete with gold braid. Abberline’s jaw set and then he angrily stepped from the carriage, pushing the man out of his way.

“You bloody bastard, you told me this nightmare was ended,” he hissed as he leaned into the face of the tall but strong Colonel Albert Stanley of Her Majesty’s Black Watch. “Now we have not just one, but two. One of my men was butchered tonight alongside another woman by the man you said was no more of a threat!”

For the first time in five meetings with Stanley the man’s face was not one of arrogant disassociation, but one of fear. The colonel looked around and then said, “My apologies Chief Inspector for the intercept. Whitechapel will have to wait.”

“Hey, what the bloody hell is going on here,” Inspector Washington said as he exited the coach and angrily approached the colonel and Abberline. Suddenly the small but impressive Sergeant Anderson stepped swiftly in front of the younger inspector and just shook his head. The black cap was lowered toward the eyes, but Washington was still able to see the man meant business. Abberline held up his right hand to stay his man.

“Inspector Washington, this is Colonel Stanley of Her Majesty’s Black Watch. I believe he has something to add to the night’s doings.”

Washington stopped but kept staring at the Sergeant, who stood his ground in between the young policeman and the colonel.

“We have business elsewhere Chief Inspector, and you of all men deserve to be a part of what has to be done.”

“Then I can expect your cooperation in protecting a material witness who may be able to identify the man known as the Ripper?”

“I am not following you Chief Inspector,” Stanley said in frustration at the delay.

“Mr. Stevenson?” Abberline called out.

At that moment, Robert Louis Stevenson leaned out of the carriage and then locked eyes with Colonel Stanley.

“That’s the man who has followed me for three years, off and on through Europe and America.”

“I see you have finally caught up on your homework Chief Inspector?” Stanley looked from Stevenson and to Abberline as the fog swirled. “You may do with him as you wish. I have my orders, and nothing in them mentions Mr. Stevenson here.”

“Then I have your word as a gentleman that no harm will befall my witness by you or any member of your unit?”

“Damn you sir, we must go, and go now!” Stanley said as he turned away.

At that moment a wagon with twenty armed soldiers came around the corner and stopped mere feet from the three men.

“May we use your coach?” Stanley said as he stopped and then gestured to the men to step in. “This official nightmare ends tonight.”

“Against Her Majesty’s orders, Colonel?” Abberline asked, not moving toward the open coach door and the worried-looking Stevenson inside.

“On the contrary, Chief Inspector, the queen has signed this man’s death warrant and has authorized his elimination. That means that this man, this writer, is witness to nothing. How could he be if the Ripper, or Jekyll and Hyde if you prefer, never existed. Now, do you want to assist in the Ripper’s destruction, or do you wish to stay here and listen to more children’s stories by the great Robert Louis Stevenson?” Stanley asked as he held the coach door open, not even sparing a glance at the famous writer.

Abberline turned and entered, followed by Washington and then the sergeant major.

The colonel looked at Sergeant Anderson on the coach’s bench who was trying hard not to look upon the strange scene. “The east end docks, Sergeant, and speed is the order of the day.” He raised a hand at the wagon of soldiers for them to follow. “And personally, Chief Inspector, I would have chosen to remain in the dark,” Stanley mumbled as he too entered the coach. “You should have known that if Mr. Stevenson has relayed his tale correctly, because the man we are going after has perfected the art of killing.”

The cobblestone roadways leading into the East End of London were the worst in the old city. The roads surrounded the rundown and mostly abandoned warehouses and docking facilities lining the Thames River. The trip across the city had nearly cost them the wagon full of soldiers and it was that thought alone that sent chills down Colonel Stanley’s backside, even on the moist and hot night. If they didn’t have the squad of soldiers at their disposal Stanley knew he would be nowhere near the docks on this July night.

“Can I presume you gentleman to be armed?” Stanley asked loudly above the sound of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone as the black coach streaked through the foggy streets.

“Inspector Washington is armed. I am not so equipped at the moment,” Abberline said eyeing the Colonel.

“Sergeant Anderson, will you remedy that please?”

The sergeant major produced a loaded Webley pistol and handed it over to Abberline butt first. The chief inspector looked from Stanley to the offered weapon and then reached for it. “I would prefer to take this man alive,” he said looking back at the uniformed colonel.

“That will not be happening. Her Majesty has ordered this thing to end tonight.” Stanley looked from Abberline to his young detective and then saved his most threatening look for Robert Louis Stevenson. “And it will end here, now.”

“What is going on here, Chief?” Washington said as he pulled his own pistol out and checked the loads. “What if we find the Ripper and he accedes to surrender himself?”

Stanley smirked and then looked out of the open window. “He will not acquiesce to giving himself up. And any attempt to apprehend him will have dire consequences, young inspector. My men have been instructed to shoot on sight. You have the same orders. And yes, you may presume that order came directly from the queen. If you do not understand the order, we will stop and let you out of the coach this moment. As a matter of fact, I think we should leave Mr. Stevenson here with a couple of my men for safety reasons.”

Abberline saw the look that was afforded Stevenson and then he knew exactly what else was to happen tonight other than the stopping of the Ripper. Not only was Robert Louis Stevenson to be silenced, but also Washington and him. They would never make it out of this alive. All traces of the Ripper and his financial backers would be covered.

At that moment the coach came to a bumping halt and Stanley never hesitated as he opened the door and stepped into the fog.

“Chief Inspector?” Washington said as he looked at his boss.

“I’m sorry Washington, but I have to be in on this ending. I have to.”

Washington watched stunned as Abberline with pistol in hand stepped from the coach. His eyes then went to the sergeant major that sat across from him and held the door open. “Do as he says laddie. Show no quarter, because the Ripper will show none to you. Shoot anyone you come across that isn’t the chief inspector or a man wearing the red uniform,” he said, and then added, “And then after this night you can say you did God’s work.”

A shocked and frightened Washington finally moved out of the coach and joined the gathering men. As for Robert Louis Stevenson, he sat motionless in the coach. Before Colonel Stanley knew what was happening Chief Inspector Abberline quickly turned and closed the coach door and then looked into the eyes of the writer. “This is over for you. I thank you for your assistance. I understand you are a very wealthy man Mr. Stevenson. May I make a suggestion that you spend that wealth and leave the country. Leave immediately and never come back. Sergeant, take Mr. Stevenson back to his hotel, and then take him to the train station.” He looked back at Stevenson. “Take the train to Scotland, leave the country from there. Do you understand, Mr. Stevenson?”

Robert Louis Stevenson nodded his head in understanding. “Good luck, Chief Inspector.”

“I doubt if luck will have anything to do with this night’s work.” Abberline slapped the side of the coach and the sergeant whipped the horses away from the warehouse.

“I wanted that man to remain here,” Colonel Stanley said as he stopped and turned to face Abberline.

“I know you did, but Her Majesty’s letter said nothing about eliminating material witnesses.”

“You judge me too harshly, Chief Inspector.”

“I don’t judge at all, Colonel. I investigate, I discover who the rat is, and I suspect that the rats are not only inside the warehouse, but out here in this damnable fog also.”

Stanley smiled and then bowed his head and removed his black cap at the same moment. “Shall we see this business concluded?”

Abberline watched Stanley and his approach to the large, rundown building. He took Inspector Washington by the coat sleeve and stopped him.

“Stay close to me old boy. I don’t want any accidents to befall us.”

“You mean like a well-intentioned but stray bullet reaching out and finding us?”

“I knew there was a reason they made you inspector, Washington old boy. Now, as the colonel said, let’s finish this business.”

The warehouse was large and they could see lights streaming from several of the windows that looked out onto the street.

“You men have your orders. Shoot anyone on sight. He has a large man in his employ working as his assistant — he will not be allowed to live. He may have several more men inside, but we cannot be sure. Have no mercy upon these people. They are enemies of the Empire.” Stanley pulled out his own revolver that was attached by a cord to his polished holster. “Gentlemen, his workshop is located on the river side, but be careful as we move through the building; we don’t know what to expect. Now, let’s move.”

As the men started to move off, Abberline realized that Colonel Stanley had been to this particular warehouse before.

Two of the soldiers of the Black Watch approached the double sliding doors of the warehouse and used a large pry bar to tear off the hasp and lock that secured the building.

“Colonel, you have been here before,” Abberline said as the lock and hasp clattered to the roadway, making all of the twenty-three men cringe as the fog failed to cover the noise.

Stanley noticed that the statement from the chief inspector was not put into the form of a question.

“Yes, Chief inspector, I was here for the first time five months ago.”

“The day we found Mary Kelly in her room?” Abberline asked, his anger growing. “You knew who the Ripper was then?”

“Yes,” came the curt answer. “And I suspect I will burn in hell along with a lot of other people for knowing just that, sir.” He finally turned and faced Abberline as the twin doors opened to the foggy night. “And I will be happy for it just to get a chance at killing this monster. No matter what you think of me, know that I was never in favor of what you are about to see.” Colonel Stanley followed his men inside the massive warehouse.

“Inspector Washington?” Abberline called out.

“Sir?”

“Keep your pistol at the ready to defend yourself. If I fall, return to headquarters and start screaming your bloody head off about Colonel Stanley and the Black Watch’s involvement in this. The notoriety may protect you to some degree.”

“I will do just that Chief Inspector.”

Both men held their gaze a little longer, and then with Colonel Stanley waiting at the door, Abberline and Washington entered the lair of the man that had become the inspiration for one of the most horrific fictional characters ever — Dr. Jekyll, and his alter ego Mr. Hyde, who it seems became the very real — Jack the Ripper.

Abberline immediately felt the heat inside of the building and knew it not to be all natural. He was stunned to realize that the building was actually being heated, or better still, he thought, humidified. He looked at the men as they spread out on the lower floors of the warehouse with their Lee-Metford ten-shot repeating rifles at the ready. He saw that several of the men carried heavy fire, American-made Winchester Model 1887 single-barrel shotguns. He saw that Colonel Stanley and a few of his men were standing near several tables that stretched a hundred feet in length. As he and Washington approached he saw that the ridged tops of these tables were filled with dirt.

“They’re gone,” Stanley said as he grabbed a handful of the dirt and then let it sift through his fingers. Then he angrily slapped at the thick, rich soil. “They’ve all been removed. They cannot have acted so quickly after the murder … unless they knew they were leaving tonight!”

Abberline watched Stanley as he moved off to join the rest of his men. As Washington started to follow, the chief inspector reached out and took him by the arm.

“Look at this,” he said, reaching for something he had spied in the dark earth inside the table Stanley had been standing at.

“What is it?” Washington asked.

Abberline held up the long, thin stalk of a plant that had been partially hidden in the soil. He held it to his nose and sniffed. “I don’t know, but it does have a familiar smell to it.” He held the stalk out so the inspector could also smell the strange, yet familiar aroma of the plant.

“Yes, but like you I cannot place it.”

Abberline let the stalk fall back into the moist earth and then turned and examined the immediate area around them. There were bags of pig and cow dung and fifty barrels of fresh water. There were gardening tools and other instruments he did recognize upon an adjoining table. Then he looked up into the high rafters of the warehouse and saw the massive skylights that came nowhere near the age of the building itself. The answer dawned on him.

“A greenhouse.”

“Sir?” Washington asked.

“This whole building is nothing but a massive greenhouse.”

Suddenly a shout and then several curses were heard from a far corner of the warehouse. Both men turned and ran in the direction of the frightened and angry voices. When they arrived at the scene they were stunned, as were the red-clad soldiers at the sight they were witnessing.

“Oh, God,” Washington said when he saw what stopped the soldiers dead in their tracks.

As Colonel Stanley hurried over he saw two of his men, soldiers that had seen more than their share of military action, bent over double as they vomited up their evening meals.

“Why have you stopped searching, what is—?”

The question died in the colonel’s mouth as he saw the two severed heads sitting on either side of the staircase banister. They had been viciously jammed onto the twin railings with such brute force that the wood had been shoved through the top of their heads. One was a bearded man in his early twenties and the other a woman, complete with tattered hat still on her head with the wooden post sticking through its top.

“Colonel,” the sergeant major said holding out a piece of paper. “This was nailed into the head of the man.”

Abberline was shocked to see a nail still protruding from the forehead of the bearded victim. Without investigation he knew the young man to be one of his men. He had to turn away as the colonel took the note.

“What does it say?” Abberline asked, finally feeling that the heavy-caliber Webley was not such a burden after all.

Colonel Stanley, instead of answering the question, gestured for ten men to move to the far side of the building and use the wooden staircase at that end. He then handed the note over to the chief inspector and then quickly started taking the stairs two at a time.

“Chief Inspector?” Washington said as he watched the blood drain from Abberline’s face. Instead of answering, he too handed over the note, not wanting to utter the written words aloud. Washington read the note as his boss followed the soldiers up the stairs. The words were scrawled as if they were written by an untrained, brutish hand.

Washington was as confused as ever as he allowed the note to fall from his hand. He went up the stairs, but not as enthusiastically as the rest.

Abberline heard the men on the upper floor as they moved about. He gained the uppermost floors and then looked out onto the warehouse. Half the building had a second floor; the other half was a high roof with the new skylighting used for the greenhouse. Abberline aimed his pistol ahead of him. The building lacked the gas lighting of the more modern warehouses that lined the river, so in every corner and underneath every table, chair, and barrel, he saw moving shadows. He finally spied Stanley as he kicked over a small table that held beakers and glass tubes of every shape and size. He seized the colonel’s arm.

“We must leave the building and surround it with more men. This is a trap and we’re walking right into it.”

“My orders are to kill this maniac, and that is exactly what we are going to do. If you have doubts as to our abilities, perhaps it is a good time to leave.” Stanley shook Abberline’s hand free of his arm. “But you can also expect a visit from the palace as to why you refused to assist Her Majesty in this apprehension.”

Abberline was about to explode. Now Stanley was even veiling his threat with word games — it was real; they would kill him and Washington and think nothing less of themselves. He opened his mouth to speak, but a thickened, rich, booming voice froze every man on the second floor.

“Your men seem to need some of the fire I could have provided them and the Defense Ministry paid for if I had not been betrayed by those very same men, Colonel Stanley.”

The voice echoed in the almost-empty building. Abberline was sure that it emanated from a megaphone at the very least. It swirled and then settled upon the twenty-three men as the fog had done outside.

“This was supposed to end many months ago; you gave your word to the ministry. Now come Professor Ambrose, let’s finish this business.”

“Very well, but allow me my medicinal interlude.”

Abberline jumped when the sound of breaking glass broke the silence after the words were spoken. As he looked he saw the vial in pieces on the floor at the colonel’s booted feet. He watched as Stanley went to a knee to examine the broken glass. He reached out and retrieved a small piece of the shattered vial. He sniffed and then he stood so suddenly that his men jumped.

“Professor, you did not drink the whole of this did you?”

Silence.

“It will not avail you, tonight you die.”

It seemed every man saw the shadow as it fell from the rafters above their heads. The darkened mass hit the floor and then vanished into the blackness at the far end of the warehouse. Three shots rang out from the nervous soldiers to Abberline’s left. Washington stepped forward and stood by the chief inspector.

Suddenly the sergeant major and two men skirted the colonel and ran forward on the right at Stanley’s direction. Then he motioned again and another two ran forward on the right. Again there were more gunshots. A loud explosion announced that one of the American shotguns had discharged. Then something flew out of the darkness and struck the wooden floor. It was one of Stanley’s men. His torso had been torn in two with the upper half missing. Then several shouts were heard and men started moving quickly.

“There!” Stanley shouted and fired his Webley at a large shadow that moved quickly through the darkened end of the large room.

Abberline heard the heaving grunting and the horrifying chuckle that announced that the Ripper was no longer in hiding. The sound made the experienced inspector freeze in terror. Then he saw the enormous shadow rise up in between two large tables with test tubes, beakers, and jars on its top. The shadow grabbed the first table and held it before it just as several large-caliber rounds struck the wood. The shield allowed none of the bullets to pass through. Several men rushed the large and quickly advancing shadow. The first was knocked across the room as something large and club-like struck him, sending him through a large window. The second was stomped upon with brutal force as more bullets struck the thick, wooden table. Then the sound came that froze every one of the professional soldiers and also the two policemen in their tracks — a roar, not like the sound of a wild animal, but more of a purposeful act to scare everyone who heard it. More screams, more shots, and then the sound of breaking, tearing, and the horrid screams of men as the Ripper waded into them.

Abberline grabbed Washington and the two men skirted to the left as gunfire erupted from all over the second floor. The large table was finally thrown and that afforded Abberline his first look at the man Robert Louis Stevenson had dubbed Mr. Hyde, but he and his men knew as Jack the Ripper.

“My God!” Washington said as his feet froze at the sight.

The clothing had been ripped and shredded. Tatters of a once-white shirt hung along the beast’s long arms as they swung at two men who charged him. The soldiers were immediately broken and lifeless as they slammed into the far wall. Abberline saw the face of the man he had chased for nearly two years. The face was crevassed and lined. Dark fissures were deep and dingy where there wasn’t muscle supporting the skin. The beard was thick and an inch long. The eyes were wild and the forehead massive. The teeth were large and misshapen and the man was clearly ten sizes too large for the clothing that covered his body. The beast standing before the remaining men was no less than seven feet tall.

Several bullets hit the man before he could move, but they seemed to have no effect.

“The head — shoot for the head!” Stanley shouted as he tried to get to a better location in the darkness for a clear shot. Before he reached his spot he tripped and fell, and that was when he looked over and saw that the club that had been used against his men had been the remains of the sergeant major. He lay headless and lifeless beside him. Colonel Stanley scowled and then with a shout he stood and charged the creature that could not possibly exist. He started firing the Webley as he ran toward the large beast. Then just as the bullets struck in the shoulder and chest, the Ripper moved. It was like a large cat that maneuvered for the kill. It quickly seized the colonel by the neck and pulled him up and in front of it. The Ripper was now using Stanley as a shield.

More bullets hit the beast from behind, but still the Ripper elicited no sound other than the loud grunting and snarling of a large predator. It was as though the thing standing before Abberline and Washington had lost the ability of speech. There was no scream of pain and no words. Stanley tried to raise the pistol, but the hand was taken and the fingers slowly crushed until the large weapon fell free. Abberline charged, firing his own weapon. Two bullets hit the Ripper in the side and one actually clipped Colonel Stanley as he was dangled and shaken like a small doll before a cruel child. Suddenly a fist struck out and hit Abberline in the chest and he flew five feet backward. As Washington ran to the chief inspector’s side he saw Stanley released. The Ripper lifted a large and bare foot over the prone and stunned Stanley and then raised its misshapen head to the rafters. This time it was indeed an animalistic roar of triumph that shook the very building.

Inspector Washington slid to the floor to assist Abberline. The chief inspector had been slammed into a table and then to the floor, knocking free an oil lamp that had burst open, and its now freed flame had engulfed Abberline’s left leg. Washington quickly slapped at the burning material until the yellow flames were snuffed out. He kicked away the tin container that held the oil so it wouldn’t again engulf Abberline. As Washington raised his head he saw the large foot come down as even more bullets struck the Ripper from the front, back, and rear. One of the bullets struck the beast above the left eye and the thickened bone produced a ping as if the large round had struck thick plate. The Ripper then turned toward the two prone men. It charged.

“Oh,” was all Washington could utter as he tried in vain to pull Abberline free of the Ripper’s speedy attack. Young Washington knew it was too late, but instead of waiting for the death that came at them, he quickly reached out and took the shattered oil lamp’s base and threw it at the altered man that came at them. The oil hit and then spread on the once-formal shirt of the Ripper. As Abberline started to awaken he saw the young inspector reach his sleeved hand into the burning fuel that was still blazing brightly in front of them. As his hand and arms caught fire, he stood and actually ran at the beast. He struck and the world erupted before the chief inspector’s eyes like a lightning bolt. Washington rebounded and then fell to the floor as the flames coursing up his arm spread.

The Ripper roared as the flames erupted over its entire body. He slashed and spun, knocking over tables and chairs, breaking laboratory equipment as it tried in vain to extinguish the burning fuel.

“Open fire, damn you!” Abberline shouted at the remaining soldiers.

Ten, fifteen, twenty shots were heard as the beast spun in circles, sending pieces of flaming clothing in every direction. Then it suddenly stopped and ran for the windows fronting the river. With the massive body still flaming, the Ripper smashed the many paned window and vanished into the night’s fog.

Abberline slid quickly across the floor and started slapping and cursing at the flames that were now covering the body of young Washington. His whole left side was ablaze as he tried desperately to roll on the flaming floor. Abberline reached up and pulled a large barrel marked water over onto the inspector that had saved his own life just a moment before. The water and barrel hit Washington and the flames quickly vanished. Abberline reached the inspector and turned him over. He was still alive but in much pain.

“Easy boy, we’ll get you out of here,” he shouted as he stood and ran for the smashed window. As he looked into the thick fog all he could see was the swirling whiteness that was just now starting to thin.

As he turned away from the window he prayed that the Ripper had been too badly hurt to survive his burns, much less the fall to the river below.

As he faced the destruction that had been reaped in less than two minutes from beginning to end, he saw the body of Colonel Stanley lying next to that of the sergeant major. His head was no longer there. The large foot had smashed it into pulp. Abberline turned and looked down at his feet while bracing himself against the sill of the large window. Everywhere men lay dead and broken.

Chief Inspector Abberline ordered four of the surviving soldiers to get young Washington down to the remaining wagon, and then he turned to stare out into the lifting fog. He heard the river far below, but that was the only sound in this night of horrors.

The large coal-fired scamp eased to shore along the Thames River. A tall and very thin man stepped from the small wheelhouse as the river pilot held the little boat steady. The man with the blue turban waited at the railing. He turned and noted the secured barrels holding the seedlings and the ten thousand dried plants grown in the warehouse and nodded his head, satisfied they were safe.

After a few minutes he heard the noise emanating from the fast-flowing river. He saw the shaking, burned hand reach out of the water and take hold of the thick, wooden rail. The turbaned man gestured for several of the small boat’s deckhands to assist the man out of the Thames River a full mile from the East End docks.

A few minutes later the boat turned back south toward the sea where a large cutter waited offshore, its destination — America.

The Jack the Ripper case would be closed the following day and the death of the Black Watch soldiers and their colonel would go unread in any newspaper.

Young inspector Washington survived his severe burns and led a productive life in the Metropolitan Police force. He would be killed in the Battle of the Somme twenty-seven years later during the Great War, and would go to his grave never uttering a single thing about that night in the East End of London. And if the world knew the truth, he was all the happier for being as quiet as he had been for seventeen nightmare-filled years, and taking that night with him in death.

Frederick Abberline would eventually leave the London constabulary and head the office of the American-owned Pinkerton Detective Agency. And for years after that night in 1889 he would check the newspapers from around the world only to see if Dr. Jekyll had released his Mr. Hyde and Jack the Ripper had once more reared his ugly head in another country, for his nightmares always told the chief inspector that Jack was still out there somewhere.

Frederick George Abberline died in 1929, age eighty-six, at his home without muttering a single word about that long-ago night by the River Thames. He allowed speculation to flourish that Queen Victoria had been in on a cover-up of massive proportions to protect one of her relatives. Abberline didn’t have any sympathy for the monarchy — after all, it was on her orders that Jack the Ripper came to the shores of the British Empire. They deserved the dark rumor and innuendo that would hound her to her own death in January 1901.

Chief Inspector Abberline received one last letter that had not been intercepted by the government. It was a coded letter from a Mr. Steve Hanson and he had written it from, of all places, India. Abberline knew it was the last he would ever hear from the man as the only words written inside the envelope were these: “Our mutual friend owns quite a lot of property in South Texas and across the border in Mexico — if that should interest you.” It was signed Steve Hanson, but Abberline didn’t have to be much of an inspector to know it was from Stevenson. Robert Louis Stevenson. Abberline could only pray that if the Ripper was alive, he would be nothing more than a burnt-out hulk of a man. Robert Louis Stevenson died in September of 1894 at the age of forty-four years. He went to his grave never telling anyone the truth about his fictional characters being copied from the most brutal mass murderer in British history — Jack the Ripper.

It would take over 114 years for the world to receive the answer that Frederick Abberline feared most of all in his long life after the case had been shunted aside — that indeed, Jack is back.

A thick and rolling sea of fog came off the Rio Grande and partially hid the ninety-six men of B Company of the 8th United States Cavalry regiment. Sound was confusing inside the white gauze of mist as horses and men awaited the order to cross into Mexico. Bird songs and insect noises became one cacophony of blended night elements that added to nervousness among the troopers.

On a small rise above the northern side of the Rio Grande River an armored car sat motionless as men and horses awaited the command to move across the river. The large detailed map was stretched out on the hood of the car and was held in place by an old oil lantern as a medium-sized man placed an index finger on a small rectangular mark south of the border.

“Your target area, Lieutenant, is this compound.”

The taller and far-younger first lieutenant stood confused as he studied the map in the light of the small lamp. “General, have we received intelligence other than our earlier reports that say Villa is two hundred miles to the south and nowhere near this hacienda?”

General John Joseph “Black Jack” Pershing kept his eyes on the map and didn’t look up at the man standing to his left. He nodded his head and then took a breath.

“Pancho Villa is not our task here this morning, Lieutenant.” Pershing finally looked up and into the cold eyes of the blonde-haired First Lieutenant George S. Patton. The aide held his ground as the general waited for the inevitable question.

“We’re using the president’s official mandate to cross into Mexico, and the capture of Pancho Villa is not in the directive? May I ask the general what the objective is?”

Pershing finally reached out his hand, and one of his aides that had been standing off to the side filled it with a large manila envelope. The general held the envelope with both hands a moment and then as if he had drifted away in thought and body looked around him slowly as if he were looking at something deep inside the fog bank.

“Reminds me of the morning just before the fight at San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Pershing said as he glanced skyward.

Patton could see the general not only looking at the fog surrounding them but also looking back at his days as a young lieutenant in the 10th all-Negro cavalry, thus his moniker — Black Jack.

Pershing slowly looked down at Patton and then his eyes went to the sealed envelope he held. He placed it on the map and slid it across. “Sorry for drifting. Your orders Lieutenant, precise and clear-cut. You are to cross the Rio Grande River and enter Mexico and destroy the hacienda indicated on the map at the aforementioned coordinates. You will treat all persons you come in contact with as hostile. After the property’s population is…,” the general looked away for the briefest of moments before finishing. He touched his graying moustache and then caught himself once more … “eliminated, the hacienda and outbuildings are to be burned. No structure is to be left standing.”

Patton looked at the envelope. He knew he didn’t need to read the orders inside. The general’s demeanor told him what he needed to know. He had just been given orders for a murder raid across the border into a sovereign nation.

“Your main target is an American citizen. He owns the property and is responsible for all that has happened there.” Pershing looked at Patton and his visage became stern. “The American’s name is Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose. You are to confirm the death of this professor personally, Patton. This order comes directly from the president of the United States. You are to eliminate everyone in the compound and burn any papers, laboratory equipment, or specimens you may come across.”

“Villa being in this neck of the woods was only a ruse to send in the troops?” Patton finally asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant, a ruse, lie, use whatever word you want,” came a voice from out of the fog.

Patton turned to see a small man in dungarees and a blue denim work shirt. The man actually wore a kerchief around his neck and a black cowboy hat cocked jauntily to the right side of his head.

“This is Lt. Colonel John Henry Thomas, a personal representative of President Wilson. He is present this morning to assure the president that the mission parameters have been fulfilled.”

Patton looked the man over. “What is your unit, sir?”

“Lieutenant!” Pershing said in anger at the presumption of a first lieutenant questioning not only a lieutenant colonel but also a representative of the president of the United States.

“I am attached to the National Archives, Lieutenant. And while my answer creates more questions as to my affiliation, that will have to be enough, okay Lieutenant?”

“I have my men to watch out for, sir, that is my only concern.”

“You not only have them to watch out for young lieutenant, you have me. And as you now know, I have at least one powerful friend in office. So don’t let me down, son.”

“Yes, sir, but these orders are ambiguous at best.”

“Exactly, because we don’t know what it is we will find across that river,” said the small man as he removed his hat and wiped the brim with another handkerchief he produced from a pocket.

“Just follow your orders, Lieutenant.” Pershing once more looked up and into the thickening fog. He placed his hands behind his back, turned away, and slowly moved a distance from the armored car. “Good luck Lieutenant, Colonel Thomas … God’s speed.”

George Patton watched as Black Jack Pershing melted into the thick veil of fog. He looked at the envelope in his hand and then quickly unbuttoned his tunic and slid the orders inside. Patton turned and made his way forward toward his waiting company.

Ten minutes later elements of the 8th United States Cavalry crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.

The two Apache scouts from C Troop, only recently released from their imprisonment in St. Augustine, Florida, returned from the small valley that hid the hacienda. One of the men shook his head and removed his campaign hat, allowing his long black hair to shake free of its confinement. Lieutenant Patton waited for the report as patiently as he could, knowing that the lt. colonel from the National Archives was listening intently.

“Nothing but women and children as far as we can see. They seem to be doing their chores and nothing else,” the larger of the two Apache scouts said as he replaced his hat. “The fog has almost completely lifted near the hacienda, so we will have no cover in the charge.”

Patton looked down at his pocket watch, which was almost impossible to see in the night. He looked up and saw that every minute they delayed the attack allowed the fog to lift that much more.

“Five fifteen in the morning and women are already doing their daily tasks.” Patton looked at the two scouts and then over at the mysterious man sent here by the president. “Doesn’t seem too damn threatening to me.” The young first lieutenant shook his head. “I sure hope Washington knows just what in the hell they are doing.” Patton looked away from Lt. Colonel Thomas, clicked the cover of his pocket watch closed, and then turned and mounted the large roan, which pawed the ground anxiously.

“The orders regarding the women and children, Lieutenant, do they still stand?”

Patton looked down at Second Lieutenant Roland McAfee, a recent graduate of West Point on his very first field assignment, then again at the man from National Archives. Patton then scowled at the colonel and angrily shook his head. “No. If hostilities are evident, only then are the men to fire on anyone. If you can, I want the women and children scattered. Our main target is this Professor Ambrose and any other men of fighting age in the compound. I am not firing on women and children. Now, report to your troop and let’s get this over with.” Patton looked once more at the colonel. “Report it if you want to Colonel. I will not kill women and children without more of an explanation from Washington as to the why of it.”

Thomas looked taken back. “Lieutenant, you are in operational command of this mission,” he started and then smiled. “Hell, son, I would have refused that order myself.”

“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.

“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.

“Just a soldier on detached duty to the National Archives, young lieutenant, that’s all. I’m no one really.”

With a dubious look at the now smiling Thomas, Patton spurred his mount forward and joined the long line of cavalry with Thomas turning toward the rear of the mounted line. Patton rode to the front of the skirmish line and absentmindedly reached for his saber, actually forgetting he had ordered the useless weapons to be left behind for noise reasons. Instead he raised his gauntleted right hand and waved the line forward just as the last of the fog lifted and the first rays of sunshine eased over the rise to the east.

“Company, forward at the cantor,” he ordered in a not-too-loud voice.

The 8th United States Cavalry started forward at the trot. Ninety-eight men pulled their British-made Lee-Enfield rifles from their scabbards and Patton withdrew an old Colt .45 Peacemaker from its holster. He then thought better of it and replaced the old six-shooter with a model 190 °Colt .45 automatic. The line moved steadily forward, and the hacienda was now seen in all its large glory. The men now knew the task at hand was a large one.

“Bugler, sound the charge!”

The early morning bugle call was heard throughout the small valley south of the Rio Grande as men of the 8th charged the ten-acre hacienda known as Perdition’s Gate.

Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose stood in front of one of the subject cells buried far beneath the hacienda and watched test subject 197 as he squatted in the darkened corner of his cell. The young man was one of a slew of dregs from the barroom alleys of Laredo, just across the Rio Grande, as were another four of the ten subjects he had under medical observation. The professor had not moved since administering the final dose in the series of injections that would complete the full script of medicinal delivery.

Ambrose was dressed in a filthy white lab coat and the tie he wore underneath was askew. His gray hair was tumbled and his beard still held food from the day’s evening meal. The deep scars from that long-ago night on London’s East End held firmly to the left side of his face, creating a permanent scowl. His clothing covered the rest of the burns he had received, several of which still broke open and bled on occasion. Ambrose hardly noticed when he heard the footsteps descending the stairwell from the hacienda two floors above. The door opened and the professor spared a glance at the object of the interruption.

His East Indian servant, RaJan Singh, a Sikh that stood six feet six inches in height and was well over three hundred pounds, was his ever resplendent self. His blue turban was covering hair that when loose would travel downward to his hips. His black beard had two luminescent streaks of white coursing down either side of his whiskers. His long white jacket covered bright-blue pants that made the Sikh the complete opposite of Ambrose in size, demeanor, cleanliness, and dress.

“I gave orders not to be disturbed until the final doses of the drug had been administered. I have nine more injections to give to complete the series on these subjects.”

“Excuse me, Sahib. I have held my tongue for far too long. You need rest. You are not seeing things as you once did. While at one time your direction was merely reckless, it has now turned onto a road which will not only be your destruction, but many others on this plantation as well.”

Ambrose smiled and turned with a fresh syringe in his thick fingers. “Do I include you as one of those others, old friend?”

“My life has always been yours to either end or prolong. But was it not I that gave you the rare poppy which in turn gave you your life’s work? I would like to see the potential of the experiments proven. Still, we must realize that our actions have attracted attention from north of the river, Sahib.”

“I am too close to finishing this. With soldiers such as these that I have created, foolish governments could never afford war mongering. If I had gone uninterrupted in London, the problems in Europe would have ceased before they started. Men such as these in the holding cells would make moot the art of warfare — men that will kill and die without a second’s hesitation.”

Singh stepped up to cell number nine and looked at the man-animal crouching in the dark corner. The man was staring at him with eyes wide and his drooling mouth agape. The look of sheer murder that coursed through his rough features was enough to make the giant Sikh want to turn away. For as large as he knew himself to be, he also knew the man in the cell could take him apart, piece by piece.

“For years I have watched you make men into something that was never meant to be. We have gone too far, Sahib. The taunting of the British authorities almost twenty-seven years ago nearly brought the world down upon us. Your decision making was flawed then, and it is now becoming more so.” He watched the eyes of the professor as they remained neutral as he spoke. He decided to press further. “I was willing to allow this to go on as long as there were no more killings of the innocent. But it is now starting all over again. I assume you are planning to test these … soldiers on living subjects?”

Ambrose finally turned to fully face his manservant. The syringe he held dripped amber fluid from the needle and struck the professor’s filthy boot.

“You were willing?” Ambrose chuckled as he ignored the stated question. His laugh was a cold, harsh sound in the darkness of the subbasement. “Wasn’t it you who carried me to Whitechapel in the old days in the coach? Was it not you who assisted in luring women to that coach?” Ambrose took a step toward the very much larger Singh, who to his credit stood ramrod straight. “Old friend, was it not you who originally saw the potential of the splicing of the flower and its new seed? Maybe you were once just a willing participant, but now I believe you may be considered one of the architects of Perdition’s Fire.” This time the smile did reach his eyes just before he turned to unlock cell number two. “After tonight there will be no more need for test subjects. Outside of training these men to not attack their own people, the process is perfected. Can you imagine a whole division of Berserkers? The earth would tremble.”

“And what nation would be willing to pay your price?”

Again, the laugh. “Just as soon as one side or the other starts losing the war in Europe, we will have plenty of takers.”

The manservant watched as the cell door was opened and Ambrose stepped into the darkness. He heard the sharp rattle of chain as the test subject, a young Texan he himself had found sleeping off a drunk by the river, charged Ambrose. With every inch of thick chain around the subject’s neck stretched to its limit, the boy growled and hissed at Ambrose who calmly kept his ground just inside the cell door. After a moment the subject settled and started sniffing. The test subject’s drool coursed down his chin and neck as he took in Ambrose. Only five previous injections had brought the test subject to this point of barbarity. The last injection would make him into what Ambrose dreamed — a lethal, brilliant killing machine — just as he had proven with himself as a test subject in London. This man would soon be a soldier that was able to plan and carry out the most animalistic attacks ever seen. A soldier never seen before. The strength of a bull and the intelligence of the very man who made him into what he had become. He was now a beast that would send any civilized enemy running through sheer terror. And all of this was because of two small, little-known poppy flowers that grew only in the remotest northern regions of India. That coupled with the stem serum would open up that which God may never had intended to be used — the opposite side of the brain. Full brain function coupled with animalistic fury.

As Singh watched, the professor slowly lifted his free hand and allowed the subject to smell the oils and sweat emanating from the pores of Ambrose. The smell seemed to calm the boy down and the chain slackened somewhat as the man knew one of his own. Someone who released this scent told the Berserker he was amongst one who had also taken the formula. Ambrose had absorbed enough of Perdition’s Fire into his system over the years that anything that had also been injected with the script would know the other as an ally, one not to be feared or attacked. It was a system of protection the professor had worked out years before through trial and error.

“Is it not amazing to you my old friend how the brain of the subject, even though it is ravaged with cancerous growth caused by the long-term injections, is still able to use its higher brain functions? This subject tested out at over a 165 IQ. Amazing, Singh, just amazing. This opens up not just one avenue for the eventual benefits of Perdition’s Fire, but so many more.”

“It is not the benefits of higher brain functions that is the concern here, Sahib. It is the murderous abilities coupled with that intelligence that is the true danger.” Singh stepped toward the open cell, and that was when the test subject lunged at the manservant, almost knocking Ambrose over.

“That is not wise my friend,” Ambrose said as he quickly reached out and jabbed the needle home into the arm of the boy. The test subject was so absorbed in his want, his very need to get at Singh, that he never felt the sharp jab. Ambrose quickly stepped from the cell and closed the door. “There, eight subjects more to go.”

“Sahib, we must—”

Suddenly, and before Singh could finish, the basement door flew open and a man came through. He was armed with an old Winchester and wore the white clothing of one of the field workers.

“We have soldiers approaching, Jefe. They crossed the river an hour ago.”

Ambrose reached for another of the syringes and then turned to look at one of the many guards he had posted around the hacienda. “Federalies?” he asked.

“No, señor, Americanos,” the man said as his eyes saw the boy inside the cell for the first time. The peasant saw the way the beast inside had the restraining chain stretched to its limit as it growled, sending the guard back a step. “There must be over a hundred of them,” he said, in a hurry to finish his report.

Ambrose slammed the syringe onto the table’s top, denting the barrel of the tube, and then grabbed the guard by the shirt. It was that quick motion that not only sent the two men who had the final series of injections into a frenzy of movement and anger, but the other test subjects as well. Animal sounds started filtering through the darkness of all ten cells, sending chills down the spines of both the guard and Singh.

“You and the other guards will delay them as long as you can, dying in the effort if you have to.”

The guard looked shocked. He knew he and his men could never take on an experienced charge of light cavalry. Ambrose angrily shook the man, sending the test subjects into a fresh round of growling and other sounds that could never have emanated from the throats of mere men.

“If I do not receive the time I need, I will release these men into your village after they have finished with the soldiers. Your wives, your children, they will all die a horrible death. Now go and delay this force of men while we get ready to abandon the hacienda.” Ambrose shoved the shocked and stunned guard away.

Singh half turned and watched the man leave the laboratory. He then faced his employer. “You would release these creatures into the villages around the hacienda?”

Ambrose grinned and then took another syringe from the table. “I would release them into heaven or hell to get the time I need. Now you go and retrieve the Perdition journals in my office. The up-to-date series of formula is in notebook number thirty along with the antidote. That is most important. As for the viles of powdered solution in the secondary laboratory, dump them into the sand. The powdered form is far too strong. With the liquid solution we have more control. Now go my friend and do as I—”

He stopped talking when the pistol appeared in the Indian manservant’s hand. Ambrose raised his thick brows at the sudden appearance of the weapon. It seemed as though the professor wasn’t surprised in the least by this latest development.

“This ends here, tonight, just as I should have allowed it to end in Whitechapel.”

“You brought the soldiers here, didn’t you Singh?” Ambrose asked as his eyes roamed to the still-unlocked cell door of test subject number two.

“Yes, I knew the American soldiers that are searching for Pancho Villa were within a hundred miles of here. I have arranged your demise through forces working with the president of the United States, Sahib. Forgive me, but I have been communicating with your government for over three years now. I have been reporting on your progress — progress that has now gone too far with the new series of script you have begun. These men will never be controlled as you believe, and the Americans want this stopped.”

Ambrose couldn’t speak or move at first. He had never suspected his manservant could be capable of total betrayal until the deed had showed itself. Instead he turned from Singh and then quickly slid the needle expertly into his own arm. As he did he moved to the left. The sudden motion made Singh adjust his position and he stepped in front of the still-open number-two cell.

“Please, Professor, place the syringe on the table top.”

Ambrose chuckled, a sound that sent chills down the neck and arms of the large manservant. Then to Singh’s horror, he saw the syringe fall from where Ambrose had hidden it in his hand. It clattered on the flagstone floor — empty.

“What have you done?” Singh asked as he involuntarily took a step backward toward the open cell door.

“I do what always needs to be done old friend,” Ambrose said as saliva slowly ran from the left side of the older man’s mouth and traveled slowly through his thin beard. The distinctive facial tick, indicating that the muscles under his skin were receiving information from the extreme frontal lobe of the brain, started on the right side of the face and seemed to spread into the upper reaches of the facial muscles, most notably just above the eyes, making the brow pulse and grow. The professor took another step to the right and then one quick step forward, forcing Singh to step closer to the cell door. Ambrose smiled again — the once-straight teeth were now jumbled and separated. The professor’s blue eyes were now ringed with a red circle where the subsurface blood vessels had exploded from the massive rise in heart rate. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a small shiny object.

“An object lesson old friend — a bit of problem solving for the ultimate soldier.” He held up the small key that maintained test subject number two securely bound to his chains.

“I’ll kill you before I allow the release of that beast from its cell. The test subjects must be destroyed,” Singh said as he cocked the British-made Webley pistol.

“Release them?” Ambrose said with a laugh.

The gesture allowed Singh to see the blood that had forced its way through the now widening gaps between the teeth of the professor. The lab coat was now drawstring tight around the professor’s arms. The material was starting to give way as the now thriving right side of the brain started to activate and send out new signals to the nerves controlling muscle movement, growth and strength. Singh knew that Ambrose’s body was starting to take defensive measures toward its survival as ordered by the expanding brain and the already overdosed and dying medulla oblongata.

“I said this was your object lesson. Problem-solving capacity amongst the strongest, most ruthless creature in the world has been obtained. They need no key old friend. The last journal explains it all. They have been opening and closing the locks on their chains since the third series of injections. So I had to change the locks to a more advanced model. Now they have the reasoning to avoid capture, just like I had in London twenty years ago. It works, Singh, the formula works!”

Singh felt his heart jump in his chest as he absorbed the words from Ambrose. Then his heart stopped when he heard the cell door behind him open. He closed his eyes and then he suddenly realized what he had to do before his own life became forfeit. He pulled the trigger.

Ambrose was hit in the chest and thrown back just as test subject number two jumped onto the back of the manservant. As the professor absorbed the large-caliber bullet and as he hit the table with the remaining syringes on its top, he heard the beast as it tore its teeth into the neck of Singh. He reached down and started to gather the remaining doses of Perdition’s Fire from the floor. He looked down at the wound he had sustained and saw the blood pumping out of his chest from the bullet hole. He laughed as he watched the flow of life-sustaining blood dwindled to a trickle.

While the quickly dying Ambrose started giving the final injections to the last eight patients, he ignored the sounds of test subject number two as it did what it was created to do as its brain functions started to die — it was dismembering, tearing apart, killing, and worst of all something else that had not been programmed into its cycle of violence during the professor’s long-winded readings to his test subjects, something the professor could never figure out — it would feed on the corpse of what it had just killed — a basic throwback to the primitive days of beast against beast. The total brain function brought on more than just advanced IQ; in some ways the formula reverted it also.

For the world as a whole, the genie was now out of the bottle, and a new form of warfare was about to explode onto the landscape of the Mexican chaparral.

The living versus the dead — and the dead had the advantage.

Perdition’s Fire was now perfected.

Ambrose laughed as blood spilled onto the wooden flooring. As he stared at the last test subject he felt his knees weaken and his mouth go dry. His head started to spin and he quickly gave the last dosage. Then without realizing what was happening he turned and stumbled out of the cell and crashed into the dosage table, knocking it over.

Ambrose knew he had injected himself too late to stem the flow of blood from the bullet wound and now he would die before he could prove to the outside world that his theory of chemical balancing of the entire brain and the releasing of controlled violence would never be achieved. His eyes started to flutter closed. Suddenly he felt the sharp jab of something through the lab coat and into his arm. He opened his eyes as he felt the rush of the drug as it coursed up his arm. His strength was returning fast. He was pulled to his feet, and that was when he realized it was test subject number two. The beast had finished his work with Singh and had actually refilled one of the used syringes and had injected him again.

“That is too much, the dosage will kill me.”

“As you have us?” came the slow, deep voice from test subject number two. The beast let him go and then smiled. His mouth was wide and filled with large carnivorous teeth. “Now your only option is to fight … fight alongside of those you have condemned to hell with your God-like man building. Now FIGHT!”

Ambrose felt his mind let go as the section of his brain he had only barely touched on in London came to full life. Instantly memories came to him of those nights in Whitechapel and the pleasure he took from testing his serum.

“Yes, YES!” Ambrose shouted as the physical change went far beyond anything he had ever experienced.

Jack the Ripper and Mr. Hyde combined was now loose upon the world.

As First Lieutenant George Patton led the 8th Cavalry over the last rise, the early morning sun burned off the last of the fog and illuminated a strange scene below. Women and children, peasant farmers, and their animals were streaming out of the hacienda and the outbuildings that surrounded it. Patton galloped toward the front gates of the main building. Each troop in the unit did as previously ordered. They split into four separate companies for each side of the massive hacienda.

As Patton rode past the first of the terrified farm workers, he could sense they were not only running from the danger posed by the raid, but from the way they turned their heads back, also from something inside the hacienda. They braved the charging horses of the 8th to distance themselves from their employer — or something even more terrifying.

The main troop with the lieutenant in the lead never hesitated as they charged two abreast through the wide double gate at the front of the hacienda. Patton was the first to discharge a weapon that morning as a man with an old Winchester rifle was downed in the center of the wide courtyard. Then other loud reports were heard as the troopers behind Patton opened up on several men, both armed and unarmed.

The first six men reigned in their mounts and came to a sliding stop on the flagstones of the courtyard. Patton held up his hand and then gestured for them to split up to cover the eighteen possible entranceways into the main building. More gunfire erupted on the other side of the house. The other troops opposite Patton’s men were coming across the same sort of weak defense. The man beside the lieutenant raised a boot and then smashed in the French style doors before him. He held a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun before him as he stepped into a large room. A man in a darkened far corner came from the shadows with his hands held high in the air. The sergeant turned quickly and fired both barrels into the man who flew backward until a whitewashed wall stopped him.

“Jesus Christ, Sergeant!” Patton said angrily as he shook his head to clear his hearing after the loud report from the shotgun.

“Sorry, sir,” said the small but stocky sergeant as he broke the weapon he was holding and pulled free the two smoking and expended shells. As he did this he looked up in time to see a darker shape lunge from another room. He quickly shoved Patton out of the way and swung the empty shotgun at the man’s head. It connected solidly but seemed to have little or no effect on the strangely shaped man in front of him.

Patton kept his balance after being pushed out of the way of the charging man. He turned in time to see the twin barrels of the sergeant’s shotgun strike the attacker in the side of the head. He could have sworn he heard the sound of cracking bone, therefore he was surprised to see the man just turn his head slowly back toward the sergeant. Patton hurriedly raised his Colt. The crazed-looking man actually growled in the split second that he jumped on the sergeant. Patton couldn’t believe the speed at which the man moved. It was like watching a large predatory cat lunge at an unwitting victim. Each blow rained down upon the sergeant was something that was so shocking to see that Patton was frozen. This time he knew for sure he was hearing bones break. The sergeant never had time to scream before his skull was crushed. The attacking beast was crazed. His dark hair looked ragged and wet. The exposed muscles bulged with each movement of arms or legs. The nails on its fingers were long, dirty, and as lethal looking as small knives.

Finally the shock of what he had just seen slid from him as if he had just awoken from a momentary nightmare. Now Patton became angry that whatever this thing was had caught him by surprise. He quickly aimed and fired two times into the right side of the man-beast as it finally straightened from the dead body of the sergeant. The two bullets hit almost simultaneously. The first struck the sergeant’s attacker in the armpit, the second just below the ribcage. The man only staggered. It screeched something and then jabbered something else as it looked toward the man that had caused it the pain it was feeling. The malformed man then turned its horribly misaligned features up toward Patton. It tilted its head and then screamed a murderous roar as it started forward.

Patton took a step back and fired again. This time the bullet hit the oncoming beast squarely on the right side of its head. The skull jerked backward at the impact, but to the lieutenant’s amazement the hunched-over man still came forward. Even with part of the man’s brain hanging like a gray piece of meat from the side of his head, the crazed attacker came on.

Patton took a quick glance down at the smoking .45 in his right hand. Then he raised it again and fired. That was when he saw that the slide on the automatic was locked open. Patton braced himself as the man charged when suddenly a fusillade of bullets struck the charging man at the last second before he slammed into the waiting Patton. The beast-like man flew to the side just as several of Patton’s men fired again before the maniac stopped rolling. Just as the lieutenant was about to say something a shout was heard, and then before he could turn toward the commotion more shots rang out in the large room. When he finally managed to turn he saw that his men had fired again when they saw their attacker was trying to get to his feet. Patton could see the large bullet holes in the man’s filthy white shirt. He saw that the portion of brain matter that had clung onto the shattered skull had finally fallen free. Then to his horror the badly wounded man started to push himself upward from the floor.

“What in the hell is this?” Patton said, but no one heard as even more shots rang out. One blast was from another shotgun. This time the large pellets struck the front of the face, taking off the upper half of the crazed man’s head. The body finally slumped and fell over onto the floor.

Without saying another word, Patton started reloading his Colt. His hands were shaking, but he knew no one noticed because theirs were shaking just as badly. He knew that if he concentrated on reloading he wouldn’t have to think about the impossibility of what just happened. When another loud report sounded Patton dropped the full clip he was trying to insert into the Colt. When he looked up he saw that Colonel Thomas had entered the building and had fired both barrels of a shotgun down into what remained of the beast’s head, totally removing it.

“Now listen, it was as we suspected. You have to remove the head, damage the brain completely, and even remove the top of the brain stem. Any part of the brain still functioning can outthink you, and outfight you,” Thomas said as he broke open the double-barreled shotgun and inserted two more shells. That was when Patton saw that the shot he loaded was solid lead and not buckshot. The colonel was using an elephant gun.

Suddenly screams, roars, and gunfire erupted from all sides of the hacienda. The loud reports were from the American weapons — the screams were emanating from something else.

As Patton and his men turned to leave the large room, two of the French style doors smashed inward sending glass and wood flying. As he aimed and fired his pistol, Patton saw it was two more of the same white-clad, insane-looking men as the one a moment before. They never hesitated once they rolled after smashing through the doors. The first one pounced on a private who had reacted too slowly to the attack. The man was up and into the poor boy’s throat before he knew what was happening. Blood flowed as one of the private’s buddies shook off his fear and fired an Enfield into the side of the attacker’s head. The beast jerked away, taking a large amount of skin and muscle of the private with it. The soldier fired again, not waiting to be stunned once more by the lunatic before him. The third bullet hit the beastly looking creature on the lower chin, blowing most of the jaw away. Another bullet hit it before it could recover from the first of the devastating blows.

Patton saw the second of the crazed men rise still wrapped in the large curtain that had covered the glass doors. He aimed and fired quickly. The bullets punched holes into the white lace curtains. Blood exploded, soaking the material as the man underneath lost his balance and crashed to the floor. Men fired point-blank at the still-moving lace curtains. Bullet after bullet hit the struggling man. Colonel Thomas stepped forward and emptied both barrels of his shotgun into the curtains. Blood misted in a small cloud, but still the beast fought to free itself. Patton finally placed the reloaded .45 automatic a few inches away from the outline of the man’s head and fired. The shot reverberated in the room as the large-caliber bullet slammed into the side of the man’s head. Brain matter and a red spray of blood splattered over the lace curtain and the men beyond. Then Thomas quickly reloaded and added another two rounds of solid shot to the area where the beast’s head was approximated to be. The body ceased moving.

Outside, the screams of the 8th were now mingling with the roars and animalistic yells of the attacking force of crazed killers.

Patton slid another clip of ammunition into his Colt and then stepped hurriedly out onto the veranda that looked onto the courtyard. He saw two troopers ride in through the open gates, and before they could react, he saw one of the strangely dressed men jump in front of one of the charging horses. The rider and horse reared up as the insanity-driven man hit the front breast of the huge animal. The beast bounced off as the horse reared over it. Then to the rider’s astonishment the man sprang to his feet as if he were a gazelle. Patton took another two steps out onto the porch when the most amazing sight he had ever been witness to presented itself. The beast actually caught the forelegs of the horse before the animal could bring the sharp hooves and steel shoes down upon it. The man-beast twisted the legs of the horse until the body had to follow. Horse and rider hit the flagstone surface of the courtyard. Patton quickly aimed and fired as did the rider’s companion. Bullets hit the killer, but they didn’t stop him from leaping over the fallen horse to take the man before he could fight his way out from under his own horse.

Above the din of the strangest fight the young lieutenant had ever been witness to, he heard the soldier start screaming as the attacker started to use his teeth on the fallen man. Thirty, forty shots rang out in the course of a minute as more of the man-animals broke free from somewhere inside the hacienda.

“What in the devil are we up against here, Lieutenant?” the heavyset sergeant major asked as he tore his neckerchief free of his neck and started wiping blood from his bearded face.

Patton didn’t answer as he took aim and fired two rounds into one of the filthy, muscled men that ran after another of the galloping horses.

“We have at least fifteen men down, sir.” The sergeant major aimed the shotgun and fired both barrels at another of the men as he actually lifted a dead horse off of its rider just so he could sink his long, filthy teeth into his neck. “This is all wrong, Lieutenant.”

Patton thought about the orders he had received. That after the hacienda had been taken, he was to burn everything. He remembered the general specifically mentioning the laboratory equipment. Screams entered his mind, pushing thoughts of his orders away to a more suitable place for the moment.

“One of those men, those things, took eight rounds to bring it down and then it still tried to get up. It took two of these to its head to put it down!” Colonel Thomas raised the shotgun he had just reloaded. “We didn’t know that maniac had gone this far.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Patton shouted as he started to feel his grip sliding free of the situation.

“My group is here to stop this nut; now follow orders Lieutenant and let’s get this job done!” Thomas shouted at Patton, and for the first time he realized that this Colonel Thomas on detached duty to the National Archives was a stone killer. A man experienced in the art of death.

“Come, we have to finish taking the house. What we’re looking for is in the basement. Get me ten men, tell your men to secure this courtyard, and then get a troop of men out to round up those civilians — we may need to find out what they know.”

“Yes, sir,” Patton said as he frowned and then pulled his old six-shot revolver from its holster. He went back through the same broken window he had exited from. Sunlight was now streaming into the main house and Patton could see much better. He saw the two men they had dispatched earlier. One was lying next to the dead sergeant, and to his shock and amazement, that one was even now still moving. Hands, jaws, and eyeless sockets where bullets and pellets had taken out the eyeballs were moving, twitching, and shaking. The two beasts’ movements were uncoordinated and slow. The damage to their brains was so severe that their higher functions weren’t cooperating. Patton for the first time in his adult life wanted to vomit from something he had witnessed.

“I am not going to deal with this!” Patton shouted over the gunfire. “Sergeant Major, tell Alexander to get in here with the explosives!”

The sergeant major turned and once more ran from the hacienda. Patton gestured for four troopers to start searching for the way into the basement, but before they could move a large door opened at the far end of the main room. Patton turned to see nothing but darkness at first, and then he saw the dim outline of a giant of a man. It stood there framed just beyond the door. Patton was shocked as he could swear he could see the glowing eyes looking right at him. Then just as suddenly the dark shape was gone. Before Patton could move he heard something that would cause him years of nightmares afterward — the laugh trailed out behind whatever had been standing in that doorway.

“This way,” Patton shouted to his four men.

The lieutenant hit the open doorway and slid to a stop. He looked down into a black abyss that seemed to go on forever. He waited and gathered his courage and then started down. It was only thirty feet down to a dimly lit basement that smelled of dampness and mildew, and then he felt the coldness of the area beneath the first floor. He held both of his heavy weapons out before him as the other men pounded down the stairs. Patton looked around, hoping his eyes would adjust to the dimness of the basement faster than normal. Despite his bravado in all things, the blonde-haired lieutenant held his ground at the base of the steps.

“Come now, you have invaded my home. You have killed my test subjects just to get to me, and now you hesitate when the time draws near to meet your adversary?”

The voice was booming and had a growl hidden just beneath the words. Patton felt the chills slide up his backside as the meaning of the invite hit home. He knew then that they weren’t dealing with a man at all, but some abnormality created artificially in this lonesome place south of the border.

“That’s Ambrose himself,” said Colonel Thomas as he reloaded his shotgun yet again. “Whatever happens Lieutenant, go through the remains of this place and get samples of whatever you find. Our government needs to find a way to fight this. An antidote, maybe, because if this thing gets onto the open market, there will be hell to pay. If I’m not there, get the samples to the president — only the president,” he said, waiting for the young lieutenant to nod his head. “Now, may I suggest Lieutenant Patton that we kill the son of a bitch?”

George Patton quickly gestured for two of his men to go left; the other two he placed behind him and Thomas, and the attack element advanced through the dimness toward the spot they thought the voice had come from.

“I have been waiting for a test such as this.”

Another laugh after the words.

“Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, what is this place,” the private immediately behind Patton and the colonel hissed.

“Take hold of yourself private and get ready to—”

Several loud reports and shotgun blasts sounded in the dark basement as something in front of the advancing men moved. Then before Patton could see what was happening, more boots pounded down the stairs. He turned and saw the sergeant major and immediately behind him was Lieutenant Alexander with a set of saddlebags over one shoulder and two Colt .45s at the ready.

“I have the dynamite, Lieutenant.”

Patton was tempted to just place the charges in the basement, ignite the fuse, and get out of the hell he now found himself in, but he remembered the orders that Pershing had given him. He was forced to confirm the death of this Ambrose. He shook his head and then cursed his luck. He noticed that the gunfire from above had dwindled to almost nothing as the troopers started taking full control of the hacienda. Remembering his dead men up on the main floor, Patton swallowed the fear he was feeling and then waved his men forward.

“I’m waiting for you — come, get what you came for!”

“We’re coming Ambrose, we’re coming. This isn’t London and you sure as hell aren’t in Whitechapel. We know all about your deals, we’re here to stop you!” Thomas shouted around Patton.

The lieutenant knew the name Whitechapel, but that statement by the colonel offered nothing of an explanation to him whatsoever.

“Ah, Whitechapel, the good days, the fun days, the turning of the tide as they say … now come and get me and see what awaits you!”

This time the words were barely understandable as they came from the darkness ahead. As Patton stepped forward he looked down and saw light streaming up through the cracks in the floorboards. There was another level below this one and he knew then that he and his men were being led in that direction. He swallowed, and for the first time in his entire arrogance-filled life, George S. Patton was terrified. He shook himself to bring his terror under control and then advanced farther into the basement.

“It’s alright to be frightened Patton. There are things in the world that are truly terrifying, and this is but one of those nightmares … I know, I’ve seen it, and—”

They heard the creaking of a door ahead of them, quieting Thomas. Then a far-thicker wave of mustiness hit their noses.

“There, a trapdoor!” Lieutenant Alexander said as he squeezed by Patton and Thomas and then ran forward.

“Goddamn it, no!”

Alexander was already three steps down through the door in the flooring before Patton could stop the young West Point graduate. He hurriedly followed. He and the others descended the stairs as fast as the darkness around them would allow when suddenly the entire wooden staircase was wrenched out from under them. They were thrown to the left, the right, and then they all felt the bottom of their stomachs fall free of their bodies as they became airborne.

Patton hit the dirt-lined floor and two of his men fell across him. They were all lucky it hadn’t been but ten feet from top to bottom. As he tried to kick free he saw that the staircase had fallen directly on two of his men, crushing them to death. The lieutenant cursed and then gained his feet. He had lost the automatic somewhere in the fall, so he pulled out his second six-shot Peacemaker. He cocked both pistols, and that was when he heard the laugh coming from his front. He and the remaining men aimed their weapons into the blackness ahead. But before he could move, he heard the voice from behind. It was Colonel Thomas. He was trapped underneath the staircase and it was obvious that his legs were crushed, and the large wooden splinter coming through his lower abdomen made the leg problem that much less of a burden. The colonel was a dead man, he just didn’t know it yet.

“Kill the bastard for me, and get the samples to Washington, code 5656,” Thomas said as his eyes slowly closed. Patton would never get any answers from the brave lieutenant colonel as to who he really was and who he really worked for.

Patton heard moaning at his feet and then he realized that young Alexander was hurt as well. The saddlebag containing the dynamite was still clutched in his hand. Just as Patton reached down to help Alexander to his feet something shot out of the darkness, grabbed the boy, and disappeared before Patton could react. In the brief flash of movement, Patton could not believe what he had just seen. Alexander was not only gone, pulled into the blackness ahead, but in that briefest of moments he had seen something that could not have existed. The man, or whatever it had been, was a giant. The clothing was in tatters and the smell was atrocious. The hair was long and the teeth flashed for the few seconds it took to drag Alexander away. They were hideously long, canine in appearance, and sharp. It was as if whatever it was had reverted back to a time when men were nothing more than the monkeys Darwin said they had sprung from. He couldn’t help it — his hands once again started shaking.

The screaming started almost as soon as the attack had happened. They all heard Alexander screeching, a sound that couldn’t possibly come from the throat of a human being. The pain was etched in every decibel of that scream.

The sergeant major reacted without orders. He charged forward with one of the shotguns and then he just disappeared, vanishing through the dirt-covered subbasement. Patton ran to the spot as did his remaining troopers. There was bright light streaming through a hole that had opened up beneath the sergeant major’s feet. As Patton looked through that hole he could see the sergeant major below, just coming to his senses.

“Are you alright?” Patton called down into the hell pit beneath their feet.

The sergeant major rolled over onto his back, but just before he could answer something grabbed his left-booted foot and pulled him off the ground. The man vanished just as Alexander had a moment before. Patton could not believe what was happening — a hacienda that had not one or two but three sublevels. He grimaced as he saw through the bright lights below that he was looking at a completely new portion of the old building. Barrels and lab equipment lined the walls far below. Modern equipment was everywhere. Then he jumped when a large figure appeared below and looked up through the gaping hole in the floor. The smile was apparent, but what really made Patton shudder was the fact that the beast still had the sergeant major by one leg.

“Come, come down and see the miracle I have created!” the beast shouted up as he raised the screaming sergeant up by his one leg and then spun him around so quickly that the sergeant major never felt his own death as his body was slammed into the stone flooring below.

One of his privates tried to push by Patton to get into the hole, but the lieutenant held him back.

“No, not one more man!” he screamed as the beast below laughed, a maniacal-sounding noise that reverberated throughout the dirt-lined false basement. He looked around in a panic as he failed to think of how he could handle this. That was when his foot kicked something on the floor near the hole in the ground. It was the double saddlebags containing the explosives. There was a twin lying next to it. He quickly made a decision. He reached down and then started pulling out the wrapped dynamite. There were six bundles of five along with enough fuses to do the job. He started tossing the wrapped bundles to his men.

“Spread these out all along the basement.”

“You hesitate to see my miracle; come now and join your men in my workshop!”

“Go to hell you son of a bitch,” Patton screamed as he started pulling fuse line and stretching it across the dirt flooring. He didn’t notice that he accidentally kicked the second set of leather saddlebags into the abyss below. There was a laugh as the beast kicked the bags out of the way as it continued to stare upward, daring the men there to do something.

Once the fuses were connected Patton chanced a look into the wide hole. The beast was there, smiling as it looked up. The sergeant major was lying broken at the creature’s feet. The mouth opened and closed and then it saw what Patton was holding.

“This is for my men you bastard!” Patton screamed and then lit the short fuse. The creature roared and then tried in vain to leap upward toward the hole. Patton angrily emptied both Peacemakers into the upturned face with three of the rounds slicing through the cheeks and entering the left-side forehead. The creature stumbled, fell to the floor, and then slowly started to rise. Patton cursed again and then was pulled away from the hole. One of the privates screamed something he did not understand. Then he found himself standing where the staircase used to be. He had forgotten that they had fallen into the second level and thus had no escape route.

“Jesus, that was well thought out!” he yelled.

Suddenly four ropes appeared from nowhere as the animalistic roar from below actually made the dirt flooring beneath their feet shake. The men above started pulling them free of the second level. As Patton waited for the last private to be pulled up, he chanced a last look at the hole. A hand reached through, tried in vain to gain purchase, and then fell free. The creature was actually jumping the twenty feet and almost making it. Patton’s eyes widened as he grabbed the last rope. The men above yanked up and through the hole, leaving his dead men behind him.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted at the men as they started streaming from the building. With one last look down, and in his mind’s eye and wild imagination he knew the beast had indeed gained the top of the hole, Patton slammed the door closed and ran for his life just as the explosives below detonated.

The hacienda shook and shuttered, but the old adobe held firm as the first level of basement collapsed onto the second, burying the third for all time, at least he hoped.

Patton bent at the waist inside of the main room of the hacienda and allowed his stomach to relieve itself of its contents.

“Sir, we have Mexican troops approaching from the south. I suggest we retreat across the border. We’re down to twenty-seven men, and we have thirty-two wounded,” a corporal said as he helped Patton straighten.

“Spread the word to all the men to assist the wounded. Get them mounted so we can leave this place.”

The corporal vanished. Patton looked around and then, feeling he had accomplished his mission to a certain degree, he too left the interior of the hacienda.

As the remaining men of the 8th United States Cavalry limped back across the border, Lieutenant George S. Patton knew he had disobeyed his orders in not confirming the death of their target, Lawrence Ambrose. He assumed that whatever horrible force was at play in Mexico had killed the professor prior to their attack no matter what Colonel Thomas had stated. He knew this man could be no man of science. The beast was sent from hell, and Patton would never believe that it had been the man they called Ambrose.

Patton was shocked a year later when he was introduced to the president of the United States just after the war was over in Europe. The president was sick even then, but he managed to pull Patton aside and ask him a pointed question.

“Tell me that Colonel Thomas died doing his duty.”

Patton had not thought of Thomas since the dark night he dropped off the small package of serum he had recovered and hidden from the army. He had again disobeyed orders from Pershing and delivered Colonel Thomas’ last request to the president.

“He was a particular friend of mine, and someone I thought was indestructible.”

Patton told the president his firsthand account of that night and the battle of Perdition’s Gate. The president never said a word. When his tale was complete, Patton saw the president of the United States swipe a tear from his tired face and then smile.

“He was quite an officer, I can tell you.”

“Sir,” Patton braved, “code 5656, what is that?” Patton leaned in closer to Wilson. “And that officer could not be working for the archives; I don’t think the army would waste him there.”

Wilson continued to smile as he nodded his head. “There is no such thing as a code 5656, nor do we have any army staff officer on detached duty to the National Archives. Why on earth would we need soldiers doing file clerk work … as you said Lieutenant, why would the army waste a man there?” The president patted the silent Patton on the back and then moved off. That was all the information the future general ever learned about the strange lieutenant colonel on detached service from the National Archives.

For the rest of his military life, Patton would never be the same. He would overcompensate for every moment of fear he would ever encounter. Men would know the crazed general in later years and never know why he acted the way he did. They would never understand that the famous man had entered hell and saw the darkest side of men.

In that time long ago Patton assumed that the professor and his miracle drug had succumbed to his attack, but he would never know that Perdition’s Fire would only ferment and become stronger until it would be released among his countrymen one last time.

Hell on earth was buried and forgotten along with Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and the infamous Jack the Ripper.