The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

TWENTY EIGHT Venice Cemetery Night

In the wake of the rockets explosion, the costumed crowd in the piazza saw a bright fire. A loud shock wave reverberated through the surrounding area, bringing down an old theater at the edge of the collapsing buildings.

The explosion removed the key domino from the cascading collapse. The marching destruction lost its power, like a forest fire blocked by a firebreak. With a grinding rumble, the avalanche of buildings faltered against the empty spot and came to an end.

In the moment Quatermain took to stare, worried that Tom Sawyer might have been hurt in the rocket's explosion, the Fantom fled through the crowd.

Cursing, the old hunter surged across the piazza, elbowing cheering survivors out of the way. He caught a glimpse of the Fantom's dark form and swirling cape as he ducked down another street, into the shadows.

Quatermain left the giddy celebration behind and tried to follow his nemesis, who flowed like oil into the darkness. He paused at the scrolled cast-iron gate that marked the entrance to an overgrown, walled cemetery.

Inside, was a shadowy maze of trees and mausoleum structures, crypts, vaults, tombstones, statues. The iron gate stood ajar, the tall weeds trampled.

The Fantom had gone inside to hide.

Quatermain listened, using his hunter senses. Behind him, the shaking of the great, wounded city subsided. Venice groaned and moaned as its bones resettled. Silence descended, save for distant shouts.

The Fantom could be anywhere inside. Quatermain entered the cemetery, the cast-iron gate making a dismayingly loud screech as he pushed it open. He stepped forward, crouching, stalking. He noted a broken branch, sniffed it, and found that it was still moist. He tried to peer into the quietly rustling shadows, searching for any sign of the scarred man in black.

After a moment, he'd had enough of stealth. The enemy knew he had entered the cemetery. So he raised his voice loud enough to startle a pair of doves into flight, counting on the villain's pride to make him reveal himself. "You've failed, Fantom! Venice stands."

Lurking within the cemetery, the Fantom backed deeper into the shrouding darkness, out of sight. "I applaud your persistence, Mr. Quatermain." The evil voice reverberated from every direction.

The Fantom moved through the darkness, avoiding the old hunter.

"Oh, you'll be clapping all right, when I get my hands on you." Peering around, Quatermain pressed on through the shadows, continuing the hunt.

But the hidden Fantom easily avoided the adventurer. His goading voice came disembodied from among the leaning tombstones and monuments. "But like a dog smelling blood, you can't see the true picture."

"I see that you've failed. It's obvious enough."

"This was merely one objective," said the Fantom.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quatermain saw a flitting shadow as the Fantom continued his taunting. "Other schemes proceed as planned. There's nothing you can do to stop them."

Quatermain spun, aimed his Winchester — but could see nothing. "I know your big secret." The hunter's shadow passed over thick foliage, like a cloud across the moon. For a moment, he thought he saw a glint of silver metal — the Fantom's mask drawing deeper into hiding? He couldn't tell. "I know all about your spy among us."

The Fantom's voice carried no surprise, only a condescending lilt. "Ah, do you?"

Quatermain took a shot toward the voice. He thought for a moment he had hit the Fantom, but the shotgun pellets merely sprayed chipped white marble from the statue of a sorrowful stone angel.

The hunt continued, and the Fantom moved noiselessly through his domain of darkness, dressed all in black. He chose when to speak, casting his voice like a ventriloquist. "You see yourself as the brave John Bull— but I know you're a coward, Quatermain. Hiding from the memory of your son's death."

As the hunter desperately searched for another target to shoot, the Fantom laughed, taunting. "You should have trained him better. I am not the only failure here, Allan Quatermain. Your mistake was much larger, wasn't it? You may have as well put the gun to the lad's head and pulled the trigger yourself."

Quatermain started to react, then stopped and gritted his teeth. He refused to open fire indiscriminately. He waited for a good shot, the right target.

"Oh, yes. I know all about you—" Then the Fantom froze as his black shoe stepped on a dry branch, cracking it. The sound echoed through the cemetery, as loud as a gunshot.

Quatermain searched for where it came from. "It's you who fears the mirror, sir — and not, I think, because of scars."

His eye caught another flicker of movement off to his right. Quatermain whirled, but saw that the movement was merely a swaying branch. He did however see a subtle flash of motion to his left, vanishing behind a tree. He eased forward, rifle extended. "It's because you are neither extraordinary—"

Quatermain lunged around the trunk. " — nor a gentleman!"

The shadow leaped back, and Quatermain drove in for the kill. The Fantom lashed out, knocking the gun aside. Quatermain shot, a fraction too late. The Winchesters blast rang out, sending debris flying.

The Fantom collided with Quatermain, a long silver stiletto flashing in the moonlight. The blade came down like a cobra striking, and he stabbed Quatermain deep in the shoulder.

With a roar, the old adventurer backhanded the villain and landed a blow that should have felled a water buffalo. The Fantom reeled away, and his mask went skittering across the ground. Quatermain glimpsed the hidden visage, expecting to see a disfigured horror. Instead, it was a shockingly familiar face.

The Fantom was M!

Quatermain's blow had scraped loose some of the half-hidden "scars" on the Fantom's face — merely lumps of wax and flesh-colored paste. Stage show makeup now hung half off the face.

"You? What the hell!"

"You don't know the half of it," M said. "Fool."

He spun with catlike agility, and kicked Quatermains' legs out from under him. As the old hunter fell against a hard block of stone, the knife injury in his back pulsing with agony, M grabbed his fallen silver mask from the ground and scrambled away.

Despite the deep stab wound, Quatermain was quick to recover. He ripped the stiletto from his shoulder, ignoring the hot gush of blood. Out of reflex and long years of practice, he hurled the knife at the receding villain.

The blade flew true and found its mark. The point sank into his back as he fled. He howled, staggered, then sprinted away into the darkness. He must have been wearing the same damned body armor his henchmen used.

Quatermain collapsed on the cemetary grounds— quite an appropriate place after all, he thought — as the strength flowed out of him…