Justice League of America - Batman: The Stone King by Alan Grant (best english novels to read .txt) 📗

a beam of light broke through. The Flash stretched a tentative hand toward where he figured the up-sloping pyramid wall should be. There was nothing there.

This is absurd! The Fastest Man Alive, hamstrung like a blind animal!

He started to walk to the end of the course, but before he'd even completed the first step, a sudden thought struck him. He paused, stooping to feel for the ground before him with his hand. Nothing. Anxiety growing within him, he turned around and repeated the maneuver. Nothing behind him either.

It was as if he were perched on the tip of a narrow stone plinth. The only solid ground was beneath his feet, and around him absolutely nothing but thin air. Unlike Superman and Wonder Woman, Flash couldn't fly. It was a talent he'd never missed, because when you were as fast as he was it was no problem to go anywhere in the world on foot. Granted, he could manipulate the molecules of his body to keep him hovering in the air. But as far as he could tell, he was standing on the only solid ground. Where the hell could he hover to?

He'd have given almost anything to have heard Martian Manhunter's voice inside his head, telling him exactly what was going on. As a member of the Justice League, you got used to doing things as a team. It was only when team dynamics stalled that you realized how dependent you'd become.

The Flash squatted on his haunches, feeling despair creep over him. Whoever had laid this trap couldn't have made a better one for the Scarlet Speedster.

Even as the light had flared out to swallow them, Batman had cursed himself for making a mistake. He knew that the previous night's encounter had been some sort of testing ground for the heroes. He should have known they'd be targets!

Now he found himself alone in the strange blue-green fog, with neither sight nor sound of his companions. His mind raced, sifting through the possibilities: he might have been transported to another location, even another dimension. This might all be an illusion, the work of some warped master conjuror. Or maybe it was the others who had been transported elsewhere. . . .

Batman had faced hundreds of villains over the years, each with his own weird and twisted power. He'd learned long since to accept nothing at face value, and to question everything. He riffled through the files of his memory, but found no name connected with this type of modus operandi.

What was that?

A shiver of fear ran through him like a jolt of electricity, jamming his senses. Had he heard a rustling around his feet? Was he just imagining the cool, slimy touch of something like a tentacle, wrapping itself around his boots? He wore infrared lenses in his mask, but even with enhanced vision he could see nothing except the all-pervading mist.

He kicked out with a foot, and encountered nothing. Just his imagination–though that fact itself caused him to worry. Batman wasn't in the habit of imagining things.

Something he couldn't see brushed against his cowl. He heard a dry, chattering voice whispering like an insect in his ear, a long stream of savage blasphemies and murderous threats. Despite himself, a small knot of terror was growing in the pit of his gut.

How could he fight what he couldn't see? How could he resist an enemy who didn't seem to even exist? How could anyone deal with disembodied voices?

The whispers in his ear became more insistent, leering obscenely, describing in sickening detail what was going to happen to him.

We'ttcutoutyourheartandfeedittoyourfriends! We'llripoff yourlimbs!We'llsuckthemarrowfromyourbones!

Suddenly panic-stricken, Batman pulled a handful of tiny concussion grenades from his Utility Belt. Tossing them underhand, he sent them scattering in front of him like a handful of corn seed. There was a five-second delayed fuse on each, and he pulled his cape over his head as he turned his back to wait for the explosions.

The first grenade went off with a wet sound like a razor slicing through flesh. The second emitted horrible, high-pitched laughter. The others exploded in a series of small pops, followed by a redoubling of the odious voices hissing in his ears.

The knot of terror pulsed within him, quickly turning into a hideous dread that seemed to penetrate every pore of his body. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. His heart raced, and his hands felt clammy. He was going to die here–horribly and painfully. He knew it with a certainty that was almost physical in its intensity.

A thin sliver of logic slipped between his terrors. Fear is a gift, he reminded himself. Fear is a message from the subconscious mind. Fear is a warning.

Yet there was nothing here to be wary of, just a strange blue-green mist. Voices in his ears might be uncomfortable and unsettling, but on their own they couldn't harm him.

Then why do I feel terrified?

Of course! The answer struck him with the force of a hurricane. This wasn't his own fear, his own terror, his own dread. This was being imposed on him, forced on him by some external source. Something, or someone, was tampering with his feelings, manipulating them, trying to drive him crazy!

Thinking the thought was enough to bootstrap him momentarily out of the fugue. Almost immediately, he felt the knot of terror reseed itself in his stomach. Whatever his enemy was, it wasn't giving up. He had to take action and extricate himself from this madness.

It was impossible to get any sort of bearings within the all-encompassing mist. Batman had no option but to entrust himself to his own earlier observations–to assume that his unconscious mind had noticed, and filed away, everything it could about the pyramid.

Trusting himself completely, Batman suddenly took three strides forward and dived headfirst off the summit.

The blue-green mist remained where it was as his body burst through it into the darkness of night. He tucked his head into his chest, bringing both hands up to break