Pro Se Presents: May 2012

By Pro Se Press

Freedom Fights! The Sons of Thor Move Toward Destiny! As nations focus on the growing conflict with Nazi Germany, a devastating mission begins that threatens to unleash a horror that could lay waste to the world. As the Sons of Thor begin their final gambit, is there anyone who can stand against them in the face of certain doom! Find out in the Thrilling Conclusion to THE SONS OF THOR by Erwin K. Roberts featured in Pro Se Presents 10!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476206608

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

PRO SE PRESENTS

NEW AUTHORS - NEW VISIONS - NEW PULP FICTION FOR A NEW GENERATION

MAY 2012

Copyright © 2012, Pro Se Productions

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Edited by- Don Thomas and Lee Houston, Jr.

Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock

Submissions Editor-Barry Reese

Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers

Pro Se Productions, LLC

133 1/2 Broad Street

Batesville, AR, 72501

870-834-4022

[e-mail]

www.prosepulp.com

The Sons of Thor copyright © 2012 Robert E. Kennedy

Cover and Interior Art, Book Design, Layout, and additional graphics by Sean E. Ali

E-book design and layout by Russ Anderson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE SONS OF THOR, Part 2 of 2

by Erwin K. Roberts

THE SONS OF THOR

Part 2 of 2

By Erwin K. Roberts

OUR STORY SO FAR…

Believing they have the blessings of the legendary Norse Gods, THE SONS OF THOR seek power and glory through conquest.

Richard Curtis Van Loan, as both a Second Lieutenant during the Great War and now as the Phantom, Master Detective, has so far managed to foil the SONS plans.

But the enemy is cunning, operating on multiple fronts, and will stop at nothing in their quest for world domination!

HOME ON THE PANDEMIC RANGE

Featuring Jim Anthony & Tiger Standish

Get out of our way, big man, growled the burly man on the Paint horse as he wiped his nose on a red bandana. We’re armed. And you ain’t.

Five paces ahead of the four horsemen stood a muscular man clad in denim and leather. He spoke softly, almost in a monotone. The belligerent horsemen took this for fear.

The man on foot’s close associates knew the toneless speech as exasperated. If an observer looked below the rolled up sleeves, they would see certain muscle groups tensed, then relaxed by force of will.

You fellows want me to get out of the way so that you can go on with your grave robbing?

‘Taint nothing but an ol’ Injun skeleton, spat a lean man on a leaner Appaloosa horse. What ya gonna do? Guard him till the fancy pants Federalies get here?

Actually, replied the other as he flexed his feet inside his moccasin style boots, we planned to give old Fire Arrow a proper Comanche funeral.

A funeral, for an Injin! sneered the fat one in a Stetson that looked like it had been run over a time or two. His gray horse pawed the ground a bit, then looked from side to side. When the rider burst out coughing, the horse backed up three steps.

The fourth, on a powerful Mustang, seemed a little smarter than the others. His watering eyes scanned the rocks and brush around the group, but saw nothing. Wha, whatcha mean we? he stuttered.

Well, my grandfather went to gather firewood for the ceremony. He’s probably somewhere nearby, trying to decide what to do, said the big man as he stretched his arms behind him. The riders started a bit at the popping sounds that resulted.

Ya mean trying to figure wither t’ sit still, or run? This from the Paint’s rider. Anyway, don’t help you none.

Oh, he won’t run, came the reply. First he’ll decide whether to take the trouble to string his bow, or just use his ‘73.

The lean one spoke up, Whatcha mean ‘73?

You gentlemen surprise me, the big man laughed. Surely you’ve heard of the ‘Gun That Won The West’? The Winchester Model 1873? Now my grandfather will have a hard time deciding what to do once he makes up his mind on the weapon. Take off your hat. Or crease your hair. Or the easy way. Just drill one of you between the eyes. I hope he doesn’t do that last. I’ll be up to my armpits in paperwork for a week.

You run a good bluff, stranger, said the squint eyed lead rider with a gap toothed smile and runny nose. But we’re a coming straight ahead to that old landslide. An’ if the horses have to step all over you, so be it. With that he put his hand on the rifle stock sticking out of the saddle boot.

Words of steel brought all four riders to a halt. You move that rifle so much as an inch and you become a target.

Don’t nobody tell me what ta’ do, said the lead rider as his face reddened like a bad sunburn. Specially some dude what looks like a Indian. He prepared to dig his heels into his mount.

Words in a strange tongue came from the big man, Grandfather, the hat!

With a slight swish of sound, the leader’s hat left his head. It came to rest a second later in thorny brush hanging from an arrow.

Now all four reached for their weapons.

Jim Anthony exploded into action. He stepped to the left side of the thunderstruck leader’s horse. Being over six feet tall, Jim had no problem grabbing on to the horn of the man’s saddle. He bounded upward, as if bouncing from a concealed trampoline. In a big circular motion, Jim’s left hand first flicked the leader’s right foot off the stirrup. A split second later that same hand shoved the rider off the horse. The man landed in the same brush as his hat.

Pushing away from the saddle horn, his feet flashed outward. They just reached the chest of the lean Appaloosa rider. The man kept his feet in the stirrups, but was sprawled painfully over the back edge of his saddle.

The third man yanked out his antique Confederate Cavalry pistol. Everybody underestimated the reliable old weapon. It held nine shots, plus a shotgun round as a kicker. He’d deal with this outsider with firepower to spare.

He might have been right if allowed time to use the weapon. The double kick brought Jim to a horizontal stop. He landed in a crouch on the balls of his feet right next to three heavy stones he’d marked out moments before. He snatched up two in his right hand and the other with his left to shovel hard at the third man.

The egg sized rock hit the rider’s nose hard enough to sting, but not disable. He resumed drawing his heavy pistol. As the gun cleared the holster, Jim’s second rock broke the man’s wrist. The pistol fell to the ground.

Jim dived under the Appaloosa and came to his feet with the third stone ready to fly. Before he began his throw, something flashed in from the left. The head of a Comanche war arrow sliced across the fourth man’s forearm. Another pistol, a Peacemaker this time, thudded to the ground.

Jim rose from his crouch. He let the third rock fly. The fourth man heard it whistle past his ear. He no longer wanted to move, at all.

Is that all of them? asked Jim in Comanche.

There is one more, back at the top of the next hill. He watches with the Blue Coat’s extra eyes.

Jim Anthony checked the late morning sun, then glanced at his pocket chronometer. It hardly seemed possible that only eighteen hours ago he and his grandfather strode different parts of the far state of New York.

***

Jim finished a brisk half hour afternoon walk on the streets of Manhattan from the Waldorf-Anthony Hotel to the Daily Star Building, home of the newspaper he owned. As he entered the lobby he waived at the pretty girl who worked in the small flower shop next to the newsstand. He changed course as he saw her reach under the counter to press a button. Jim’s eyes scanned the lobby and the area outside. Nothing amiss. He entered the shop, picked out a large bouquet, and stepped up to the counter. His smile would have melted most young women like an ice cube in a steel mill.

Passing over cash that included a large tip, he quietly asked, Who wanted to be paged, Marita?

She flashed him back a high powered smile. Robb Roberts, the sweet older fellow down in the Morgue. You know, that’s a horrible name, why do you call it that?

I guess, replied Jim, because that’s where dead news stories stay, in case they’re needed. How are your classes going?

Class work’s fine. And I finally got over the shivers when I have to give shots!

Jim smiled, You’ll make a fine nurse, Marita. You have the instincts for it.

The girl winked, And I’ll play doctor with you, any time, handsome. Any time at all. Oh, hi Robb.

Jim actually blushed a bit. The two had gone out a couple of times when they first met, sharing one adventure and a little private time. Marita knew that Jim’s wild life was far too much for her, but she still kidded the big man like they were an item.

***

At the same time Mephito, the old Comanche Shaman, walked the hills of upstate New York that the local white people called mountains. These were not true mountains, but he never mentioned that to the few locals that he knew. Different from where he grew up, to be sure, but still a place of wonder.

Mephito knew also some whites said that a Mother Nature worked magic in these lands, and agreed that great magic lived in these green woods and hills. He spent much time trying to discover all of the secrets of this place, though he knew one man could never see everything.

***

You know where to send the flowers? asked Jim with a wink to the pretty clerk.

Sure. This week it’s the maternity ward over at Blair Hospital.

That’s right, said Jim as he turned to the man with the salt and pepper hair and mustache waiting behind him. What’s got you flagging me down, Robb?

Robb Roberts, the morgue manager, or Crypt Keeper as he sometimes called himself, pulled a piece of yellow teletype paper out of the folder he carried. This came in from just outside of the old Comanche stomping grounds. Poor fellow might have been Comanche, Navajo, Hopi, or who knows, a Bavarian with lederhosen. But you’ve always given this sort of thing a high priority.

Jim took the yellow flimsy. It read:

"SKELETON FOUND AT BANDELIER, by C. G. HARKINS

Tomorrow morning, on June 27, 1938, Temporary Park Rangers Tommy Onstett and James Spuhler will make a trip to the Otowi Section of Bandelier National Monument, near Los Alamos, New Mexico; to recover a skeleton that had been reported by a visitor to the monument on June 25.

"That visitor, Dr. E. B. Renaud of the University of Denver Anthropology Department, examined the skull of this skeleton and sexed it as a male about 40 years old.

A tuffaceous boulder, some seventy-five cubic feet in volume, had apparently struck down the Indian at a point about sixty-five feet down the talus from the southernmost extension of the mesa, just west of Otowi ruin and north of the Los Alamos Ranch School’s Camp Hamilton. The position of the bones indicate that the Indian had, upon analyzing his predicament, turned to face the falling boulder and, arms outstretched to ward off its course, had been crushed to death. A smaller tuffaceous boulder checked the downward path of the killing rock and held it stationed directly over the body. Dr. Renaud didn’t feel safe attempting to recover the skeleton alone, with minimal tools and no way to brace the large boulder.

Nodding slowly, Jim led the way to the staircase to Robb’s subterranean domain. "Thanks for this, Robb. That might be an old friend of my grandfather’s. Please call Dawkins at the penthouse. Tell him to round up Tom Gentry to get the Thunderbird ready for immediate takeoff for the west coast. And say ‘non-stop,’ please. Then have him tell Mephito we may have located Fire