Oz Squad: March of the Tin Soldiers

By Steve Ahlquist

Dorothy Gale was born on Earth, but her home is Oz.

With her friends Scarecrow, the Tin Woodsman and Lion she has protected each world from the other for over a century.

Steve Ahlquist has brought back Oz Squad in a daring all new novel that will satisfy long time fans as well as introduce new readers to this bold take on an American classic.

Illustrated by David Lee Ingersoll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Ahlquist
• Release date: May 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458162632

Steve Ahlquist

I'm Steve Ahlquist, the writer of Oz Squad, the cult comic series about Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion all grown up and taking on bad guys in the real world. I'm also the creator of Strange Eggs, published by SLG, and the four-time Harvey Award nominated co-writer of the comic PupHedz. I've also written stories for Disney's Haunted Mansion series.

Book preview

What people have said about Oz Squad, the comic series:

The most repellent published work with the name Oz in the title I have ever seen.

-Steve Teller - Critic and Oz Collector

Oz Squad Rules!

-Kevin Smith - Director

I do admit to thinking that this sounds a bit like Steven Ahlquist's take as revised by Joss Whedon, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't be a good idea. It just means someone needs to get Steven Ahlquist and Joss Whedon into the same room and see what they come up with.

-From Once I Noticed I was on Fire

It's such a bizarre series, so totally inappropriate, yet I really enjoyed letting go and rolling with the craziness. The Tin Man has laser cannons? Sure, fine. Why not? I liked the sick humor, I liked the hard-boiled/fairy tale dialogue, I liked seeing flying monkeys getting shredded. Now I want to go reread these comics!

-From Dave's Long Box

I... I... okay, I admit I kind of liked it. See? That's how on the fence about Oz Squad I am. One part of me is jealous that I didn't think of it first, and the other part thinks it's blasphemous creative necrophilia - and I mean that in a nice way.

-David Campbell

Oz Squad: March of the Tin Soldiers

by Steve Ahlquist

copyright Steve Ahlquist 2011

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Illustrations copyright David Lee Ingersoll 2011

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Chapter One

The streets of Washington DC were in chaos. Panic overwhelmed the city. People were running, abandoning their cars and residences. It was hard to hear anything over the siren wails of police and rescue vehicles. Officer Jake Newsom, young and idealistic despite five years on the force, turned the volume on his police radio all the way up, and the speakers blared out a jumble of information: President Norcross has been whisked away by helicopter. The National Guard has been mobilized. Some sort of creature is tearing through the streets, killing and destroying everything in its path.

When the crowds and the abandoned vehicles made it impossible to continue, Jake exited his patrol car and drew his firearm. It was the first time he had ever felt the need to draw his weapon while on duty. The gun felt heavy in his hand. A man skilled with using words, Jake had found that he could usually talk through any problem with the citizens under his protection. Now his heart thumped in his chest as he navigated the maze of empty cars towards the broad boulevard from which he could hear the staccato bursts of gunfire and the dull screams of dying and terrified officers echoing in streets.

A sudden swirl of papers and dust surprised Jake as he rounded a corner and took in the scene of catastrophe before him. He blinked to clear his eyes and shook his head in confusion at what he saw. The moment of confusion nearly cost Jake dearly as he delayed until the last moment before ducking as something large was tossed in his direction.

With a shock he realized that it was the body of a National Guardsman. The heel of the flying man’s shoe clipped Jake on the shoulder, an instant before the flying body crashed into the windshield of an abandoned SUV. The Guardsman had been killed with a long, bloodied piece of wood clutched in the hands of a fifteen-foot tall grinning clown.

The clown wore a brightly colored robe, red on one side, gold on the other, that stretched to the ground. The figure glided when it moved, shifting with ease through the streets, pushing automobiles out of the way like mere toys. The clown’s eyes bulged from an oversized head above a warted, down turned nose and sported a smile that seemed frozen in place, betraying mania, cruelty, and perversely, joy. The clown wore a tall pointed hat.

With a flash of recognition, Newsom realized that the creature before him was Mr. Punch, a giant version of a character he had seen in a puppet show years ago when he was only a child. In the play, Mr. Punch used his gigantic bat to beat anyone or anything that got in his way or upset him. He remembered that the puppet play had upset him as a child. While all the other children laughed, he had cried at Punch’s antics. His parents had made a point of introducing Jake to the puppeteer at the end of the show, and it was explained to the young boy that Punch was just a character, like any you might see in a cartoon.

Seeing the puppet here, larger than life, Jake now fought against the urge to disbelieve his eyes. Mr. Punch was truly here, in the flesh, twice as tall as a man and more dangerous than anything Jake had ever seen.

As the crazed eyes of the giant puppet creature wheeled about in its head, never resting and never coming together in a focused stare, soldiers and police officers assaulted Mr. Punch with automatic weapons fire. The bullets either bounced off or were absorbed harmlessly into the creature. Jake was frozen with indecision. His service revolver felt as useful as a feather duster.

A police cruiser screeched past Jake, and the soldiers and police officers engaging the creature dove aside, making a path. Mr. Punch brought his wild eyes together and focused on the car, watching it approach. The puppet’s wicked, fixed smile seeming to expand ever so slightly as it raised his puppet head. Jake recognized the man at the wheel, a friend and fellow officer from his precinct, Billy Chan. Billy had a look of determination on his face as he piloted the car. Jake watched as the car hit fifty miles an hour, and cringed as the brave officer jumped from the vehicle, rolled in the streets and sustained terrible injuries.

To Jake’s eyes, the sacrifice did not seem in vain. The police cruiser smashed into Mr. Punch, exploding upon impact and creating a terrific fireball. Witnessing the explosion forced Jake to finally persuade his brain to move his feet. He pulled them slowly from the ground as if they were rooted in place. Jake lost balance and fell clumsily to one side. Seconds ticked by as the young police officer cleared his head of the echoes of the explosion, deafened by the blast. Face down on the pavement he looked at his watch as the second hand dragged itself through another instant of time. Jake staggered to his feet. He had lost his hat, and his hair stuck up at odd angles.

Concentrating, Jake ordered his eyes to focus on the point where police car had impacted on monster-puppet. Jake was amazed as Mr. Punch shimmied through the smoke and flames unhurt and unstained. He felt ill and helpless. The crazed smile was still painted on the giant puppet’s face and its weird eyes were still independently scanning the streets for victims. Jake saw Officer Chan gurgling on the pavement. Adding to the injuries sustained from jumping from the moving vehicle, Billy had been too close to the blast zone. Now, as the clown-monster moved forward, the bulk of its robes and unseen feet pushed Chan aside like so much trash, scraping the injured officer across the pavement.

Faster than the eye could see, the clumsy hands of Mr. Punch swung the bat towards an abandoned car, lifting it into the air and hurling it down the street like a can swatted by a boy with a stick on a summer’s day. The car lobbed lazily through the air, tipping end over end, and landed on an abandoned school bus, crushing it. Inside Officer Jake Newsom, something snapped; fear was replaced by anger.

Jake stepped into the street and raised his gun. The eyes of Mr. Punch swayed crazily, then, one after the other, they settled on the tiny policeman with the useless gun. The creature’s robes swirled in the light breeze, and with his giant wooden club the clown shoved detritus aside to clear a path. City trash and battle debris gave way before Mr. Punch as he glided effortlessly towards the police officer. Jake gave no ground as the monster approached. He had become unreasonably calm.

The eyes, thought Jake, aiming his gun. He fired exactly as he was taught in the Police Academy. It was as easy as qualifying at the shooting range. Exhaling, he squeezed the trigger six times, firing repeatedly into the eyes of the monster.

Mr. Punch did not so much as blink. The six bullets were completely ineffectual. The giant puppet maneuvered into range and Jake knew that when Mr. Punch swung his bat he would be dead. Jake would be launched like a golf ball across the city. Since standing still meant dying, Jake moved.

There was a whoosh of air behind Jake. It was the bat, he knew, missing him. Jake did not attempt to run away from the creature, he was certain that way lead to death. Instead Jake instinctively sought safety in the one place he hoped Mr. Punch could not find him. He raced towards the clown-monster and grabbed the red and gold robe, drawing himself beneath. It was dark under the robe, and Jake felt the skin of the creature against his back. The texture of the skin was shocking: cold flesh, clammy and smelling of death.

When Mr. Punch moved, Jake moved with it, and found that he could easily stay hidden beneath the robes. He knew that this was a temporary safety at best. As Jake’s eyes adjusted to the darkness he noticed that the creature merely slid along the ground, it did not walk so much as slither, like a slug. What Jake could see of the flesh of the monster was bluish and wrinkled.

Mr. Punch was surprised to have missed the little man he had aimed at, and more surprised to find the man seeking safety beneath his robes. The puppet looked about the battlefield; most of the men who had engaged him were dead or had retreated. Mr. Punch tipped his large head back and looked towards the sky, as if in reverent contemplation. Finally, Mr. Punch seemed to come to a decision. Swatting aside the remains of the shattered school bus, Mr. Punch glided down the avenue, still heading for his ultimate destination. There was a rustle from the back of Mr. Punch’s robe. The little man was making his escape. Mr. Punch turned his head to see Officer Jake Newsom tending to the wounded Billy Chan.

Huddled over his wounded friend Jake spared a glance back at Mr. Punch, wondering if the unstoppable creature would turn back and finish him off, or continue forward on its frenzied rampage of destruction.

For a brief instant Jake met the gaze of Mr. Punch. At first the police officer felt fear, then the fear gave way to curiosity, and finally the curiosity gave way to awe. Within the eyes of Mr. Punch, Jake recognized something ancient and powerful. A connection was made and Jake felt subtly changed. A blessing, he thought, a blessing from the Trickster God.

Then Billy Chan groaned, and Jake let his first aid training take over. With luck, thought Jake, I might be able to save my friend’s life.

Smiling his knowing smile, Mr. Punch moved on. It was a good little trick the tiny policeman had played, hiding beneath his robes, and above all things Mr. Punch loved good little tricks.

A literal world away, in an enchanted garden outside the Royal Palace of the Emerald City, Princess Dorothy Gale adjusted her simple tiara and resumed her grip on the legs of a flamingo. The flamingo was upside down in her hands, with its head next to a wooden croquet ball. Carefully, Dorothy lined up her shot, taking into account the distance through the hoops, the slightly irregular grass and the minor squirming of the flamingo in her hands. She concentrated as she was taught, and matched the breathing of the flamingo to her own. She drew back slightly, and then followed through on her stroke as she exhaled. The idea was to use the flamingo’s head as a mallet. This might be thought of as cruel, except that these particular flamingoes were bred for just this task. They relished the thought of banging their brains on hard wooden croquet balls, and got positively ornery if they were not played with at least once a week. A gift from the Queen of Hearts for a favor done years ago, Dorothy often felt that she was on the receiving end of a weird Wonderland joke. Still, her ten-year old son Ozzy loved this game and quality time with her son was rare.

Woman and flamingo now operating in perfect harmony, Dorothy drove the flamingo’s head into the croquet ball as her cell phone unexpectedly chirped in her pocket. The flamingo glanced up at Dorothy in annoyance, moving its head to an odd angle just as it connected with the ball. Dorothy not only missed her intended target, her croquet ball bounced completely off the course. Dorothy rolled her eyes as her son, Ozzy, positively squirmed with excitement.

Good shot, Mom! said Ozzy with unveiled sarcasm, My turn!

Ozzy was a tousled-haired ten year old wearing sneakers, jeans and an Electric Elephant tee shirt. The Electric Elephant was an ancient artifact of unknown origin that had returned to Earth several years ago, and if not for Dorothy’s efforts it may have destroyed the planet. Now it was a simple satellite, floating harmlessly above the Earth, beaming pirate-radio broadcasts of extra-dimensional underground Rock and Roll to an appreciative and secretive audience.

Ozzy ran onto the croquet field, a flamingo in his hands, near to bursting with excitement. From the sidelines Bungle, the glass cat, transparent save for her emerald eyes, deep red heart and translucent pink brains, stretched lazily in the sunlight and pretended to not be watching the game. This was somewhat dangerous, as the curves of Bungle’s body sometimes acted as a lens, focusing the sun’s rays and starting fires under dry conditions.

Also watching the game was Belina, a chicken with brown and orange feathers and long time friend of Dorothy who was perched on the top of the final wicket. Belina was a gossipy chicken with a lot of attitude. She clucked derisively as Dorothy checked the caller ID on her cell phone.

Don’t you ever take a day off, Dorothy? asked the chicken. Of all of Dorothy’s friends, only Belina remembered her as the simple farm girl from Earth. Belina spoke to Dorothy as if she were not a Princess of Oz, the Queen’s Consort and the Protector of the Realm, but just a common woman, and Dorothy loved her dearly for it.

It’s Jinjur, said Dorothy, reading the caller’s name on the phone, at the embassy.

Ozzy was busy manhandling his ruffled flamingo into position. As usual, Ozzy had in mind a spectacular rebound shot that would win the game in one swing. Mom! Watch this!

I’m watching, honey! Dorothy replied. She flipped the phone open. Yes?

Ozzy wiggled his whole body from his ankles to his shoulders in preparation for his shot. The flamingo’s head had grass stains on it from where the boy had banged its head on the ground, and was enjoying the buzzy headaches it had already gotten from repeated contact with the hard wooden croquet balls. The flamingo was having trouble focusing his eyes and as Ozzy lined up his shot, the bird tried to anticipate exactly what was going to happen. An excellent flamingo mallet could often help a player by compensating at the last moment, twisting its neck to add or subtract momentum, or angling its beak to influence direction. Working with a ten-year old meant that the flamingo needed to bring all of his malleting experience to bear.

Ozzy pulled back his mallet and swung with all the might a young boy could muster. The flamingo anticipated the wonderful feeling of a bang to the head and the bright display of stars and colors that would fill his vision once he connected, but also thought to add some force to the swing by craning his neck into the ball. It is an odd feature of the game that your biggest ally in helping you make your shots is a small-brained bird that has suffered numerous concussive blows to the head. As the flamingo was knocked completely senseless Ozzy screamed, Ka-Boom!

The croquet ball was launched into the air, over two hoops, and directly into the wicket on which Belina was peacefully perched. The ball careened off the wicket inches below the chicken, sending her sprawling.

Hey you idiot! Watch where you’re hitting that! squawked Belina, landing clumsily on her side in the grass. The ball bounced once on the imperfectly maintained lawn and bee-lined for the glass cat. Ozzy’s eyes went wide. Bungle turned her head slowly and Ozzy could see the spinning croquet ball reflected in the eyes of the cat as she filled with panic at the anticipation of being shattered into a million pieces.

Then suddenly the ball stopped, frozen in mid-air inches from Bungle, where it was suspended for half a second before dropping straight to the ground, nestled in the soft grass. Ozzy smiled, and looked at his mother. Dorothy had the cell phone against her ear, listening intently, but she was pointing across the croquet garden at the ball, the wish-belt at her waist emitting a fading magical aura. The expression on Bungle’s face changed from fear to disgust, and then back to her usual neutral expression of distaste for everyone and everything.

Humph, said the Cat, nice try, Junior.

Punch. I understand. Dorothy said into the phone. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Thanks Jinjur.

Ozzy rushed towards Bungle. Are you okay?

No thanks to you, stupid monkey-boy, hissed Bungle, my delicate features could have been lost forever!

I’m sorry, said Ozzy.

Belina cut Ozzy off and took Bungle to task. Why would a fragile thing like you risk being out on a field with wooden balls and flamingoes being clobbered about willy-nilly by a ten year old boy anyway?

Bungle looked at Belina with more than her usual contempt. The cat and the chicken were not friends, their animosity towards each other over a century old. My reasons are my own. Answered the cat.

Cats, said Belina, you think you’re so mysterious.

Cats don’t care what chickens think, cats eat chickens, said Bungle with a sarcastic twitch of her spun glass tail. Before Belina could reply Bungle was up and over a small fence with a quick leap and through a cat sized hole in the surrounding shrubbery.

Pleasant, as usual. Belina shot back, hoping the cat would hear it.

Dorothy strode over, pocketing the cell phone and smiling the smile of a mother who knew she had to disappoint her son. Though she looked only twenty, Dorothy was actually over a century old. Being a Princess of Oz meant she never aged. She had short, dark hair, deep brown eyes, and kept herself in nearly perfect physical shape. In addition to her tiara, which she always tried to wear while in Oz, she wore sneakers, blue jeans and a white tank top.

Mom, thanks for not letting me smash Bungle, said Ozzy, I’d have felt terrible.

Dorothy patted her wish-belt and smiled at her son. The wish-belt was an ancient and powerful magical artifact. Dorothy had stolen it from the evil Nome King a long time ago, when she was about the same age as Ozzy.

Bungle’s been broken before, said Dorothy, and I’ve always put her together again with this.

As the flamingoes unsteadily made their way about the croquet course, packing up the wickets and hoops and comparing the magnitude of their headaches, Dorothy turned serious, and knelt before her son. I hate to cut our day short Ozzy, but Mommy’s got business on Earth.

The door to the garden opened and a woman appeared. She was under four-feet tall, with wide smiling features and a plump body. She was dressed in the uniform of a Palace maid, but she was in fact the administrative head of the household, Jellia Jamb. Jellia was in charge of the day-to-day activities of the Palace, leaving Queen Ozma the time to effectively rule the Land of Oz.

Jellia will take care of you until Ozma is free, later today, said Dorothy.

Jellia smiled. I’m baking cookies, and later I’m carving a new pumpkin head for Jack.

Can we make him cross-eyed again? asked Ozzy, That was funny!

Be nice to Jack, Ozzy, admonished Dorothy, don’t tease.

Ozzy made a non-committal grunt and Dorothy decided that it was as much of a promise as she was likely to get. Jack Pumpkinhead was one of the stranger citizens of Oz. Created by Queen Ozma, Jack was an unwieldy amalgam of sticks and clothing that possessed a carved pumpkin for a head. Jack’s intelligence was variable, ranging from stupid to clueless, and his head needed to be replaced weekly before it was too rotten for him to think at all.

Leaving Ozzy in the care of Jellia, Dorothy let herself through a wooden gate and out of the gardens. She scaled a ladder to the top of a palace turret, to a landing-pad where her three best friends and teammates were already aboard an idling helicopter. Nick Chopper, the Tin Man, was in the pilot’s seat. In the back seats were the Scarecrow and Lion.

From the croquet field Ozzy waved as the helicopter lifted off. He watched as his mom and three uncles were born aloft, high into the sky and then suddenly vanish from the air in a burst of light. The helicopter, he knew, had left Oz and gone to the other world where Earth was.

With a wistful look at the empty sky Ozzy whispered, Be careful, mom, and then hurried after Jellia.

Ten minutes earlier, Alexie Armitage was sitting in his darkened, wood paneled office. Armitage disliked bright lights. The corners of his office were shadowed, and occasionally Armitage stared into these corners, as if there were someone there. Sometimes there was. Ignoring the shadows Armitage glanced impatiently at his wristwatch with a tight pursing of the lips that was the closest he ever came to a smile. The wristwatch always kept perfect time, and never needed to be wound or repaired.

Armitage was one of the most powerful men in the United States government, yet most people had never heard of him. He was CIA Director of Magickal Affairs, and his job was to contain threats to the security of his country against creatures and artifacts of a magical nature. As much as he knew his job was important and necessary, he looked forward to the day when things like magic and the people who wielded it were a thing of the past. Magic brought chaos and unpredictability. It was impossible to rely on natural laws when supernatural occurrences were an almost daily reality.

Armitage had a reputation as a CIA agent who took a hard, pragmatic look at situations, and made hard, pragmatic decisions. When it became apparent that a special branch of the agency was needed to deal with magic in general and the Land of Oz in particular, Armitage was given carte blanche to do whatever he needed to get the job done.

His first step was to gather, either legally or extra-legally, all magical items on Earth, including swords, books, goblets, shoes, wands and anything else possessed of charm, glamour or magic, and lock them away in a deep underground military bunker.