Nick Nomad and the Hammer of Lemuria

By Myles Campbell

Nick Nomad and the Hammer of Lemuria is a pulp adventure novel set in the 1930's. Nick, an ex-marine, blames himself for his fiance's death, wallowing in self-pity, until Gwen Chen, an alluring nightclub singer, skilled martial artist and Chinese resistance fighter, bursts into his office. She is being hunted by the "Scorpion," a fanatical officer in the Japanese army who is determined to find the lost weapons of mass destruction that were built by ancient Lemuria for a war against Atlantis. When Gwen is captured, Nick and his best friend Alan, a quirky museum curator with an encyclopedic knowledge of Lemuria, must rescue Gwen, and the three of them embark on a globe-spanning journey to defeat the Scorpion and save the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483553429

Book preview

II

PROLOGUE

He felt the dull pain of a long metal spike jamming into his back, compressing his kidney as the ancient stone walls collapsed slowly inward, squeezing him like a grape in a vise. He felt another on his leg, his shoulder, the nape of his neck. It wouldn't be long before he had more holes than a cork board, and then he'd be just another dark red smear decorating the aging stones. Just like all the other fools who'd come before him, in search of fortune and glory.

In the few moments he had left, he thought it wouldn't be too self-indulgent to engage in some existential musings. He tried to figure out how exactly it was that he had ended up here, about to suffer one of the more ignominious demises that a man can suffer, squished into grape jelly by a booby trap designed by a long lost civilization, without really knowing why he was there in the first place. But then again, maybe he did know why. It was the same reason most men wind up in a jam without understanding exactly how they got there. Kind of a cliché, really. It was because of a dame.

CHAPTER 1

Honestly, Nicky, you should do something like this! she squealed at him over the top of the newspaper that she had been reading aloud.

He had only been half-listening. She was always reading to him from one article or another, some news story or theater review or art gallery opening. He'd learned how to tune it out, and realized that if he made the right noises at the right times, she wouldn't get too sore at him and he could go back to reading the box scores or perusing the want ads, which is what he was doing now. Looking for work and trying to pretend he didn't already know that there wasn't any work to be had.

I'm serious Nick, you should. You really should, she insisted, jamming the article in front of him, blocking his view.

Do what? he asked.

Be a detective. Look, this man here, this…Sam Spade. He found some sort of a…falcon statue…or something. Anyway, you could absolutely do this and you wouldn't have to work for anyone. You could be your own boss and just have people pay you to find things and solve their mysteries, she explained.

What do I know about solving mysteries? Or finding things?

You always find my things when I lose them.

That's different.

How? Nicky I'm telling you that you could do it. In this article they interview this Sam Spade and he says the thing a good detective needs most is a sharp eye and a good head for details. And you've got that! You absolutely have, she exclaimed.

Really? He asked, half to himself.

It was true that he often noticed things that others failed to. It was half the reason that, during the war, the other guys in his unit used to always make him take point when they were out on patrol, hunting through no man's land.

Sure you have! Tell me right now, without looking, what's the bartender wearing? she asked.

A bone colored shirt, red tie and a black vest, with a pocket-watch chain. But with no bulge in his pocket. I'd guess he pawned the watch a while ago. Business is bad these days, even for bartenders, he observed.

See? I know you've got what it takes, Nicky, I just know it. You're meant for big things.

How do you know?

Because I love you, that's how, she said matter-of-factly, as if it was just as unquestionable as the law of gravity.

He smiled to himself. She was pretty much the only thing keeping him going right now, the only thing keeping him from crawling back down into the bottom of a bottle and curling up there to stay. He glanced up at the date printed at the top of the newspaper. On New Year's she'd kissed him and told him 1935 was going to be their best year ever, but now the year was more than half over and it sure seemed like it was turning out to be the worst. He thought about what she had said, about his powers of perception, and wondered if she wasn't right about him being able to make it as a detective. He conjured up a mental image of the bar again, seeing it behind his eyes. But the more he thought about it, the more it didn't seem right to him.

This was not a fancy bar. Most of its patrons, like himself, were wearing inexpensive clothing, cheap suits that hadn't been in style for quite some time. But there were three other men, one at the bar, two in a booth, all of them wearing brand new double-breasted suits, black and with a metallic sheen to them. Blood-red roses were thrust into their lapels. Their black fedora hats were jammed low over their eyes, throwing shadows across their faces. And they hadn't ordered anything to drink. Strangest of all, one of the men in the booth was resting his hand protectively on a battered violin case. But he didn't look like any musician Nick had ever seen before. His hands were perfectly manicured, his fingers uncalloused despite the hours that he would have spent practicing, had he really been a musician.

Nick turned his head casually, looking over his shoulder. The men were still there, and the rat-faced one at the bar was staring intensely at his gaudy gold pocket watch, waiting for something. Nick slid out of his seat and began making his way toward the telephone booth at the back of the bar, preparing to call the police if anything should happen. And then it did.

Rat-Face snapped the lid of his watch closed and jammed the timepiece into his pocket. On cue, the men at the booth leapt into action. The one with the violin case slammed it down on the table and flung the lid open. His partner reached into the case, pulled out a tommy gun and sprayed the ceiling with bullets. He got the attention he was looking for.

Women screamed, men dove for the floor, glasses shattered as they fell from the hands of terrified patrons. Rat-Face jumped onto the bar, brandishing a pistol in his right hand.

Any of you jerks move another muscle and I'll plug every last one of you! Now shaddup and do what I say! He shouted.

Silence enveloped the bar. Nobody moved.

Now, he continued, sauntering along the bar, idly kicking drinks to the floor. This is a stickup. In case any o' youse never been in a stickup before, this is how it's gonna go down. My associates there are gonna be comin' around with laundry bags. But we ain't interested in your dirty duds. Anything you got that's worth anything, put it in the bag. Wallets, purses, jewelry, dollars, quarters, dimes…if you can sell it or buy stuff with it, we want it. And you, he barked, jamming the muzzle of his snub-nosed thirty-eight into the bartender's face. Empty the register! You got a safe back there? he asked, using the gun to motion toward the rear of the bar and the door marked OFFICE in peeling black letters.

N-No, the bartender stammered.

Jacko, go see if he's lyin', Rat-Face snarled at the thug who had opened the violin case and was now stalking through the bar, shoving a rapidly filling laundry bag at each patron, silently daring them to refuse to dump their valuables into the canvas sack.

Jacko nodded and made for the back of the bar. The other thug leaned back against a table, passing the barrel of his gun back and forth over the crowd, keeping anybody from making a move. Nick already knew how he was going to make his.

Jacko tromped to the rear of the bar, heading for the office. But to get there he would have to pass by the telephone, where Nick was waiting for him. Nick slammed the heel of his hand into Jacko's nose. The thug reeled from the blow but recovered quickly. He surged forward, reaching into his jacket for what Nick assumed was a gun. Nick planted his back foot and launched into a powerful kick, snapping his leg forward and ramming his steel-toed shoe into Jacko's sternum. The big man lurched backwards and grunted in pain. He wrestled the gun free of his jacket and aimed it at Nick's chest. Nick lashed out again and caught Jacko's wrist with a snap kick. During the Great War, Nick had been stationed in France, and his company had fought at Belleau Wood. He'd stayed on after that to help with the reconstruction, and studied Savate, the French martial art with roots in 19th century street-fighting, a deadly hand-to-hand combat system that emphasized vicious kicks and brutal open-handed strikes.

The gun flew out of the thug's hand and spiraled through the air. Nick caught it with one hand, simultaneously bringing his heel crashing down on the back of Jacko's head, knocking him out cold. Nick aimed his newly acquired pistol at the tommy-gunner who was still leaning on a table across the bar, and fired three shots. The bullets punched through the gunner's throat and a gout of arterial blood sprayed across the bar, soaking Rat-Face's rat face. Sputtering and cursing, Rat-Face raised his pistol and fired wildly, emptying it into the room. Nick aimed and fired, putting a slug through Rat-Face's forehead. He tumbled off the bar and crashed to the ground, crumpled and lifeless.

Adrenaline surged through Nick's bloodstream. His hands shook as he laid the gun on top of the phone booth. He took a long step over Jacko's unconscious body and lurched over to his table. He was looking for her, to see if she was alright. He wanted to tell her that everything was fine, that he had saved them. But it wasn't, and he hadn't. He cradled her head in his hand, wiped the blood off her face, and closed her eyes for the last time.

CHAPTER 2

Honestly, Nick, you haven't even had a single client. I think you should start thinking about another line of work! Alan shouted over the sound of the big band blaring out a rendition of Sing, Sing, Sing! that filled the cramped nightclub to the rafters.

Nick took another belt of scotch, emptied the glass and tapped the rim with his finger. The bartender gave him a judgmental glance, but Nick didn't care. He just tapped the glass again, and the bartender filled it.

Nick, his companion continued, how long have I known you?

Since bootcamp, Alan, since bootcamp. But you were smart. You went to college after we came back from the war, Nick slurred. Now you work in a big fancy museum. Good for you.

Alan sipped his gin and tonic. You're a smart guy too, Nick. Go back to school.

Can't afford it. Even if I could, you know I'm no good with book learning. I think with my hands, and my eyes, not my brain, Nick protested.

You realize that makes absolutely no sense, right? Your brain does the thinking.

And my mouth does the drinking.

About that. You should probably go easy on the sauce, Nick.

Should I? Guess that means you don't know what day it is, do you?

I…Nick, I'm sorry. Has it been a year already? I just… Alan stammered, searching for the right words, knowing there weren't any. He tried anyway. Nick, I know how much you miss her, but-

He was interrupted by a crackle of static from the speakers that lined the walls. Max Power, owner of the Jade Dragon nightclub, was up on the stage now, tapping the head of a microphone with his fat fingers to get everyone's attention.

Well this sure has been a swell night, hasn't it everyone? Huh? Let's give it up for the band! He chirped, trying to fire up the crowd.

They clapped desultorily, with less than genuine fervor. Most of them were regulars. They'd heard it all before.

Now I know most of you are regulars and you think you've heard it all before, Max continued, undaunted. But tonight we've got a special treat, just for you lovely ladies and gents. Direct from Shanghai, singing the brand new song 'Smoke Dreams,' I give you, the fabulous, the fantastic, the unforgettable, Ms. Gwen Chen! He crowed, his voice building in a relentless crescendo.

The house lights snapped off and the club was bathed in darkness.

A single spotlight flicked on. There, at the front of the stage, stood the most enrapturing woman that Nick had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was like ebony silk, her amber-colored eyes shaped like elegant slivers of almond. Her skin was pale and creamy, and it glowed like a jar of fireflies. She wore a slinky green dress that complimented her slender figure, embroidered with a hypnotic pattern of golden dragons. And when she sang her voice sounded the way chocolate syrup tastes. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Even after she had finished her set, and left the stage to thunderous applause, he stared at the place where she had stood. Alan waved his hand in front of Nick's face.

Nick? Nick! Snap out of it pal!

Hmm? Nick said, glancing up at Alan. Oh, you're still here?

That's right buddy, I'm still here. But don't you worry, I was just leaving. Got a new exhibit I'm pitching to the museum director. Lemuria! Ancient, lost civilization, drowned by the seas of Asia. Like Atlantis but, you know, not in the Atlantic.

Uh-huh. Sounds great, Nick mumbled, staring off into space.

She really did a number on you, didn't she? Alan asked, already knowing the answer.

Nick didn't bother responding. He just knocked back another slug of scotch. Alan saw the look in his friend's eyes, a look he hadn't seen in a long time, and decided to do something about it. On his way out the door he flagged down a waiter. He reached in the breast pocket of his white dinner jacket, pulled out a five dollar bill and one of Nick's new business cards.

Here, he whispered, palming the bill and the card into the waiter's hand. Has Ms. Chen received many flowers?

Too many, if you ask me, the waiter replied, shaking his head. Why?

Take this card and swap it with the one that's on the biggest bouquet in her dressing room. And write something nice on the back. Do it right and there's another five in it for you the next time I'm here.

You got it, boss, the waiter said, pocketing the money and the card. Alan walked out with a satisfied smile on his face.

Nick had heard the whole thing. He'd always had pretty good hearing. But he hadn't bothered to stop Alan. He figured that most likely nothing would come of it. He was listening to the conversation so intently that he never saw the man in the black suit, a blood red rose pinned to his lapel, slip backstage and head toward Gwen's dressing room.

CHAPTER 3

Nick saw her shadow first, thrown against the frosted glass door. Then he smelled her. Like a river of jasmine and spice, but subtle, so that it didn't overwhelm or offend. It was complex, mysterious, intriguing. The door swung open and he stood, suddenly, pulled to his feet by her presence. He hastily tossed the morning paper onto the pile of bills on his desk, hoping to cover the eviction notice that sat high atop the stack. She strode into the dim, dingy office that reeked of stale scotch, sweat and failure, and to her credit, she never so much as wrinkled her nose.

Is this you? she asked.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent his business card spinning across the desk. It stopped in front of him. He read his own name on it, and realized that this wasn't some cruel joke that the universe was playing. She was actually there to see him.

Um…yes, that's me, Nick stammered.

Excellent. Please, sit down, she ordered imperiously, doing so herself. I have a problem.

Oh…um…I see. What kind of problem? he asked, attempting to regain his composure.

I- she began, but never finished, because at that moment the west wall of his office was torn apart by a hail of machine gun fire.

Without thinking, he leapt forward and tackled her to the floor, covering her with his body as bullets chewed holes in his cheap desk. Over the past week, he'd thought about being with her in this sort of position on more than a few occasions, but he'd always imagined fewer bullets.

Ms. Chen, I'm terribly sorry…I- he began to apologize, shouting over the racket made by a storm of hot lead ripping through the wall and ricocheting around his office.

Don't waste time apologizing! Just get off me and shoot something! She shouted back, pressing her palms against his chest.

He rolled off of her, but stayed close.

I…don't have a gun, he replied sheepishly.

You don't…your card says you're a private detective! How can you not have a gun?!

I don't like guns.

Well this would be a good time to change your mind. Here, take mine, she offered.

She reached through the slit of her skirt, and when her hand came out she was holding a .38 Special. For a moment he was dazed, his eyes fixated on the sight of the tops of her stockings and the clips of her garter belt. Then a bullet sliced through the air right next to his ear and he snapped out of it.

I told you I don't like guns! He yelled.

Look. Either you take this shooter and start shooting, or those guys from the Blood Rose Crew are going to turn us both into hamburger meat! She screamed back.

Those guys are Blood Rose Crew? he asked.

That's what I said!

He took a moment to think.

Gimme the shooter, he growled through gritted teeth.

She handed the pistol to him. He reached out and grabbed it, feeling its weight in his hand, the cold steel on his fingertips. It was the first time he'd held a gun since that day.

Stay down, he cautioned, and crawled toward the window.

On his way there he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small shaving mirror. He inched it up above the windowsill, angling it so that he could see outside without getting his face shredded by a fusillade of hot lead.

There were six gunmen, firing three at a time in alternating volleys. As soon as one went dry, another would slap a fresh drum of ammo into his tommy gun and start shooting again. He crouched on the balls of his feet, coiled like a spring. Then he leaped.

He sailed past the window, twisted in midair, raised the gun and sighted down the barrel. He aimed for the staccato symphony of muzzle flashes that lit up the night like a swarm of dying fireflies, squeezed off six shots, and crashed down on the other side of the window.

I'm out! He shouted.

Get any of 'em?

Um… he angled the mirror back over the windowsill. Looks like two…no, three.

Not bad.

Not good enough, he hissed under his breath.

He'd gotten rusty. Used to be six shots meant six bodies. He'd lost his edge, and now he was out of bullets and out of time.

I'm guessing it'd be too much to hope that you've got a few extra rounds in your stockings, he said.

Left them in my other set. Come on, pal. Looks like this time discretion is the better part of valor. Make for the hallway! She ordered.

Without bothering to see if he had listened, she sprang to her feet, jumped, landed in a handspring and launched herself through the door and into the hallway.

Who are you? Nick wondered aloud as bullets whizzed by his face and tore the walls of his office to shreds. Guess I won't be getting that security deposit back, he mused before crawling into the hallway, inching his way along like a worm.

He'd almost made it through the door when he remembered he'd left his hat on the desk, and crawled back to get it. He jammed the brim down low over his eyes and headed back into the hall. She was waiting for him, tapping her foot on the carpet, wearing an exasperated expression.

Really? she asked. You went back for the hat?

I have a history with this hat, he replied defensively.

Whatever. Let's just get out of here, she urged.

Nick recognized that their relationship was not off to such a great start, but hoped he could find a way to salvage it once people stopped shooting at them.

They ran down the hall, jumped the stairs and made for the rear exit. Unfortunately they weren't the only ones who had considered the possibility of making an escape by this route. Four men waiting for them at the back door. To Nick they seemed strangely dressed, in what looked to him like traditional Japanese garb, their dark hair pulled back into samurai top-knots. Blue jewels were embroidered on their tunics, arranged to form the silhouette of a scorpion with a barbed tail poised to strike.

I don't think those guys are Blood Rose Crew, he observed.

Very observant, she replied. They're Sapphire Scorpion Clan.

Who?

Yakuza. Japanese gangsters.

What are they doing here?

Looking for me, she sighed.

Well, they found you. Now what? Nick asked, hoping that she had some kind of plan that was at least a little more sophisticated than just fighting their way out.

We fight our way out, she said, her mouth set in a grim smile.

With a flick of her fingers and a shrug of her shoulders, her dress was on the floor. Underneath all those layers of silk she was wearing a skin-tight sleeveless leather shirt and short pants that cut off at mid-thigh. A belt of knives encircled her slender, muscled waist. A leather pouch was strapped to her back, nestled between her shoulder blades.

What…um…what? was all he could manage to say as he gawked at her, mouth agape.

Ready? She replied.

Without waiting for an answer, she launched herself down the corridor at the men who were blocking their escape. She leaped toward the wall, landed feet first and catapulted herself off of it, backflipping in midair. She grabbed two knives off her belt and threw them with practiced grace. The first one hit its target, puncturing the throat of the sinewy Yakuza gangster who was blocking the door. He went down hard, gurgling, gasping, spitting blood as he clutched at the handle protruding from his neck.

The other guy was faster. With preternatural speed, he snatched the knife out of the air and sent it hurtling back toward her. It missed, but just barely. She landed, shifted into a fighting stance, and squared off against her opponent.

Nick struggled to understand what he was seeing, and decided that it just wasn't worth trying. He focused on what he could understand, which was that Gwen was fighting with Japanese gangsters, outnumbered three to one, and she probably wouldn't mind a little help.

He took a running start and heaved himself into the air, stretching out his right leg and bracing for impact. His flying kick slammed one of the scorpions in the jaw, sending him down the hallway and crashing into the back door. The door flew open and a gust of rain-soaked wind blew into the hall. Even the weather was bad tonight.

Nick glanced at Gwen and saw her trading blows with the other scorpion, their movements a blur of motion. Despite her skill, she was at a disadvantage, as her assailant had drawn a Japanese katana sword, and he looked like he knew how to use it. As Nick turned back to his opponent, he silently hoped that the sword wasn't standard issue for all scorpions. It was.

The scorpion that Nick now faced swung his sword over his head, its blue-steel blade glistening in the dim lighting of the dingy hallway. Nick sighed and slid his right