Beware the Fury, Book 1: The Vengeful Corpse

By Russ Anderson, Jr

Beware the Fury!

To the law-abiding residents of Port City, the vigilante known as The Fury is a myth – something between a dope addict’s fever dream and a kooky story dreamed up to sell newspapers. To the city’s burgeoning underworld, though, she is a real, constant threat, a living weapon clad in black and silver, determined to avenge all of Port City’s wrongs – one criminal at a time.

It’s the Spring of 1950, and a massacre at a tiny Italian restaurant foretells the eruption of a full-blown war between the city’s gangs. Meanwhile, a murdered man comes back to life as a rampaging, immortal monster with superhuman strength. Now the Fury and her young partner, Muse, must not only unravel the mystery of this walking dead man, but also prevent rival criminal bands from filling Port City’s streets with innocent blood.

THE VENGEFUL CORPSE is the first book in the Beware the Fury series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russ Anderson, Jr
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016

Book preview

For Grandma Winnie, even though it probably wouldn’t have been her thing.

Thanks to Joel Jenkins, Jay Humphrey, J. Langston, and Kim Goodman, for the good advice and for having the guts to read the rough cut.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE BOOK

Chapter 1

The old Ford sedan crunched slowly across the crumbling blacktop, and rolled to a stop alongside the warehouse building. For a moment it sat there with its lights off, its poorly maintained engine idling over the steady hiss of the rain.

The man in the passenger seat chuckled, and the driver shot him an irritated look.

What the hell’s so funny?

The passenger, a ruddy-faced, round-bodied Italian named Celio, thumbed his pork pie hat farther up on his forehead and lifted an old, water-stained Plastic Man comic book out of his lap.

Where the hell did you get that? the driver demanded.

It was on the floorboard, jammed under the seat.

The driver, whose name was Fred and who was as long and thin as his partner was short and spherical, shook his head. How old are you, Celio? he grumbled.

Aw, get lost with that, Celio replied good-naturedly, returning his attention to the magazine.

That stuff will rot your brain, you know.

I think the gin will get me before the comic books will.

No, really, Fred said, turning in his seat to face him. They’re sending these messages that you don’t even see, turning kids into crooks or faggots. I read all about it. This shrink called Wertham has it all laid out.

Celio cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You read about it?"

I read. Fred sniffed, tilting his chin up. "I read real stuff like the newspaper and magazines, not stupid crap about Superman."

Plastic Man, Celio said with a sigh.

Same thing, Fred said. Stories about fellas in their underwear flying around and bouncing bullets off their chests, turning little kids into homos.

Celio closed the magazine and dropped it back onto the floorboard. You’ve done it, Fred. You’ve ruined comic books for me. I hope you’re happy.

I’ll be happy when we’re done with this job and we’ve ditched this car and I’m back home in my bed. Now are you gonna open that door or what?

Celio sighed again and got out of the car. The rain was thin, but also oily, and it was everywhere, more like humidity with direction than actual rain. He turned his collar up and looked around the lot. The building was long-closed for the day, and the security guard at the gate had been paid well to take a long smoke break around the block. They had the place to themselves—but they weren’t exactly here to trim the hedges, so Celio took a second to look around and just make sure.

Then he went to the big sliding bay door on the side of the warehouse. The lock snapped open at the first turn of the key, and Celio slid the door aside. Fred guided the sedan slowly inside, onto the darkened warehouse floor. When he was in, Celio shut the door again, snapped on a flashlight, and followed on foot.

The incinerator was a giant block of iron, as big as a boat, with half a dozen pipes and conduits leading off of it toward the ceiling and the walls. While Fred parked, Celio went to the control panel and spent a couple of seconds studying the dials and switches.

What’re you waiting for? Fred called.

Gimme a minute, Celio snapped. It’s been awhile since I worked this thing.

Once you knew where the controls were, firing up the giant municipal incinerator was a lot like firing up a burner on a stovetop—turn on the gas and ignite the pilot. Once Celio had the fires burning, he started the kiln rotating, flipped open the hood, and went back to the car.

Fred had the trunk popped and was already wrestling with a wool-wrapped bundle. Celio hurried to help him.

Wait, wait, wait, Celio said, slipping a pair of gloves out of his pocket and rushing to pull them on. Don’t try to do it yourself. You’re gonna throw out your back.

Fred grunted and heaved, and Celio had to catch the other end of the bundle as it flopped out of the trunk. The rough blanket came unwrapped, and Celio groaned as he realized he’d caught the bare head and shoulders of a dead man rather than a nice, anonymous blanket. The dead man’s face was long and pale, with a ruler straight nose and lips so full they were almost feminine. The lips hung open and lifeless now, and the blue eyes as well. Celio gave Fred a sour look.

You couldn’t shut his eyes?

Thought I did, Fred said, struggling with his end of the burden. Just throw the blanket back over him.

Celio did so, and the two of them shuffled toward the open mouth of the incinerator. The heat was already intense, filling the space in front of the machine with a diabolical red glow.

So what are you doing for Mother’s Day? Celio asked.

Gonna take her to a ballgame, Fred replied.

Get out. Your ma likes ball?

Fred shrugged. Sure she does.

Celio frowned. "That’s her day, you know. You shouldn’t oughtta be taking her to a ballgame because you wanna go."

I’m thinkin’ of maybe taking you—with all the motherly advice you’re givin’ me tonight. I’ll put my end in first.

He swung around so that he was closest to the glow of the open kiln. They could both feel their skin searing in the heat; it was obvious the incinerator would make short work of the body once they put it in there.

Where’d you get the car?

Upper East, Fred said, extending his arms to put as much distance between himself and the incinerator as possible while he approached. Figure we’ll dump it in Carterville, by—

Something hit the hood of the kiln and it slammed closed, the heavy iron flap smacking past Fred’s arm and the corpse’s feet before booming against the body of the incinerator. Fred yelped, dropping his end of the body, and Celio grunted, struggling to hold onto his end.

"Fred Ventura and Celio Glanzman," a voice said from the darkness. The sound echoed in the vast warehouse, and both men turned in different directions, searching for its source. With the hood shut on the kiln, most of the light was gone too.

What in the hell? Fred said, turning side-to-side and holding his injured arm. "What in the hell?"

Celio dropped the body and snapped his flashlight back on. He cast the beam across the floor, over the car, around the incinerator, into the darkness at the edges of the light’s reach. He found nothing.

"Who’s in the blanket, Fred?" the voice asked. Again, both men turned in opposite directions. There was no way to tell where it was coming from.

Fred pulled a gun from his coat and regained some of his composure in the process. Who’s there? he called into the darkness.

Is that a broad? Celio asked, his voice a whisper. It sounds like a broad.

It’s a cop, Fred hissed, moving toward the car. But he’s alone, or they’d all be in here already, guns blazing. Get in the car.

Celio pointed at the discarded body. The blanket had come loose again. What about him?

You wanna hang around for the rest of the pigs to arrive, be my guest. Me, I’m getting out of here. The keys jingled in Fred’s hand as he circled the Ford. Now turn off that damned light before—

Something landed on the Ford’s roof, and moved lightly down and across the hood, blackness billowing out behind it. Before Fred had even registered something was happening, a boot snapped across his jaw, hard enough to send him spinning to the concrete floor. The keys flew from his hand and tinkled off into the darkness.

Holy Christ! Celio shouted. The attacker was little more than a shadow, ducking out of the beam of the flashlight while Celio fumbled his own gun out of his coat. By the time he was ready to shoot, the shadow was gone.

Fred! Celio cried. You okay? Talk to me!

He circled the front of the car, trying to keep one eye out for the person in black while the other eye searched for his partner. Fred was on his hands and knees on the concrete floor, rubbing his chin and moaning. Celio took one more nervous look around, and then put the gun back in his pocket before hauling Fred to his feet.

What the hell hit me? Fred demanded. His voice was thick, like he was drunk or he’d just been roused out of a sound sleep.

Something. Somebody. I don’t know. Celio gave the surrounding darkness a cursory scan with his light, hoping to see Fred’s lost keys. Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure it’s not the cops.

"You boys haven’t answered my question."

Fred wheeled out of Celio’s grip, drawing his gun and firing into the darkness beyond the car. The sound of the gunshot bounced around inside the warehouse, further confusing things when the voice’s owner began to laugh.

You’re right, this ain’t the cops, Fred said. His face was bleeding and he looked shaken, but he was getting his feet under him again. Somebody trying to nose in on our contract, maybe. Get your piece and cover me. We’ll finish the job. I’ll throw him in there by myself.

Celio didn’t seem happy with this decision, but he did as he was told, sweeping the light around as the two men crept cautiously back to the incinerator. Fred pulled out a hankie and wrapped it around his hand before swinging the kiln hood open. The heat burst out, drying their eyes and searing their lungs.

Cover me, Fred said again. Then he crouched and wrapped his arms around the body’s legs.

Something moved out of the blackness at the edge of Celio’s vision. He caught a glimpse of steely eyes surrounded by black, a splash of silver moving in and out of view as it flashed toward him. He started to turn, but the shadow was on him before he’d completed the motion, a hand clamping down on his forearm and driving the gun toward the floor. He squeezed the trigger out of reflex, but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away as the attacker yanked him off-balance. A fist jabbed forward, flattening his nose, and Celio crumpled to the floor with a wail. His gun went clattering off to join Fred’s keys in the darkness.

Fred dropped the corpse against the opening of the kiln and whipped his gun out. The attacker was moving quickly, his clothes flapping about him and further confusing his appearance, but Fred could see that he was small, covered from head-to-toe in black, with a silver mask covering the lower half of his face. Only the steely eyes and the top half of the nose were visible between the mask and the black hat he wore. Besides the mask, the only other accommodation the attacker made to color was a sort of half-cape, lined on the inside with the same silver.

Fred was faster than Celio, but the attacker had closed the distance to him by the time he had his gun out, and the fact that Celio was right behind him, and therefore in Fred’s line of fire if he missed, made Fred hesitate half a second too long.

The attacker slapped Fred’s gun arm up just as he got around to pulling the trigger, the bullet flying well over their heads. A hand chopped into Fred’s armpit, and the gun fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The attacker seized his good arm and swung him around by it, like Fred didn’t weigh anything, and slammed him into Celio, who was still clutching at his spouting nose. The blow sent Celio tumbling backward, tripping over his own feet and falling hard against the side of the car. His head rebounded noisily off of the steel body and he fell to the floor, unmoving.

Still holding onto Fred’s arm, the attacker kicked him in the stomach and forced him down to his knees, twisting the arm behind him.

"Who’s in the bag?" the voice asked again, and a very small part of Fred’s mind that wasn’t preoccupied with howling in pain realized that Celio had been right—it was a woman. Both of them had been laid low in seconds by a woman.

Don’t know, he grunted. For one sickening moment, the pressure on his shoulder increased, until he could almost feel the socket ready to let go. Fred screamed, and the pressure diminished until it was merely excruciating again.

I don’t know! he insisted. He was dead when we picked him up! We just got hired to burn him!

"Hired by whom?"

I can’t tell you that! I’ll never get another job!

"Celio was right, you know, she said. I’m not a cop."

The woman kicked the body out of the mouth of the kiln and then put her foot in Fred’s back. Keeping the pressure on his shoulder, she began to push him toward the blazing heat of the incinerator. Fred tried to turn his face away, but that just meant the side of his face was getting cooked instead of the front. Some of his hair had flopped down in front of his eyes and he saw the tips redden and smolder. There was a tingling on his forehead, and he realized his eyebrows were burning away.

It was some old guy! Fred cried. German accent! I didn’t ask his name!

"How did he find you? I met him at Silke’s! I swear that’s all I know!"

The pressure on his back eased, but didn’t withdraw entirely. He hovered in the mouth of the incinerator, as if the woman was trying to decide whether to throw him in or not. Then she released him, and he gasped, scrambling backward and trying to escape without touching the sides of the kiln.

Crazy! Fred muttered, getting to his feet. You’re crazy! Who the hell do you think you are?

"I’m The Fury," the woman said.

The lid of the kiln swung down hard into the top of his skull, driving him to his knees. He crumpled to the ground, completely senseless.

Chapter 2

After assuring herself that Fred and Celio would not be waking up any time soon, The Fury crouched next to the dead body.

The blanket encircling it had come completely unraveled in the melee. She didn’t recognize the dead man’s face, which wasn’t that surprising. What was surprising was that she couldn’t find any obvious cause of death. He was naked, and his lean, almost starved, body was covered in scars—some of them old bullet wounds—but there was no sign of recent violence on him, nor any telltale skin discoloration, which might have indicated poison or asphyxiation. There were poisons that wouldn’t leave any of those signs, of course, but that would imply a higher class of murderer than was likely to hire a couple of bottom feeders like Fred and Celio for body disposal duty.

Except for the scars, the only other identifying mark on the man was the brightly colored tattoo on his right shoulder. It showed an eagle, flying with a writhing snake clutched in its beak, in front of a bright red cartoon heart.

The Fury brushed a hand across his face, closing his dead eyes. Then she reached under her half-cape, and drew a wireless transceiver from a custom holster in the small of her back. She thumbed the transmit button.

Fury to Muse. Tell the police they have a break-in at the trash yard on Wray Street. Intruders are armed and in possession of a dead body. It might be related to all the dead John Does they’ve been turning up recently.

There was a pause, and then a young woman’s voice came back. Copy, boss. Do you need back-up?

Already took care of it, The Fury said.

You didn’t hurt my girl, did you?

The Fury sighed. No, she wasn’t anywhere near—

The dead man’s eyes snapped open and he sat up.

The Fury lurched back, dropping the transceiver and scrambling away from the man, nearly losing her hat. She snatched at one of the semi-automatics holstered at her back and pointed it at him.

But he didn’t seem to realize she was there. He moaned and clutched at his head with one hand, then began to flail around him with the other. When the searching hand found the railing on the platform in front of the incinerator, he seized it and pulled himself to his feet.

The Fury rose as well, keeping her weapon trained on him, but not issuing any threats. He was still clutching his head, and even with one hand on the railing to steady himself, was visibly wobbling where he stood.

Take it easy, The Fury said, not knowing if she was talking to the man or to herself. He had been dead thirty seconds ago, she would have sworn to it, and she’d seen enough dead bodies in her brief time on this earth to be confident in her judgment on the matter.

At the sound of her voice, his head snapped around like that of a startled animal. His teeth were drawn back in rage or agony or both, and when he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was an inarticulate moan. He was obviously disoriented and frightened on top of whatever was causing him physical pain—waking up from a coma on a concrete floor to find a woman in a mask pointing a gun at you would probably do that—but The Fury had no intention of putting her weapon away. There was something more going on here than a simple medical miracle, something that made the fine hairs on her neck and arms stand on end.

She didn’t have long