Marvel Novel Series 05 - The Fantastic Four - Doomsday Read online

  “Drink this, my wife,” he said, his deep voice echoing concern and fear. Cynthia did as her husband said, and the potion tasted bitter on her tongue. But she had tasted worse, much worse. Her own brews tasted of death.

  Werner turned toward old Boris as his wife quickly fell asleep. “Let us leave. She needs her rest.” Boris said nothing as he stepped from the tent. It was too late for words. Victor Von Doom lived, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the world would come to fear this Gypsy’s son.

  The boy was eight and studying at the foot of a master tutor from another village when Boris rode into camp, his aged face taut with fear. He shouted, “Victor! You must come home now. The Baron’s soldiers have come to seize your father!”

  The boy’s expressionless face did not change. Quietly, he mounted Boris’s horse. “Go, then. Hurry to my father’s side. He will need me.”

  The child speaks like a man, Boris thought. His heritage becomes more evident with every passing day. Soon it will be impossible to hold him back. Soon he will realize his tremendous power, and then . . . Boris shuddered at the thought.

  The soldier was clearly impatient. “Well, Gypsy, do you come with me now, or will you die?” Werner stared up at the soldier standing in the opening of his tent. “I am only a Gypsy healer. I’ve done nothing. I treat the sick and the suffering, that is all.”

  The soldier grunted. “Silence!” he commanded, his voice plainly thick with disgust at speaking with a lowly Gypsy. “You are to come with me by order of the Baron.”

  Werner rose, hatred burning in his eyes. The one who killed my darling Cynthia was dressed in your colors, swine. I will never forget that. He slung his medicine bag over his shoulder and thought of his wife. Has it been six years since you were taken from me? I feel the pain and agony of an eternity.

  Werner mounted the old nag outside his tent when he saw Victor running toward him. “Father, what is happening?”

  Werner Von Doom allowed a slight smile. “Do not worry, Victor. I have done no wrong. I will not be harmed.”

  “But the tribes need you, Father. I need you.”

  Boris limped to the young one’s side. He placed a firm hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Do not fear for your father, Victor. He will be safe, and I will look after you until his return.”

  Werner lifted the boy and held him tightly, then lowered him to the ground and rode off. “Why are they taking him, Boris? He only wishes to help the helpless. Why are they now after him?” Victor was confused, but his grim-set face reflected only bitter hatred.

  Sadly, the elder Gypsy shook his head. “He is a Gypsy, boy—as are we all. It is a price we must pay.”

  The Baron sat in a plush velvet chair in the center of a magnificent banquet hall. He was a big man, powerfully built. A long dueling scar split his face from his left eye to his chin. “My wife is sick, Gypsy. Heal her.” It was not a request. It was an order.

  Werner shook his head. “Baron, it is hopeless. It is beyond my power to save her. The grip has taken hold of her and will not let go.”

  The Baron’s face grew red. “You lie, Gypsy. Use your magic potions to save her, or you’ll pay with your own miserable life.”

  Werner shrugged his shoulders. He was doomed. The woman would die within three days and he would then be slain. Unless . . .

  On the second day, a tired Werner Von Doom entered the Baron’s throne room. “There is nothing more I can do, Excellency. She will recover.”

  “Go, then, Gypsy, and pray for your sake that you have been successful.” With that, Werner was dismissed, and he quickly mounted his horse and rode off.

  Night came early, and the castle was dark, save for a flickering candle in the Baroness’s chamber. The nurse who held her lady’s hand sang softly to herself, whiling away the night. Then she noticed the hand had become cold and limp, and her lady’s eyes were clear and empty. The Baroness was dead.

  By week’s end, the Gypsy camp was overrun with the Baron’s soldiers. “I want the healer,” he demanded. “A boon to the man who brings his head to me.” But Werner Von Doom and his young son, Victor, were long gone.

  They fled into the night, taking to the snow-deep Alps. The thin winter coats Werner had grabbed were hardly warm enough to ward off the storm that was brewing.

  “Why do we run like cowards, Father? We can stay and fight.” Werner closed his lips to the freezing snows which blanketed him.

  “You are like your dead mother. She, too, feared nothing, no matter how hopeless the odds.”

  But Victor was insistent. “We can beat them, Father. We have the power. There is nothing that can stop a Von Doom. Nothing!”

  So proud, little Victor, so very proud . . . and so very foolish. There are forces frail men cannot fight. Werner sorely wished Cynthia was at his side to counsel him now.

  They found a cave for sanctuary from the raging snows, and Werner huddled closely to Victor to keep the child warm. The night would be the death of them both, he felt, struggling to force open his eyes. But the fight was lost.

  Soon dreams came.

  Cynthia stood beside her cauldron, her dark eyes blazing like the fires of Acheron. “I pass on my legacy to my son, Victor,” she proudly sang. “All that I am, he, too, will be.”

  Werner watched helplessly as she placed the infant Victor into the heated cauldron. The child refused to cry as the boiling herbs bathed his tender flesh. Then Cynthia smiled the smile of the wicked. “It is done. He is one with me.”

  The vision shifted. The Baron’s troops thundered into the village. “Heretics! Blasphemers! Witches, all of you! Die! Die! Die!” The soldiers were mad that dark night. They cut the canvas of Von Doom’s tent and tore Cynthia from his arms. He tried to help her, but a long sword was held to his throat, and he was forced to watch as his wife was ignobly drowned before his horrified eyes.

  Eyes glazed over with sweat, he suddenly awoke. At his side, young Victor was still asleep, shivering from the bitter cold. Then, from outside the cave, he heard a whinny and the sound of galloping hooves.

  “No! No!”

  Victor awoke as his father shouted into the grayness outside the cave. “What is it, Father? Have the Baron’s troops found us?”

  Von Doom’s voice was one of defeat. “We have lost our horse, Victor. The ropes must have loosened during the night. We are as good as captured.”

  Victor shook his head grimly. “No. We won’t surrender. No matter what happens to us, we will go on. A Von Doom never surrenders. A Von Doom is always victorious.”

  Tears streamed from Werner’s eyes. So much like his mother.

  For three days they plodded through the snows, shivering, teeth chattering with every step. They’d never make it, Werner thought. They would die. Then he would be at his wife’s side again.

  On the fourth day, they collapsed from fatigue and hunger. Why go on? Let death take us now . . . let us go to our reward.

  Boris stared at the two lying at death’s door. Werner was failing; he wouldn’t last much longer. Young Victor was still unconscious, but breathing. He nodded toward a young girl to put two more logs on the fire. It was luck he had found them before the Baron’s men did. But was he too late?

  It took four days for Victor to be roused. The child was weak, emaciated, yet he insisted on being at his father’s side. For a moment, Werner’s eyes opened and he saw Victor’s frail face staring down at him. “Heed my last words . . .” he sputtered out. “You must protect . . . protect . . .” And then nothing.

  Victor fell to his father’s side, his face grim. “Father, no one will have to protect me. I shall become strong! Powerful! I will avenge your death!”

  Yet Boris knew, for he alone remembered the Baron’s purge so many years before. He did not mean to protect you, young Victor. He meant the world must be protected . . . from the child who bears the name Von Doom.

  Boris turned toward his men. “Take away Werner’s body. A funeral must be arranged.” But Victor would hear nothing o
f it.

  “They murdered my mother when I was but an infant. And now they have slain my father. They’ll pay for that. All of mankind will pay.” He was a snarling lion, but Boris quieted him with a glance.

  “Victor, you are on your own now. These are your father’s herbs and remedies. Use them only for good, lad.”

  Boris left and Victor was soon alone. “They’ll all pay, Father. Mankind will be taught a lesson. I swear it.”

  He opened the trunk carelessly. “Your medicine trunk will no longer be needed, Father. I will not doctor the ill. I’ll not spend a lifetime helping others only to suffer in the end.”

  Beneath the herbs and potions, he saw a small chest. Across its lid was his mother’s name. “This belonged to her? I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”

  The lid was locked, but Doom’s agile fingers quickly picked it open. Inside were strange vials, powders . . . magic potions. And a diary.

  He read through the night. Each page was a treasure unto itself, for each page told of a magic spell, a dark secret known only to those now long dead.

  Werner Von Doom had never told his son his mother’s secret, but Victor Von Doom knew it at last. His mother had been a witch, and he . . . he had inherited her dark and awesome powers.

  Outside, the night grew thick with storm clouds, and thunder razed the heavens. The gods knew that from this moment forth, the world would never again be the same.

  Three

  “Von Doom, you are hereby sentenced to death for crimes against our people. Have you any last words?” The wide man stared at the tall figure of Victor Von Doom. Damned Gypsy thief, he thought, you deserve this death and more for what you have done.

  Von Doom laughed and said nothing.

  “Very well, then,” the heavy soldier continued. “Guards! Take your aim . . . fire!”

  Seven bullets slammed into the tall, proud figure. Seven bullets cut through yielding flesh. Yet, when the smoke cleared, Von Doom still stood. And, more—he spoke. “You shall all live to regret this. Victor Von Doom swears you all shall suffer.”

  One of the guards who had fired at Doom recoiled in horror. “I shot him. I know I did. How can he still live?”

  Fearfully, they stepped closer to Doom, and it was then that the world first learned of Doom’s awesome talents. The man they had shot was not a man at all, but a finely constructed robot whose intricate circuitry was far beyond the science of any other living man.

  Doom was an absolute genius. Using his mother’s sorcery, he had mastered science. And for years he plied his science toward trickery and deceit. He had become an outlaw, wanted by the Latverian Army, and then, when they thought they had finally captured the willy Gypsy, he turned out to be a lifelike mannequin.

  His evil genius continued to grow. He launched a private war on the Baron and his soldiers, and when the Baron at last fell dead at Von Doom’s feet, a truce was called. Victor Von Doom was no longer a hunted man.

  He was twenty when the American came. “Master,” Old Boris said, “a stranger wishes to see you.”

  Doom’s brow furrowed. “A stranger? Very well, show him in.”

  The American smiled, hiding his nervousness. So, Doom silently chuckled to himself, even a foreigner can sense my ultimate power. Good. Very good. “What is it, man? I am busy.”

  The stranger was short, wearing a checked suit and tie, and thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Von Doom,” he said, “I’m the Dean of science at Empire State University. We’ve heard some very interesting things about you. And, frankly, after seeing some of your work here, I, uh, I think my trip may have well been worth it.”

  “To the point, man. My time is important.” Doom’s eyes glared contemptuously at the stranger. He had heard Americans were weak-kneed fools. Were they all like this simpleton?

  The American was stammering now, nervous before this demon-eyed youth. “I . . . I’m prepared to offer you a scholarship to my university. I’m sure you’re interested, and we can—”

  But Doom cut him off sharply. “Your laboratory has the latest equipment? I demand nothing but the best.”

  “It has.”

  Doom ignored him and turned toward Boris. “You will stay here with the others until I return.” Then, turning back to the American, Doom added, “Let us go now. I wish to begin my work.”

  Empire State University was a large, sprawling campus with more than ten thousand students. But they didn’t interest Doom; all he wanted were the laboratories.

  One by one, he examined the many labs: biology, physics, geology, chemistry. They would do. He glanced at his hand-written notes and thought aloud, “It could work. It could very well work.”

  “Anything in particular, friend?” Doom turned toward the tall smiling youth leaning in the doorway of the lab. “I asked, does anything in particular work, or are you just thinking aloud?” The youth was Doom’s age, and he had short-cut brown hair which was already graying at the temples. Another mindless American dolt.

  “Uh, it’s just that it looks like someone else is as anxious to use the labs as I am. My name’s Richards. Reed Richards.” He extended a hand.

  Doom picked up a slide and placed it under the microscope. “That is of no concern to me. Leave me alone.”

  Richards let out a long, low whistle. “Look, I don’t know why you’ve got this king-sized chip on your shoulder, but being we’re both here on scholarship, how about us rooming together?”

  “I have no wish to share a room with anyone,” Doom said, his voice sharp and final. “I demand privacy! Good-bye.”

  Reed Richards shook his head, smiling, though exasperated. “Well, it’s none of my business, but aren’t you carrying this ‘mad scientist’ bit a little too far? I only offered friendship.”

  Shoving the microscope aside, Doom stood up. “Men always think their superiors are mad. Now leave—this moment. I have no wish for further conversation—now or at any other time.”

  “Whatever you want, pal. It’s fine with me.” Richards was almost pleased he had been rebuffed. There was something ominous about Doom.

  Leaving the Latverian, Reed roomed with another man, a big, burly football hero named Benjamin Grimm. As they became fast friends, Doom stayed alone, hidden in his laboratory.

  Months flew by; classes were cut. But nothing mattered to Doom save his experiments. Not even Dean Collins could speak to the Latverian student with the delusions of grandeur. “See here, Doom,” Collins had told him, “you’re a student. I have no use for foul-tempered children. You will conform to university regulations, or . . .”—he let his voice drop for effect—“. . . or you will leave. Is that understood?”

  Doom said nothing. For the moment, he needed the university and its equipment. And if it meant mollycoddling this base inferior, so be it. With an arrogant gesture, he spun and strutted out of the office and returned to his laboratory. He would have to speed up his work and then get out.

  The door to his lab was ajar. Inside, a small desk lamp silhouetted the tall figure of Reed Richards hunched over an open ledger. Doom’s temper flared. “What are you doing here, cretin?”

  Calmly, Richards turned. “Just wanted to say hello and see how you’re doing. You’re into some heavy material, Doom. Matter transmutation and dimensional warping. Interested in working with a partner? I’ve got my own theories on Negative space that—”

  Doom cut him off. “I told you before, lout, Victor Von Doom works alone. Now, get out of here, or next time I see you I shall make you regret having come here.”

  “Just trying to be friendly. By the way, you’d better double-check some of these equations. You’re a few decimal points off.”

  Doom’s voice cut like thunder in the night. “Give me that! Now, get out! Get out this instant!”

  Reed handed Doom his ledger and left, shutting the door behind him. No use in trying to befriend that maniac.

  The reconstructed laboratory was behind his room; the newly built machinery was humming as usual. In the cent
er of the darkened room sat a heavy steel-gray chair, wires and metal tubing lining its sides. Von Doom smiled. What could that fool know of equations? I am Victor Von Doom! I do not make mistakes!

  “Von Doom?” The frail voice came from the shadows. The thin, blond-haired assistant stepped forward. “Von Doom, I fixed up your gadget the way you wanted, but I still don’t like it.”

  “Yours is not to question me, dolt! Do as you are told!” Arrogantly, he strode toward the chair and sat heavily in its iron seat. He glanced toward the blond-haired man, who twitched fearfully as Doom stared at him.

  “If the faculty staff ever learns that you’ve been conducting forbidden experiments, trying to contact the nether world—” He shook his head sadly.

  “Those cretins will learn nothing, fool. By tomorrow my experiments will be done.” Doom gestured toward the red-painted lever on the computer console facing him as he lowered a clear plastic dome over his face. “You will throw that switch now. It is time! Now!”

  “But—?”

  “Now!”

  Doom almost grinned, but he quickly clenched his jaws. My dreams will now become reality. His mind wandered to his mother: She dared to risk the infinite. She dared to challenge the universe. She—

  A single corruscating moment almost ended all of Doom’s dreams forever. There was a flash of intense light, and a heart rending explosion. It tore through the laboratory walls and shattered glass everywhere throughout the campus.

  The lab was a smoky ruin; chrome-steel computers were reduced to twisted lumps. Yet, somehow, miraculously, Doom still lived.

  His bones were crushed, his face torn and mangled, yet he didn’t cry—not when he was dragged from his lab little less than dead, not when surgeons labored over him month after month refitting bone, grafting skin and tissue, applying new medicines never before used.

  He lay helpless in bed for months longer, never speaking, never divulging what successes or failures his experiments had had.