The Mongo Machine - Chapter 8

John Carter. Buck Rogers. Crash Corrigan. Three Warriors. Out of Time.

Jun 21, 2026

This short story officially launched my House of Entropy and put sci-fi pulp front and center in the Public Domain Super Heroes universe. From this story, the novels The Metropolis of Mongo, The Marine Moon of Mongo and the forthcoming The Martian Monsters of Mongo were born.

A new chapter will go live every Sunday at 12:00 AM EST. I will update the links on each chapter at that time to point to the next installment in the story.

There is also an index page here if you lose track.

I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER 08

Buck, Crash and John Carter had seamlessly switched to their prearranged hand signals. With Deering on overwatch, command of the team fell to Carter until she rejoined them. He had the other two flank him. Using every shadow to their advantage, they slipped around the first tower into deeper cover. The roving patrol soldiers passed their hiding place twice and never gave any indication that they had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

A few moments later, Corrigan tapped the other two lightly on the shoulder and nodded back the way they came. All three turned to see Wilma Deering deftly picking her way from shadow to shadow, timing her movements to the less-than-crisp routine of the Nazi guard troops. She couldn’t know for certain where they were waiting for her, but Carter caught her attention by bouncing a reflection off his wrist-mounted compass when she turned to peer in their general direction. A moment later she joined them in the deeper cover of the shadows between the tower and the wall of an outbuilding.

When she was certain there were no soldiers close enough to overhear, she whispered, “We’re off the map now, gents.” While the intelligence had confirmed that the machine they were after had been transferred here, they had not been able to get their hands on the plans for the dam. Beyond a few low-quality reconnaissance photos of the structure, they had no idea where the unit would be housed or how it would be connected to the power grid. “Any ideas?”

Corrigan held up a warning hand, silencing any reply. The patrol was returning. They weren’t the most diligent about covering their routes, but walking was preferable to standing in this cold. They all pushed back, deeper into the shadows as a young man, his rifle slung over his shoulder and a lit cigarette announcing his position in the dark, passed within a few feet of them. Only when he had passed well beyond them did they dare to even breathe.

“My mamma always said,” began Corrigan, sniffing theatrically, “when in doubt, follow your nose.”

Puzzled, the other three shared a look, and then as one took a deep breath. Sure enough, there was an out-of-place whiff of ozone in the air.

“And your ears,” added Carter, cocking his head. A faint but distinct clack, much like the bolt being thrown on a rifle, but deeper, sounded from the same direction that they had detected the odour of ozone. A moment later, a low hum began and did not stop. Deering gave them a nod. Corrigan held them back with a hand gesture and then waved them ahead once the guard had disappeared.

Taking turns on point, they leapfrogged from shadow to shadow, pistols drawn. All four had loaded their weapons with the special glass beads rather than the metal ammunition. This close to the target, if the opportunity presented itself, they needed to be ready and might not have time to change out their load. The liquid in the glass beads would do more damage to a machine than a man, at least initially. At close range, the impact alone could still drop someone with a head or torso shot. The hum grew louder as they made their way deeper into the facility.

At a large building near the centre of the cluster of buildings close to the near side of the concrete dam, four guards stood at their post. They were alert, their weapons held loosely at rest, not slung. No one was smoking and the way they were stationed, there was no way to approach the door without being seen.

“Any chance there’s a back door?” wondered Rogers.

“Even if there is, we can’t take the time to find it,” answered Carter in a husky whisper.

“Boys, there’s a time for stealth and there’s a time for something else,” stated Deering, her tone oddly playful. She stood and slipped off her jacket, holstered her pistol and twisted her belt so the holster sat behind her, out of view. She pulled the tight, knit cap from her head and fluffed her hair with a flourish. She made her way back to the nearest corner of the building and disappeared from view. A moment later, she staggered into the open doing a fair imitation of someone lost in the blizzard, frantically waving to get the guard’s attention. As she passed the three men still hunkered deep in the shadows, she hissed, “Be ready.”

Carter watched as she staggered past and with a series of hand gestures he directed the other two to creep as close to the guard position as they could. Now fully in the open, Deering called to the guards, “HJELP MEG!” in an excellent Norwegian accent. After two days with Margit and her team, they knew it well. Before the guards could respond, she slumped to her knees, arching back in apparent distress.

Though more alert than the roving sentries, these four were young and likely given the duty of watching a door because more experienced men were in short supply this deep into the Norwegian interior. As Wilma had observed, an attack from the ground was far less likely than a bombing run should this facility be targeted. These four were simply a concession to military protocol.

As one, the four reacted as she had hoped they would. A helpless woman, alone and in distress was a welcome break from the mind-numbing monotony of guard duty. That she was attractive and shapely drove them to scramble to her assistance before they had time to register the incongruity of a lone female traveller without a coat or pack this far from the nearest village or town.

The four hastily shouldered their rifles, practically falling over one another to be the first to reach her. Three shadows slipped in behind the four guards, unseen. Slapping a hand over their target’s mouth, each sliced efficiently through the jugular vein in a single stroke, red blood spraying across the fresh, white snow. The struggle was brutal but very brief. The lead soldier had reached the kneeling form of Wilma and pulled up short as he heard the gurgling and soft thuds of bodies hitting the ground behind him. Through thick glasses, he goggled down as Wilma’s hand whipped up, a pistol drawing level with his face.

When the glass bead impacted him just above the bridge of his nose, the muzzle of the gas gun was so close to him that thanks to the angle of his forehead, the little nodule did not shatter, bouncing off to land with a soft thunk in the rapidly accumulating snow. The young soldier’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he gave a soft ‘whaaahhh’ sound as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“Set them up as if they’re sitting around the door, trying to stay warm,” hissed Deering. “It won’t fool them for long, but it might buy us a few seconds.” The team dragged the three bodies and the insensate fourth into a loose group around the door, wrapping their clothing over the wounds as best they could. The smell of blood overwhelmed the ozone they’d detected earlier, but they ignored it.

Corrigan yanked one of the rockets from Rogers’ pack and slid it behind the soldiers’ bodies. Rogers stopped him from grabbing the second one. Corrigan shrugged and reached around to add the two from his pack to the little bundle. He snagged a grenade from the web belt of one corpse and did something the others couldn’t see clearly. When he finished, he made a show of sitting the soldier in front of him neatly into a pose that approximated a sleeping one and backed carefully away. “If they find that...”

“Boom,” grinned Rogers.

“Big boom,” Corrigan corrected.

“We should...” Carter gestured with a thumb across his throat and a nod at the soldier snoring and twitching at their feet. His thick glasses were askew, his rifle in his lap.

“He’s a kid,” said Deering. “He’ll be out long enough.” She grabbed the rifle from his lap, pulled the magazine, and tossed it into the shadows, popping the round from the chamber before returning the weapon. “Just in case,” she said, meeting Carter’s eyes as she replaced the rifle.

“You’re the boss,” said Rogers, cheerfully, patting the spectacled young man affectionately on the head. “But if four eyes here comes too, we’re in the soup.”

“So let’s not be here when he does,” hissed Corrigan. Cracking open the door, he peered inside. A strong whiff of ozone and something unfamiliar puffed out; the air fogged as the heat from within escaped. “It’s clear,” he whispered over his shoulder.

“Take point, Crash,” ordered Wilma. She fell in behind him, Buck and Carter pulling up the rear. Pistols ready, the four stalked down the hall, the temperature and the hum rising to meet them. After several yards, another door stood in their way. Unlike the outer door, this was a large, metal affair, more reminiscent of a bank vault than anything. In its centre a large handle, set vertically was inset in a circular housing. Corrigan reached out and grasped it in his left hand and looked over his shoulder at Wilma. She nodded firmly. He twisted the handle clockwise and was rewarded with a solid thunk and a hiss. The door pushed inward, swinging smoothly on well-oiled hinges. The noise of the hum doubled in volume, and doubled again as the door swung wider.

The team stormed through as one.

Chapter 9 and the Epilogue is here!