The papers were signed. Salutes given, handshakes taken. It was official, Master Sargent Milton Paradise was honorably discharged from the US Military.
It was a good, yet scary sensation. Milton was on his own.
He arrived in LA and was met by Dicky Danders. Dicky was older, heavier, and more lost. Their reunion was bittersweet. Of course war stories were told. Milton told Dicky he saw Mason Lodge, AKA Archibald Rosenblatt, over there.
They drank to old times, to lost friends, and to the future. It was then that Milton saw that Dicky looked lost.
Dicky had been, and always would be, stuck in World War 2.
Milton bought a motorcycle. A nice used Indian. He drove off to see America. For three months he had no home. Some nights he slept under the stars. He wasn't particularly happy, but neither was he sad. It was calm, and that was welcome.
A bar fight here, chased out by cops there, no place felt like home. He was avoided cities. He wanted to stay out of history, at least for now. He stumbled across it, not really sure what he was looking for, but it was it.
Milton put a down payment on a plot of land with a small house and a roadside workshop in Stull, Kansas. The workshop was the last house on main street just by the cemetery. It was roomy, quiet, and off the beaten path. Perfect.
Dicky Danders came out to help Milton set up. He rented a small truck with all the things Milton put in storage back in California. The two spent a few weeks painting and repairing rooves. It was a good time.
Dicky's vaction was over and had to go back to LA to his job. Dicky was sad to go. But then, when is Dicky not sad?
The final thing Milton did was put a sign out in front of the shop. "FIX IT" was all it said. Milton didn't really want customers, he wanted an excuse.
The shop gave him that, an excuse. He could hammer away at all sorts of things and no one would bat an eye. One day he was sharping blades for a local farmer's carbine, the next he was hammering metals for a magic circle. No one bothered him.
For a year, he was content. He dreamt of Adele, and that comforted him. He knew she was ok. And so was his son, Christopher. It hurt to be away, but he knew he couldn't go to her.
He became the crazy cat man. All the local feral cats could be counted on to stop by his shop at least once a day. He would talk to them, and the kids of Stull would say they talked back. Of course, being cats and all, all they would say was; more food, pet me, and I am scared of the cemetery.
That was odd. Why were cats afraid of the cemetery? Milton went to investigate.
While Stull was a nice, but dull town to live, it did have a reputation. Sometime in the past, a rumor began that Stull had a gateway to hell, and the devil himself could be found there. This ticked the locals off plenty, and they were downright unfriendly to pesky university students coming through town asking stupid questions. This only fueled the rumors.
So Milton walked the cemetery. The only odd thing he found were footprints in the wet October soil leading away from an undisturbed grave. He didn't see where they ended, but he was sure they began at the grave.
It was time to use magic. Oh yes, Milton is a wizard. Didn't I tell you that? He used his magic glasses to see things that are hidden.
He found out two things. One, that this was the oldest grave in the graveyard. In fact it was over a hundred years older than the town of Stull. Second, that it was a portal to somewhere.
Could the rumors be true?
Dick was thinking. Should he use the portal, see where it leads? Should he try to bind it closed?
It was then he heard a crash. It was the sounds of metal on metal. A car crash. He wasn't too far from the road and off he went.
It was one of the local farmers, Mr. O'Brien and his wife. They hit a biker. There was broken metal and a twisted motorcycle next to a contorted body. The O'Brien's were understandably upset.
They recognized Milton and were thankful he was there. They knew he was a medic in the service. Milton's glasses told him that this was not as it seemed. The body was covered in an illusion. The young biker was a lie, and instead, what lay on the ground was an ancient corpse. Milton didn't want to scare the nice couple and told them to go to town and get the cops, that he would take care of the victim.
They took off. Milton figured he had under 7 minutes before the police came. What to do?
Well the question was solved when the corpse tried to grab him. It stood up and hissed. Milton fired a hexbolt at it, knocking it down.
The corpse then grabbed the motorcycle and slammed Milton with it, then ran. Milton followed but was too slow.
It made it to the old grave and just sank in gone. When Milton got there, the grave was undisturbed as if nothing happened.
When the police arrived, the saw Milton walking out of the wooded cemetery.
What could he do? He thought quick. He lied. He told them that the biker must have been on LSD and ran off. He said he tried to chase him and he was too fast. The officer said that these drugged up hippies can run real fast when on drugs. They searched for a while then gave up. They hauled the motorcycle off to Milton's shop.
The next day Milton went to the grave. His magic said it was normal. No magic, no portal. He figured it probably only worked at night.
He spoked to the police officer who pulled up. He wanted to photograph the motorcycle, and look for personal items in the side bags. He wanted to see if he could identify the biker who was hit.
He gathered the items, but them in a bag and walked to the car. He spoke on his radio, and turned on the lights and raced off. Milton, intrigued, followed on his motorcycle.
Just west of the town limits, a body was found. It was the biker, dead from leprosy. His wallet ID'd him as a California resident, and former Army. They called the local doctor, who ordered everyone not to touch the body. Milton and the doctor turned the body over using a crow bar, to get it on the stretcher so they could transport it to the morgue.
All in all the police were satisfied that the biker died from wounds sustained by the car crash, and he was driving erratically due to the leprosy. Milton didn't correct anyone.
He went home and decided to stake out the grave again. It was just after dark when he was about to leave, and there he was. The Biker.
He looked fine. Milton used his glasses and saw through the illusion. It was the corpse again. He said he came for the bike. He said fix it and you will never see me again. Milton said no.
The biker grabbed the crowbar from the foundry. Milton was burning it clean as it touched the leper's body, and hit Milton with it. It burned and smashed his ribs. Milton took off his ring and tossed it.
The ring expanded and fell on the ground. The Biker Corpse hissed. He was trapped in a magic circle, and a particularly strong one at that.
The Biker Corpse tried to break out, but he couldn't. Then he did what the trapped always do, plead.
When pleading didn't work he tried to bargain. He had nothing Milton wanted, so the last resort. He threatened.
This scared Milton. He said he was the Devil and his legions would rise from the grave on the next sundown after he didn't return and defile every last citizen of Stull. He said all he wanted was his bike repaired and his freedom.
Milton agreed. He didn't want to risk the life of the people who welcomed him so warmly.
It took four hours, so just before midnight Milton called back his ring. The thing thanked him and rode east.
Milton wasn't sure he did the right thing.
The following evening he packed a picnic basket. He was going to stake out the grave, this night, and every night from now on, until he learned something. Anything.
He sat on his stool and poured coffee from his thermos. While drinking the grave vanished. It became a stairway down. Two robed figures emerged. They looked like embalmed corpses. He knew them, from the future. They, however, didn't know him. Yet.
They recognized him as a wizard and struck a deal. A favor for a favor. Standard deal in the magical world. Milton agreed. They asked him to find their errant citizen and return him to their city of the dead. Milton didn't name what he wanted, nor did they ask. They seemed desperate.
Milton had his suspicions and this confirmed it. He had learned long ago, that the oldest grave in each cemetery is a way to the Necropolis, the City of the Dead. One of the Seven Occult Cities. Today he found that to be true.
Milton went home, and prepared for a trip. The Death Biker had a day's ride ahead of him. And he was worried about the cats.
He was packing his bags when the car arrived. Milton was upset. He had enough on his plate now and didn't want any customers at the moment.
He recognized the two men right away. One was Mr Clean, leader of the Secret Seven, the other was Col Marshal Strong. Both were men out of time, just like Milton. This was not going to be good.
They spoke quick, and Milton stood rapt. They were both very commanding men.
"Milton, your country needs you. Pack your bags, your flight to Moscow leaves in the morning. Its a matter of national security."
All Milton could say was damn...
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