Booster Gold #14 - Husks (★Society, Part VII)

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Author: ScarecrowSid

Book: Booster Gold

Arc: ★Society

Set: 14

★ Now

    “Well, this appears to be a dead end,” Booster Gold said, scowling at the patches of blackened earth. Around him, there were the skeletal remains of an armored battalion. Twisted metal, scorched and jagged, coiled around the rotting remains of soldiers and the soft glow of morning light revealed more than had been reduced to bone.

    A losing battle, then. They had died on this road and no one had found them, and the Grey had taken what was offered. Booster approached the next man, nothing but bones, and tugged free a length of beaded steel around his neck. This, too, was scorched and melted in places.

    “Michael,” Booster muttered as he read, barely managing to keep a smirk from his face. The dog tag had no surname, it was melted away. “Well, that’s ironic.”

    Skeets chose this moment to return, having surveyed the husks of tanks in either direction. “I would characterize that as foreboding, sir, not ironic.”

    “Would you now? And how am I to take this omen?”

    “At face value.”

    Booster grunted, closing his fist around the tag. His other hand drifted into the long coat he wore over his armor, retrieving a small cloth bag from within. It jangled as he brought it out, already occupied by several dozen ghosts. One more wouldn’t make a difference, he supposed.

    “Poor bastards never stood a chance,” Booster said as he placed it in the bag with the others. “I don’t see any German or Italian dead.”

    “This entire battle never happened, sir. It appears we’ve stumbled into… what did your other self call it, an aberration? A deviant point in history.”

    “Well,” Booster mused. “It’s a good thing someone was listening.”

    “You were listening, sir, even if you pretended you were not.”

    Booster waved his hand dismissively as he walked toward the next hollowed out tank. Here, he found fewer scorches and more jagged edges. It was as if something had torn the hull to shreds, tore through it with claws and set it aflame. It could have been the dragon, he had no idea where the beast had gone after his disappearance.

    “Skeets, how long ago did this happen?”

    “A week, sir, maybe longer. I’m afraid I can’t be more accurate than that, you remember what happened when we tried to land on the exact day of the attack…”

    Booster scowled again. He did remember. The Time Sphere had ricocheted off that moment, something was keeping him away. He didn’t like that. Booster was a time traveler, nothing should have been able to stop him. Go anywhere, see anything… that was what a centuries of stories taught him.

    And, yet, something has.

    “Now what?” Booster muttered to himself. He had searched the entire line and found nothing of relevance. If the other Booster Gold, the Perforated Man, had told the truth and Ted had been here, he wasn’t here anymore. It was possible that Ted had been one of the corpses whose tags were missing or melted, but somehow that felt wrong. The Perforated Man had said all of his troubles, his trials, had begun with the death of one man: Ted Kord. Surely he wouldn’t allow Ted to die here, after all the secrecy and subterfuge.

    “We could start looking for clues, sir.”

    Booster frowned, turning over an ash-blackened helmet in his hand. There were deep dents in the bowl, and jagged scars across the brim. Something had attacked this man, something able to shear steel. It wasn’t a good sign.

    Turning to the remains of the next tank, he tossed the helmet aside. “What do you think we’ve been doing, Skeets?”

★ ★ Now

    Booster Gold nodded to a pair of sentries as he strode into the encampment. This particular hovel had been a charming countryside town once, smaller than a city but much bigger than your average village. It seemed that the weeks and months that followed his own failed attempt to reach Rome, Allied forces had advanced across the peninsula.

    “Sir, they might shoot at you.”

    Booster turned toward the sound, expecting to find Skeets. He found empty sky, with the last drops of amber congealing into the dark blues of early evening. Skeets was cloaked, a personal choice on his part that was, according to his words, essential to maintaining the integrity of history.

    An obvious lie, as far as Booster was concerned. Skeets was afraid of being shot again. His second foray into the White House had not been as pleasant as the first, despite having, in his opinion, a solid working relationship with the President. The trouble came from Roosevelt’s security detail; they were quick on the trigger, and he suffered for it.

    Not that I can blame him, Booster thought. If a smokey demon witch thing tried to assassinate me, I wouldn’t be keen to wait around on her return.

    Roosevelt had been quick to provide updates after that, everything from the war effort to the fate of Booster’s comrades in his unfortunate crossing. The War, it seemed, was progressing more or less as it always had in the history books. Skeets was particularly surprised by this fact, but it appeared that a few stray metahumans running about didn’t make much difference the grand scheme of things. Men still marched, fought, and died.

    There was a small comfort in that, a kind of assurance that he couldn’t completely destroy the future. Some things were meant to happen.

    Usually horrible, depressing things…

    Cyrus Lord, Alan Scott, and all of the others were missing in action and presumed dead, so there was that issue to contend with. All tolled, that mission was a complete failure. The wreckage of their carrier had landed somewhere behind enemy lines, and there had been no communication between Lord and the O.S.S. since.

    As a result of this, Booster had been asked to join the O.S.S., join them and, if necessary, complete Lord’s mission himself. To this end, he had been given no men, few resources, and little authority. Apparently having extraordinary powers suggested he would be more than capable of doing this on his own. All he had was a name, a letter of introduction, and people at central command willing to vouch for ‘Captain Carter.’

    It took them a moment, but the sentries shouted out to him and raised their rifles. Another half-dozen scuffled through the muck, approaching with their weapons drawn. There were shouts down their lines, rousing those in their bunks.

    “That’s far enough,” one of the men called. The sun cast a halo behind him, cutting a sharp silhouette of him and his soldiers.

    Booster grinned, wondering if he had as imposing a figure in his long coat. “I come in peace, sir.”

    “Begging your pardon, but we’ll be the judge of that.” The man took a half step ahead of his men before continuing. The dying light revealed a lean face set with deep lines and brown hair graying at the temples. Young, but not young, in the way of men at war. “And I’ll you to get your arms up, and don’t make any sudden moves.”

    Booster raised his hands, still grinning as two troops flanked him. They were young, and looked a bit peaked. There was a good chance they would misfire, perhaps more from exhaustion than nerves. “Is this how you treat all your guests? Captain…?”

    “Lieutenant Richards,” the man replied. “And only the Germans.”

    “German?” Booster couldn’t help laughing.

    Skeets chose this moment to chime in on his earpiece. “Well, sir, blonde hair and blue eyes were a common trait among the Germans. It’s not as if their caution is without merit.”

    “Yes, but I’m clearly speaking English,” Booster muttered in reply. “Perfect American English.”

    “Perfect for the next century. You never practiced for this one.”

    “Who the hell are you talking to?” Richards asked.

    “I don’t think that answering that is going to help you trust me.” Booster glanced at the soldiers, they had spread to form a firing line. It wasn’t a terrible plan, really, except for the fact that he had a shield. “I would like to point out that you haven’t yet asked for my name or my rank.”

    “Your accent is a bit dodgy,” Richards countered.

    “Told you,” Skeets chirped. Booster fought the urge to scowl and shout back at his partner. For a machine, Skeets was surprisingly eager to play a childish games when Booster was proven wrong.

    “I’m Captain Carter, and I’m with the O.S.S..” Booster spoke loudly and clearly, so the entire camp would hear. “I’m on a mission, and I need a place to bunker down for the night and some intel on our recent movements.”

    Richards snorted. “Since when does a spy announce himself.”

    “I’m not really a spy. I would be a shit spy, people remember a smile like this.” Booster punctuated his statement by grinning wide, baring all the teeth he could, and turning toward each of the soldiers. “And I’m too pretty. You don’t want pretty spies, people tend to notice them.”

    Richards simply stared at him, as if still trying to decide whether or not to shoot. Booster chose to continue speaking. “Look, I know there’s no reason for any of you to trust me, but if you simply make a call to your commander…”

    Richards glanced in either direction of the soldiers at his wing, then nodded. “We’ll get your story verified, sir. That’s the least we can do, but all of this is over our heads.”

    “I am kind of a big deal.”

    “Begging your pardon, but that doesn’t matter to me. I’ll need you to surrender your arms and sit in a pen, just until we can sort this out.”

    Booster sighed, then nodded back. This entire century was such a pain in the ass. He would spend at least a day under guard, while his story was verified. If he had any pressing concerns, he would have fought to get the information as quickly as possible. As it stood, Booster had no idea where to continue his search. He could fly back to central command-- that would be easy-- but it was unlikely they would have the same information as the men on the ground. Local intel was his best bet for accurate intel, especially in this time period.

    They may as well have used a horse and buggy for all the speed and accuracy of their communications, and there was little chance the runner would survive the journey. Radio coverage, too, was spotty at best, but that’s all there was to it.

    Richards motioned for his men to approach and search Booster, and he went through it with all of the patience he could call to arms. The Lieutenant watched him, eyes like flint, as his soldiers stepped away and shook his head.

    “He’s wearing some sort of suit under there, sir,” one of them said. He was thick necked and squat, more like a boulder than a man. “Armor, maybe.”

    “Let him keep it, I can always have him shot in the face.” Richards glanced at Booster, who tried his best to look helpless. “See how pretty he is after that.”

    Still prettier than you, Booster thought as he shrugged his coat back on and held out his hands for them to restrain.

    Richards frowned at him. “What sort of man walks around a warzone without a weapon?”

    Booster only shrugged as he was led away, with Skeets hovering somewhere overhead.

    The kind who’s wearing a weapon.

★ ★ ★ Now

    It was some time before irritation set into his bones, at least three hours, no more than four. Booster knew he could have asked Skeets, but something about knowing the exact time would make it more unbearable than it already was. He was bored, and if not for the occasional playlist pumped into his ear by Skeets, Booster might have wandered off.

    “Sir, the Lieutenant is coming.”

    “Really?” Booster asked, glancing at the night sky. “That was quick, you think they’ve got a working radio in this shanty-camp?”

    In the next room, his guards muttered to themselves. There were several German soldiers on the other side of his, for lack of a better term, ‘cell.’ In truth, it was probably someone’s sitting room before this whole mess had begun, this conjecture was reinforced by the floral wallpaper and splintered remains of a coffee table.

    Do they drink coffee here? Probably… Italy feels like a coffee sort of place.

    The other prisoners had taken to ignoring him, save for one pale-faced young man that kept watching him and crossing himself. His eyes were wild and wide, and a desperate hunger flashed behind them. He was watching now, listening for every word Booster spoke.

    Booster eyed him, and his pale face turned away. “Skeets, how long has that one been watching me?”

    “Since we arrived. I think he thinks you’re consorting with spirits, or maybe the devil.”

    “Ah, right. We are getting close to Rome.”

    “I don’t know, sir. His features would suggest German ancestry.”

    Booster watched him for a moment, then turned toward approaching footsteps. Richards came around the corner, a tin cup in his hand. He stepped through the doorway, past the guards, and stopped just short of Booster. The guards followed in his wake, one trailing his rifle on the pack of prisoners, the other following the Lieutenant.

    “Here.” Richards handed the tin cup to Booster, it was warm and full of some dark liquid. It sang its way through his nose and his stomach gave a soft grumble. Booster raised the coffee and took a slow, shallow sip before tipping the cup back. The drink burned in all the right ways, massaging the lining of his throat and warming his voice.

    “Ain’t Sundollar,” Booster said with another satisfied sigh, “but she’ll do.”

    “Glad you approve.” Richards glanced at the prisoners, then back at Booster. He tossed down a square, silver-foiled packed that Booster caught absently. “They’re a bit stale, but they’re better than nothing.”

    Booster undid the foil, revealing a stack of thin wafers. He bit into the first and, with a small exertion, snapped it between his teeth. They were stale and tasteless, but they paired nicely with the coffee.

    Richards motioned the soldier beside him away. The sentry looked back at Booster, nodded, and strode over to join his comrade beside the prisoners. “So, why are you really out here?”

    Booster bit into another wafer. “Did you send word to command?”

    “I did,” Richards replied. He crouched down to meet Booster’s eye. “Don’t know if the radio went through, all we got back was static.” Booster furrowed his brow. “I’ve got a couple boys heading south for a resupply, I’ll have them get to someone who might know you.”

    “That’s hospitable of you. What brought about this change of manner?” Booster asked as he drained the last sips from his cup and set it down. He caught the Lieutenant’s eye and decided to hold it, there was a time to be meek and a time to be strong. He needed to show the latter here.

    “Them.” Richards motioned to the other prisoners, still sitting against the opposite walls of the room. “I wanted to see what they would do with you around.”

    “Sorry to disappoint you, but all they seem to do is sit and stare.”

    “Yes. Curious, that. I suppose if you were a German spy, they would attack you to make me think you’re an American. If you were an American spy posing as a German, I would think they’d want to cut your throat. Instead, they sit there and stare, I’m not sure what to make of that.” Richards’ expression was questioning.

    “Both of your theories require hinge on them attacking me,” Booster replied. “That’s a bit of a flaw, maybe they don’t have the will to fight.”

    Richards sighed. “Son, I’ve put a lot of men in shackles since we joined this fight. They may lose their will to fight someday, but that isn’t this day or any other day that came before it. You lock these men in a cage, they’ll do anything to get out or get even.” He pointed at Booster. “Throw in a fresh piece of meat like you, and they’ll tear you to shreds. So, what’s different about you?”

    Booster shrugged, his eyes wandering to the young man who had been watching him. His gaze had drawn back to Booster, but the eyes that watched were different. There was something else behind them, a shimmer like dying flame. A series of long, high howls from outside drew Booster’s attention away.

    “It’s just wolves,” Richards said absently, his own gaze having followed Booster’s to the young man. “We’ve heard them before, they don’t come near this village.”

    “They’re hunting.”

    Booster turned back, searching out the voice’s owner. It was the young man, speaking in the heavily accented English of a native son of Germany. He wore a toothy grin, revealing a row of broken, jagged teeth.

    “It’s what they do for Night,” the young man continued. “They hunt for interesting people.” His eyes fixed on Booster, hungrier than before. “People like you.”

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