The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Lizard Man, Part 2 of 2

Mick can’t find this Lizard Man alone. Get him on the trail of a spy, or a dope pusher, or a weapons smuggler, and he’s right at home. Chasing a half-believed creature through the backwater swamps of South Carolina is not his thing. He knows he’ll need help, and when he actually gets out there, he’ll need it more than he ever knew.

Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is the second part and finale of The Case of the Lizard Man. If you haven’t had a chance yet, read Part 1 first.

Content warnings: Mild Swearing, Violence, Alcohol Use

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AUGUST 26, 1942
PHYSICAL SCIENCES LAB, THE UNIVERSITY OF SOUTH CAROLINA
COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA

“It's a pleasure to meet you, inspector,” Professor Lee Maddox said. He couldn't be older than thirty. He had a shock of sandy hair caked to his head with about a pound of pomade, and a thin mustache. He looked around to see if anyone else in the bustling lab was eavesdropping. When he was sure no one was could hear, he whispered: “It's always a thrill to meet a member of the Office. Reminds me of New Mexico.”

“Hey, call me Mickey,” Mick said. He took the younger man's hand, keeping on his poker face as best he could. Someone was getting the hairs on Birdie's neck standing up, and he wanted to be sure this character wasn't the culprit. Despite Maddox's pedigree as the child of an official, a lot could change real quick. Ideological allegiances were fluid these days.

“Did you know my mother?” Maddox asked.

“Never had the pleasure,” Mick answered. “She was after and before my time with the Office. I took a couple-decade sabbatical. I understand she was one of the original ADA programmers.”

“She worked alongside Lander van den Berghe himself,” Maddox pipped, eager to get his secret bona fides out there. He was an Office legacy and he'd managed to wrap Office funding into his doctoral thesis project.

“Lander, I knew,” Mick said, though he had tried his best not to think about that particular Belgian since the last war. The majority of his memories about his fellow First Eleven founding official mostly involved him being covered in his own blood. Van den Berghe had undertaken that first mission with them, but he'd been torn to shreds before they even got to the castle. Mick shook the old memories out of his head. He needed a drink.

“He was a good man,” Maddox said. “Rest in peace.”

“Yeah,” Mick grunted. He hadn't realized that the old engineer had passed, to be honest. But at least one of them had peace. This wasn't the time for ancient history: he'd be dredging through enough other kinds of mess soon enough. Mick asked Birdie over his shoulder: “So a physics professor, a river pirate, a P.I., and a folklorist walk into a bar...”

“You ain't a private eye no more, pal,” Gator Wayne snorted.

“Hell I ain't,” Mick snapped back.

“Buddy, you work for the government now,” Gator replied. “You out here with signed letters from the president, taking folks in and out of federal prisons whenever you feel like it, doesn't matter if it's dumpling day or not.”

Mick would've had a good comeback for that, but a gangly young man wearing a weird outfit gingerly stumbled his way into the room and rendered him gobsmacked. In his time, Mick had seen all manner of strange get-ups, but this one took the cake.

Maddox smiled wide and patted his helper on the back, nearly sending the wiry man ass over elbows. This bedecked assistant couldn't have been more than a couple years younger than his professor. He was constantly adjusting the heavy goggles that slipped down his face. A pair of speakers rode his padded shoulders, wired into a battery on his back large enough to jumpstart a battleship. The whole rig had to weigh eighty pounds. The helper managed to keep his balance, but he was so skinny it was a wonder he could stand at all.

“As you can see, my system is much more compact than those of my German competitors',” Maddox said.

“This is smaller?” Mick wondered, the strange sight making his forget whatever he'd been getting worked up over.

“Significantly,” the beleaguered assistant gasped. Maddox glared at the wobbling young man for a moment, then explained further:

“German systems require a larger set of eyepieces, in addition to an active ultra-violet spotlight that they must manually direct. Their battery is about twenty percent smaller, but with further collaboration from...” he looked around conspiratorially and whispered: “The Office, I anticipate it should weigh no more than eighteen pounds by year's end.”

“That's certainly impressive,” Mick said. He elbowed Gator. “Wouldn't you say?”

“That's something alright,” Gator replied. “Never seen anything like it.”

“That's a feeling you're going to have to get used to,” Birdie told him.

“I should say you haven't,” Maddox huffed. “My work is far beyond dabbling in UV like the fascists.”

“And it lets you see in complete darkness?” Birdie asked.

“Yes, doctor,” Maddox confirmed. “This device mimics the echolocation system used by bats, though it was in studying dolphins that I made my breakthrough. I call it the cetaceaoscope.”

“More dolphins?” Gator groaned.

“Can it,” Mick grunted.

“What's that then?” Maddox asked.

“Nothing,” Mick grunted. “So how dark are we talking?”

“You'll see the same at noon in the Sahara as you would at the bottom of a coal mine,” Maddox said.

“Up to forty yards,” the assistant wheezed.

“Yes, the range is limited somewhat,” Maddox snapped. “But I feel that we can extend it in the next iteration.”

“Interesting,” Mick said. Maddox beamed.

Mickey'd been asked to check in on Maddox for Zoo Base. The R and D bureau hadn't received a progress update in a few weeks. Officials were spread thin all over the country, splitting their investigations between mangey coyotes and pro-Axis militias, so when they heard he'd be nearby anyway, they thought a drop-in was in order. Mick was kind of impressed, but he really had no basis for comparison. Asking him to judge the progress on a night-vision device was like asking a monkey to analyze a painting.

Based on Maddox's sales pitch alone, Mick hoped that the gear would be ready for a test run in a gloomy swamp.

“How's it hold up in the field?” Gator asked, seemingly reading Mick's mind.

“The visual resolutions are crystal-clear, no matter the surrounding area,” Maddox explained. “Fields, warehouses, forests, streets, compact industrial areas.”

“He means, 'can it take a jostling?'” Mick said.

“This model must be very carefully calibrated,” Maddox said. “'Jostling' could affect both its audio input and output. Any changes could turn its ranging pings from sub-audible to particularly intense, or white out the entire display with echo detection. And we are still perfecting its weather-proofing. I don't recommend its use in any wet environments.”

“Or dirty,” the helper added.

“It is prone to malfunction if dust accumulates on the acoustic membrane,” Maddox grated.

“So mud is out,” Mick concluded.

“Right out,” Maddox agreed.

So much for having any kind of advantage in a gloomy swamp. Mick leaned against the wall and sighed. His knees were already aching at the thought of trudging through muck. A nearby door was open a crack, and he spotted another set of googles. These were much smaller, sleeker. They were still bulky, big as a soldier's helmet, but nowhere near as heavy and awkward at the cetaceaoscope. They'd ditched the shoulder speakers altogether, consolidating the whole deice into the helmet, losing all the loose wiring except for the power cable. It didn't appear to have lenses to see through, just a trio orange discs on the wearer's forehead.

“That's the next iteration?” he asked, nodding to the side room. Maddox's face snapped into a scowl, mirrored by his helper's wide grin.

“Take off the prototype, Wendall,” Maddox said.

“Yes, professor,” the helper replied. He stepped off to the side and began unbuckling the leather straps that held the whole contraption in place. Maddox stalked past Mick, muttered to himself, then shut the door, locking the second set of goggles away.

“That's Wendall's project, the crotalinograph. Never mind it,” he grunted.

“It works,” Wendall insisted. He took off the cetaceaoscope's goggles and lad them on a table. He'd broken out in a sweat, leaving his long dark hair limp and dangling. The gizmo looked like it had done a number on him, leaving him sallow with bags under his bloodshot eyes.

“Not yet in a tenable fashion,” Maddox said. “We've talked about this.”

“It has a greater range than - !” Wendall tried, but his professor cut him off.

“It gives every user terrible migraines, Mister Godard,” Maddox snapped.

“That's simply a matter of - !” Wendall tried again, only to be interrupted once more.

“What kind of creature are you hunting, Inspector Malloy?” Maddox asked.

Mick was not interested in getting in the middle of this squabble, but he didn't know what else to do.

“They call it the Lizard Man,” he answered.

“'The Lizard Man,'” Maddox repeated. “Now why would Inspector Malloy not be interested in the crotalinograph, Mister Godard?”

“Lizards are cold blooded,” Wendall sighed.

“Wendall's device is intended to detect and display emission of infrared radiation,” Maddox explained like that meant anything. He smirked at Mick's slack jaw and expounded: “It sees differences in ambient heat. If this 'Lizard Man,' presumably an endothermic organism, is the same temperature as its environment...”

“It would be invisible,” Gator concluded.

“Exactly, Mister Wayne,” Maddox said with a gloating smile.

“It works,” Wendall muttered. He set the cetaceaoscope's backpack down with a thump. The battery was heavier than hell, and the speakers rattled, fragile as a stack of tea cups.

“It works if you want to look at someone and just see an unraveled yarn ball of veins,” Godard scoffed. He rolled his eyes and told Mick, Gator, and Birdie: “All you can see with that thing is a glowing circulatory system. It is macabre.”

“It shows everything. We just need the right calibration,” Wendall muttered.

“And we'll get there,” Maddox said, patting the slightly younger man on the shoulder. “But the inspector needs something today.”

“Yeah,” Mick said. He looked warily at the fragile, expensive, and complex device that'd take him two mouths to pronounce. “But not that thing. Cypress send you with anything fun, Gator?”

“Oh, mon ami,” Gator chuckled. “We got all kinds of toys.”

FRIDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 28, 1942
SCAPE ORE SWAMP
LEE COUNTY, SOUTH CAROLINA

“Merde, it's huge!” Gator hissed. “Never seen one like it!”

“Where?” Mickey snapped. He whipped around to peer through the camo netting to spot whatever Gator had seen.

“It's got to be six foot long,” Gator insisted. “It's right there! Duck!”

Mick nearly fell off the log as the largest mosquito he'd ever seen dive-bombed his head. Not six foot, but bigger than anyone would want latched onto their jugular.

“Damn,” he grunted, swatting at the harrying creature until it buzzed away. “Bigger than Florida, I swear.”

“Their needle-noses weren't anything to shake a stick at, either,” Gator chuckled. “Remember the number they did on that Legion joker?”

“That guy looked like a piece of chewed up bubblegum by the time they were done with him,” Mick replied.

“The cottonmouths and hornets did their part, too,” Gator said. He smiled at the memory of Polk, the Nazi traitor, flushed bright red and covered head to toe in weeping bug and reptile bites. Mick figured the guy would've keeled over on the spot from his snakebites alone if it hadn't been for the constant swarm of mosquitos that'd pumped him full of anticoagulants.

A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to Mick, and he began frantically pawing through their gear bag.

“What are you doing?” Gator hissed. Mick found what he was looking for and sighed, slumping back against a tree. He held up one of the two large Mason jars and jiggled it, showing off a bespoke cocktail of fish guts, mashed larvae, and aromatic oils. The bait bomb's brass cap was tight and its seal was intact.

“Still good,” Mick said. If any of Charlie Cypress' pheromone gunk was leaking, they'd have critters all over them. He couldn't say whether they'd be ravenous, territorial, or amorous, just that the experience would be unpleasant on the whole.

“That means these buzzard-sized skeeters are coming after us of their own volition,” Gator pointed out.

“At least we're not encouraging them,” Mick said. He tucked the bait bombs away and rejoined Gator on the log. “Figure our best bet now is poisoning up our blood a bit.”

He slipped a quart bottle of Tennessee brown out of his own bag and passed it to Gator, who took a welcome sip. Even at night, the swamp was sweltering. The moon was a few days' out from full, and Mick swore it was projecting heat down as sure as if it was the sun.

Gator passed the flask back to Mick, who took a quick slug before capping it. Bottom-shelf hooch, about as refined as engine oil, but just as reliable.

“What are we doing out here?” Gator asked. He watched the still stagnant swamp water stay as still and stagnant as it had for the last two nights.

“You're shaving eight months off your stint for a week's work,” Mick reminded him.

“Yeah, but what are they punishing you for?” Gator asked.

“This is a cush gig, pal,” Mick said. “I been shot at for my last couple, you know.”

“I was there,” Gator said.

“Yeah, so as long as we're out here getting tans and drinking whiskey, ain't no U-boats lighting us up, no Legion firing squads on our tails, no ghosts or boo-hags or boogers,” Mick replied.

“I ain't worried about any Legion, but there's enough rednecks out here, drunker than we are, mind you, ready to blow the head off anything that moves. We're like to catch a bullet as we ever been,” Gator said.

“You hit the nail on the head,” Mick said. “That's why we're out here.”

“To get shot by a jumpy hunter?”

“To get these idiots to go home,” Mick replied. “After that article dropped, this town was overrun by kooks and morons from all over the country looking to bag the Lizard Man. This was a little boom town for a minute.”

“Place like this ain't set up for that,” Gator pointed out.

“No, it is not. After a couple weeks of trespassing and poaching and buying out every hotel room and bottle of booze in the county, the locals got sick of their visitors. Sure, the influx of cash was good at first, but folks don't live in Lee County for hustle or bustle. The mayor kicked their complaints up to the governor. Turns out Governor Jeffries happens to be good pals with one of the guys whose shit rolls downhill to me. So I'm here to verify whether this Lizard Man exists, and to capture it if it is. I needed a swamp guy for this one, and you're my swamp guy, pal.”

“Great,” Gator grunted. “So finding this lizard thing is what gets us out of this mud hole?”

“Straight back to the big city for me, back to the slammer for you,” Mick said.

“What a deal,” Gator muttered. “Let me get that hooch again.”

Mick passed him the flask and watched the still, branch-striped starscape reflecting at him from the tannic black water. He leaned back after a moment and studied the real sky through the actual trees. The last time he'd been out in the boonies, the stars hadn't been on his side. Granted, there wasn't a town of amphetamine-fueled school teachers hounding him, but these folks had seen a lizard man. If they were out there another night, he'd start pressing the witnesses a little harder. Birdie'd had a point, they were country teenagers: maybe they'd gotten into the good stuff. Mick wouldn't put it past kids these days to whip up something in chem lab or nibble on a funny fungus or two.

Mick noticed with a start that Gator was still slurping down his bourbon.

“Hey, quit it,” he hissed. “That's all we got for the night.”

“I paid for half of it, I want my whole share this time,” Gator said.

“Fair enough,” Mick said, trying to count back how many slugs he'd watched the other man take so far. August in a South Carolina swamp was miserable, he'd need his cut of the rye to get through the night.

“Rest's yours,” Gator said, handing the bottle back and wiping his lips on the back of his sleeve. The quart felt a little lighter than Mick thought it should, but he didn't have room to complain; there was more than enough left.

“Now what?” Mick wondered. It was damn near midnight. He watched that second set of stars for a while. Nothing moved. He could trace the constellations in the mirror-like water, not that he could name them. Far as he knew, he was looking at cartoon characters and canned food mascots up there.

“Should we do the bait bomb again?” Gator asked.

“God,” Mick groaned. He buttoned his shirt up to his throat, rolled down his sleeves, tucked his pants into his socks, pulled his hat down over his brow, and flipped his collar up. He did not want to get swarmed by the bugs the bait bomb attracted like he had been the last two nights. The memory of a thousand little legs skittering all over him made his skin crawl all over again.

He shook it off, took a shot from the bottle, then nodded in resignation.

“Doc Cypress says it'll do the trick,” he sighed. “We only got a couple more. If this thing doesn't work tonight or tomorrow, and if a hundred hicks scouring this swamp haven't found anything by then, I'll be ready to call it.”

“I get the eight months off my bit whether we catch a lizard or not, right?” Gator asked.

“Sure, I can swing that,” Mick said.

“Then shit yeah, let's get out of this damn swamp,” Gator chuckled.

“One more night, then we go,” Mick promised. “Let's light off this thing.”

Gator made sure all his cuffs were tucked then drew one of the bait bombs out of the bag. Its oozing ingredients shifted around inside. He twisted the pressure release, starting the clock. In ten seconds the gas canister inside would start spraying its foul contents all over the place. Gator studied the blend of mashed bugs, rendered oils, and glandular fluids.

“Get rid of it already!” Mick snapped.

“Okay, okay,” Gator chuckled. He drew the camo net aside and tossed the jar into the still water in front of them. It plunked it, sending ripples through the starscape. A few seconds later, it went off. Muck and chunks bubbled up furiously, spreading mist and an oily sheen across the surface. Its sweet, fetid stink immediately filled the air. Mick nearly gagged.

“It is worse every time,” Gator gagged.

“Are they going rotten?” Mick wheezed.

“Did Cypress say to keep these on ice?” Gator whispered to himself.

“So vile,” Mick muttered. The greasy bubbles continued for a full minutes, pumping more and more of the awful goop onto the surface. The odor grew more intense with each gurgle.

Mick pinched his nose and watched the water settle. It took a while, but eventually the stars came back, albeit with a yellow tint from the floating oils, caged out by the black branches. Mick sank into his clothes like a box turtle and tried his best to ignore the wave of mosquitos that homed in on the stink, and the tree trunks that came alive with scuttling palmetto bugs. Instead, he focused on those stars. He tried to spots his constellations again: Steamboat Willie, the Little Drummer Boy, the Jolly Green Giant. He spotted them all except the Cowardly Lion. That particular expanse of sky was blacked out in the reflection.

“Weather's changing,” Mick noted.

“How's that?” Gator asked. He leaned back and looked up, making sure to talk through a clenched jaw. The whiskey'd made him a little chatty the previous evening, and a roach had flown right in his mouth while he was gabbing. “Ain't no weather coming in. It's clear as moonshine up there.”

Mick shook his head. He'd stared at those stars long enough to know what was supposed to be where. He took a look at the actual sky, leaving the oil-coated reflection to swirl and flow. Sure enough, Gator was right: there wasn't a thing but trees between him and the Milky Way. And there, right in the middle, the Cowardly Lion grinned down at him, not a cloud in sight.

“What the hell,” he muttered. “You got the light?”

“Yeah, if that's what you call this thing,” Gator grunted. He passed the Franklin torch over. The gunk-filled tube was heavier than it looked. Mick shook it up to agitate the sleeping fungus inside, then flipped its cap open. Soft blue light flared out, focused and magnified by a series of lenses. The bioluminescent beam turned the dark oaks ghostly pale, like they were set up in a stand of birches.

“What are you looking for?” Gator wondered.

“If there isn't any clouds, what’s blocking the stars...” Mick whispered. He slowly brought the blue beam around, scanning the dark canopy. The torch caught two pinpoints of light. Mick jumped.

“Gator!” he shouted as he pointed at the glaring eyes. “Up there!”

Something squawked like a cross between a crow and a baboon before crashing through the branches out of the light.

“Mon dieu!” Gator shouted. He scrambled for their M1935 Band-It, flailing about in half-soused confusion until he dragged the camo netting down on the both of them.

Mick threw the netting aside after a few panicked seconds and stood to his full height. He whipped the light around, illuminating everything he could. There was so sign of whatever it was.

“Where did you get to?” he hissed. Gator was wrapped up in the netting like a mummy, the Band-It with him.

The thing squawked again, half-caw, half-snarl. Mick looked up. A black shape the size of a large dog was clinging to the tree trunk directly above him. He swung the Franklin torch up with one hand and grasped for the snubnose revolver he kept in his armpit holster. The blue light got the thing in the eyes again, eliciting a croaking bark. It dove at him like a falcon.

The creature hit Mick like a bowling ball, sending him ass over elbows. It was light for its size, but each of its four legs ended in a set of long claws sharp enough to peel potatoes. Its snout was long and narrow, almost a beak, filled with curved teeth eager to clamp around his throat. It snapped at his face. Mick had to drop his pistol and his light just to hold it back.

“Gator!” he yelled.

The thing whipped and thrashed, twisting in his grip. It had a tail like coiled steel, smashing against his body and legs over and over. Mick could feel his fingers slipping. Where it wasn't covered in greasy black feathers, the thing was bald, with patches of pitted gray skin showing through. It locked its yellow eyes onto Mick's reared back, and snapped again.

“Hey, quit it!” Mick shouted. The thing thrashed against him again, sending him tumbling over the bank. The splashed together into the foul swamp water, coating the pair of them in bait bomb juice. The oils stung Mick's sinuses and the flavor sent his dinner halfway up his esophagus. The creature didn't like it much better. It placed both its hind legs on Mick's gut and shoved off him, scrambling away as it scraped the goo off its face and nostrils. The mixture clung to its feathers like tar.

The creature shrieked in frustration, then whipped back around. Mick was floundering in the water on his back, his stomach and throat exposed. It reared back on its hind legs like a murderous chicken, standing four or five feet over him. It crowed and pounced at him like a fighting cock, claws first.

A thick pink strap hit the thing right across its snout, wrapping tight around it and locked its squawking mouth shut. The creature hissed and tumbled over, clawing at the rubber strap. Gator threw the camo netting aside, stood up, slid a fresh round into the Band-It, then leveled it and fired again. This time, the creature's hind legs were instantly hogtied together. It fell into the mud.

Mickey hauled himself out of the water and stood sopping. He made as if to take a step toward Gator, but the other man held up a hand to stop him.

“Not a chance, not stinking like that, pal,” Gator told him. The creature hissed again, trying to drag itself away with just its front claws. Gator opened the Band-It's breach, slipped one more shell inside, and racked it shut. He leveled it from his hip and fired, this time tying it up by its 'wrists.'

Mick was confident it wasn't going anywhere, so he took to squeezing as much of the bait bomb goop out of his clothes as he could. The bugs were already swarming him. He wrung and swatted in equal measure, but he wasn't getting anywhere close to dry or unharassed.

Gator had the Franklin torch in hand by the time Mickey gave up on cleaning himself off. He was standing over the struggling creature, spotlighting it in blue.

“Never seen a thing like it, mon ami,” Gator said.

Mick studied the creature. It looked like a crow more than anything, if a crow's body was the size of a mastiff's. It had wings all right, four of them if he was counting right, and each ended in a set of curved black claws. Instead of a beak, it had jaws like an alligator's, and yellow reptilian eyes. Its thick body terminated in a long tail, longer than the rest of it put together, that it whipped around, threatening to take out Mick and Gator at the ankles. The thing had obviously once been coated in fine black feathers, but they'd since fallen out in clumps, with large patches of swollen, cracked gray skin painfully visible. All in all, it looked deadly, furious, and uncomfortable.

“You know, I do know what this thing is,” Mick said after taking a minute to eyeball it. He smirked and said: “That right there's the Lizard Man.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Bruce Conners.