Legion of the Living Dead

IT was an afternoon in late spring and from a cloudless sky, the sun
beat shimmering rays on the stream of motor cars that flowed
sluggishly along the narrow canyon between the rows of tall buildings.
Along the sidewalks, men and women, many of them richly attired,
hurried about their business and pleasure. It was a street of wealth,
a main stem of American finance.

But the men and women in the street seemed oblivious to the criminal
monster who preyed like a vampire upon this veritable artery of
wealth. Had they noticed the faces of the men in the great black
touring car that cruised along slowly with the traffic, they might
have lost some of their sense of security. For these men were grim-
faced police--one of many specially picked squadrons that had been
patrolling the streets day and night, waiting for the radio call to
duty--and probably to their own destruction.

The man at the wheel of the squad car was young for a position that
involved so much responsibility. His face told of many anxious
moments, of the torment of trying to fathom the unfathomable. He
steered the car without apparent effort, yet his every nerve was keyed
to a high pitch. His brilliant eyes strained ahead; yet sometimes
sought the rear vision mirror, watching for that with which human
forces seemed powerless to cope.

Suddenly, from the radio speaker came the voice of the police
announcer. At the first word, the driver of the squad car detected a
different note in the man's voice. The drab monotone was gone; rather
the announcer's voice was colored with a tremor of excitement and
dread. He was exercising his duty in transmitting the message that had
come to him, but he seemed to know that in doing so he was sending
some of his companions to their doom.

"Special cruiser twenty-four... Calling special cruiser twenty-four,"
came from the loudspeaker. "Proceed at once to the Krausman store.
Robbery going on. Robbery going on at Krausman store... Number one-
three... Number one-three."

The last group of figures was simply a code which the department used
to identify the activities of a mysterious criminal gang which had
terrorized the city with daring thefts accompanied by what amounted to
nothing short of wholesale butchery.

As the driver of the squad car set his siren going, another very human
appeal came from the radio loud-speaker. For a moment, the vast police
organization was forgotten. It was simply one anxious father speaking
to his son: "For the love of God, watch your step, Jimmy!"

The jaw of the young man at the wheel of the squad car was thrust far
forward, as his foot came down heavily upon the accelerator. The
police announcer was an elderly man who had been pronounced unfit for
active service. It was his son who manned the wheel of Special Cruiser
Twenty-four. Duty had made heavy demands upon father and son. The
anxiety of the father could well be imagined. He might just as well
have pronounced his own son's death sentence.

A wide lane in the traffic appeared miraculously before the speeding,
screaming squad car. The police sat on the edge of the cushions. Their
knuckles whitened as they clenched the butts of heavy revolvers. Now
and again one of the men would send a strained glance back through the
rear window.

Suddenly, the man beside the young driver pinched his companion’s arm.

"It's coming!" His voice was hard and brittle, strained to the
breaking point. The driver's lower jaw protruded a bit more. He
uttered a heartening oath through clenched teeth. His eyes flashed
upward toward the rear vision mirror. The stretch of cleared street
behind them was broken by a sinister blot of speeding destruction. A
long-nosed streamlined roadster, black as midnight was rapidly
overhauling them.

THE police car was still three blocks from the scene of the robbery
and the car behind them seemed to have no speed limit. Nor did the
driver of the black roadster have any compassion for human life. The
police cruiser swerved sharply to avoid hitting a careless pedestrian.
A split second later, the black roadster bore down upon the frightened
man. The pedestrian became panic stricken, put out both arms in a
ridiculously futile effort to halt the speeding car, and in the next
moment was knocked flat--a piteous blot that lay deathly still on the
pavement.

The roadster was within a few feet of the squad car. Through the rear
window, the police could see the two men crouched low and motionless
in the cockpit. With a dexterous yank on the wheel, the driver of the
police car sent the cruiser far to the left, trying to block off the
black speed demon.