Batman: Lost to the Night--Part XIII

Earlier

The cells on the upper levels opened automatically, clear Plexiglas shielding sliding back into brick housings. The inmates emerged, milling in confusion. The alarm kept blaring, its foghorn-like blasts adding to the chaos.

Over the hubbub of voices, Harvey Dent heard someone with a megaphone barking orders—mostly along the lines of ‘remain calm’ and ‘line up’. If this was truly an emergency situation—and the cells wouldn’t have unlocked unless it was—then… Harvey’s eyes grew wide. There was a time to take advantage of a situation, but there was also a time to ensure that others wouldn’t be tempted to do the same. And he had no intention of being trampled in a mass panic.

The guards were trying ineffectively to get everybody to line up by the fire doors. Harvey pushed his way through the crowd, until he was several paces away from the cell where Humphrey Dumphler resided. As expected, it was empty, its occupant currently one of the many inmates in the hallway. Harvey contrived to make it appear as though the press of bodies pushed him inside. It only took a moment for him to take hold of the larger man’s quilted jacket. For what Dent was planning, he definitely needed something that would fit loosely. He slipped the garment on, then fought his way back into the corridor again and moved on.

A few feet before the emergency exit, he stopped and removed a potentially dangerous object from its usual place. There was no way that he was going to allow Joker, Killer Croc, or any one of a host of other homicidal maniacs to have access to a fire axe. It would have been nice to get the second one from the other corridor, but there was no time, and the inmates would be evacuated via the doors directly ahead of him. He started back toward the others.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped and pressed against one of the wooden office doors. It was recessed far enough back from the surrounding wall that Harvey knew he was not easily visible to anyone looking down the hallway. He waited. A few moments later, the guards came along, herding a straggling column of inmates toward him. Harvey waited until slightly more than half of the crowd had filed past, before he muscled his way into the group. The oversized jacket concealed the axe nicely. If the security staff were to notice it missing, they would likely assume that one of their own had retrieved it. Dent smiled. The evacuation would proceed with minimal chaos… and once safely on the ground, if the coin toss came up right, the weapon would give him added leverage should he opt to leave the premises.

Two birds with one stone, he smiled. He rather liked the sound of that.

“All of you,” the guard shouted into the megaphone, “sit down and SHUT UP!”

Some of the inmates milling in the exercise yard obeyed at once. Others made obscene gestures or ignored the command entirely.

Lounging unobtrusively against the wall, Harvey Dent watched the scene before him with almost clinical detachment. As always, he was of two minds about his circumstances: he was certainly grateful to be out of the fire, but he couldn’t say that he was enjoying the current developments. The last time Arkham had been destroyed, he’d been sent to Blackgate. That wasn’t going to happen again. He flipped his coin onto his wrist, and examined the result in the moonlight. He smiled. He just needed to wait for an opportune moment.

Dent shook his head, bemused. A small group, Joker prominent among them, solemnly intoned, “Our house… our house… our house is burning down! Our house… our house… our house is bur…”

The guard lowered the megaphone and turned to one of his subordinates. “Take him,” he ordered coldly.

Haney raised his tranquilizer gun, and with a smile of savage joy, fired two darts into the knot of chanting inmates.

Joker slumped to the ground, eyes glazing over. “Why, Danny-boy!” He said woozily, “I never knew you cared…”

“Anyone else need extra sedatives?” Megaphone demanded.

Heads shook, as the other inmates sank slowly to the earth.

In the confusion, nobody noticed as Two-Face edged away from the crowd, and around the corner. The yard was dimly lit, and it wasn’t much of a trick to hide in the shadows. He didn’t have far to the bridge and freedom and… He stopped. The Sprang River was a corridor of orange flames. Cresting atop the walls of fire, he could see glowing reds, blues, greens, pinks, and whites. That was bizarre. Those colors were supposed to burn closer to the heart of a blaze, not along its edges. For a moment he stared, mesmerized. Then he shook himself. He could appreciate the aesthetics later. He jerked his eyes away from the flames, and grimaced. Staring at them had just about destroyed his night vision. That settled matters: he’d have to circle the asylum’s perimeter wall and swim behind the institution, across the Gotham River toward the power company on the mainland. The Sprang was going to be crawling with emergency crews, and he was sure to be spotted. Fortunately, he always had two escape routes.

He forced himself not to look at the blazing warehouses again. Instead, he focused on the fire escape several yards away.

All at once, he leaned forward. Someone was inching toward the metal structure, someone cloaked and hooded.

Dent sucked in his breath. Only one person would be that… He flipped his coin again and nodded at the result. Well, that decided matters rather neatly…

The lock on the emergency door yielded to several sharp blows with the axe. Bruce slammed his shoulder against the splintering wood, and it too gave way. A wave of warm air greeted him. No open flames, though he could smell smoke, as well as the acrid odor of burning rubber. He pulled the edge of the sheet forward so that it covered his mouth and nose. For a moment, he hesitated. The smoke was even deadlier than the fire. He had no way of knowing how many people were trapped up here, or where they were. Or whether they were still al… he squelched that thought brutally. He couldn’t let himself think that way. They were alive until he knew differently. He moved ahead, through a set of double doors.

He was standing in a corridor, with offices on either side of him. Ahead was another door. He put his hand on it experimentally. The metal was warm to his touch, though not unbearably so. He drew a deep breath and pulled the door slowly open, bracing himself for another blast of warmth. It came immediately, and with greater intensity than the first one had. He closed his eyes by reflex, opening them just in time to feel another burst of hot air as a door further down the corridor opened. Two people were walking toward him.

Batman had a fold of his cape wrapped around another man who was walking somewhat hunched over. The vigilante was wearing a Scott Pack—a self-contained breathing apparatus, as well as a Cevelar helmet and face shield. There were fresh tears in the bat-suit, and Bruce thought he detected first degree burns on the exposed flesh that showed through. The other man was wearing a close-fitting red-and-yellow mask. The oval lenses gave him a bug-eyed appearance. He had a gas mask pressed to his mouth and nose. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Garfield Lynns’ presence here couldn’t be a coincidence. His jaw set. He took another look at the gas mask. There was a bat-insignia on the device. That was surprising. Bruce could have sworn that Firefly’s suit had its breathing gear built in, but apparently not…

“You’re alright?” Bruce asked harshly.

Batman nodded. He seemed to be saying something, but Bruce couldn’t make the muffled words out over the crackling of the flames in the distance.

Bruce shook his head.

The Dark Knight nodded. Immediately one hand came up, signing his query: Is there a way out behind you? Talk. I’ll lip-read.

“Fire escape,” Bruce smiled. “It should still be solid.”

Batman nodded. Got it. Let’s get out of here.

Bruce acquiesced, stifling a momentary twinge of disappointment. He wasn’t needed after all. Dick had everything under control. He should be relieved. This wasn’t his fight anymore.

“Doctor Arkham!” The second man had removed his gas mask. “He’s still in there!”

“What?!” Bruce and Dick spoke simultaneously.

“He-he was up here when the bomb went off. He was behind me, but then…” he gulped, “I think he might have been in his office…”

Batman was signing again. I met up with him just in time to see a chunk of the roof cave in a few feet behind him. If Arkham was on the other side of that, then…”
“I’ll find him.” Bruce started forward. “I know where the office is.”

The Caped Crusader shook his head. It’s too risky. I don’t have another set of gear for you. He gave his companion a shove in Bruce’s direction. Get Firefly out of here. I’ll take care of Jeremiah.

His protest died on his lips. Dick was in better shape, better equipped… For a few moments, it had seemed to Bruce as though the last two years hadn’t happened. He’d been back—in the thick of it—with scarcely more than his wits for weapons. It had felt so… right. But charging into a fire with nothing but a couple of sheets for protection when there was someone else nearby with the appropriate skills and gear? He had suspended partners for less.

He gripped Firefly’s shoulder, pulling the other man forward. “Be careful,” he said.

Batman nodded. Always.

“Easy.” Bruce guided Lynns back the way he’d come. Smoke was beginning to seep toward them. If Dick didn’t get back… Dick was fine. He’d probably had another way out. There was no reason to believe that he’d double back this way. Bruce tried to ignore the persistent question of why Dick would have been coming his way in the first place, if the other egress was still accessible.

A whoosh of cool air greeted them as they found their way outside. Bruce’s skin prickled as the breeze hit it. He rested one hand on the fire escape railing. It was still solid, still cool to his touch. He hesitated, torn between wanting to see Lynns safely down and wanting to wait for Dick.

After a moment, Lynns nudged him. “Er…”

Bruce shook himself out of his reverie. “Sorry,” he said, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “Can you climb down?”

The other man nodded.

Bruce took one more look behind. At that moment, a large timber fell, partially obscuring the door at the far wall that led to the corridor. There was probably nothing to worry about. Dick likely had another way out, and even if he didn’t, he should be able to shift that beam. But if Jeremiah’s trapped on the other side, who knows how much smoke he’s inhaled, or how badly he needs medical help? If Dick has to take time to clear the door, could those seconds make a difference?

“Mister?” Lynns touched his sleeve. “You okay?”

Bruce took a deep breath. “Give me the gas mask. And the gloves,” he added.

“What?”

Bruce pointed to the items in question.

“You’re going back in there, aren’t you?”

“Only if I have to,” Bruce replied. “Give them to me.”

“Are you freaking cra—what am I saying? This is Arkham, after all.”

Bruce didn’t smile. “I’m aware of that. Hand them over.” He paused. “Your costume… it usually has breathing tanks?”

Lynns sighed. “They’re elsewhere. I couldn’t fit them under the uniform.” He indicated the custodian’s coveralls that he wore. With a sigh, he surrendered the items. “Just as well,” he muttered. “The colors are better outside. Right here in the thick of it, it’s too dark to see anything worthwhile.”

Bruce’s hand froze. “Excuse me?”

Lynns blanched at his tone. Evidently, his companion was not a patron of the arts. Still, perhaps he could get through to the man… if he let his handiwork speak for him. “Look!” he pointed to the river. Ignoring Bruce’s horrified expression, he gestured expansively to the twin walls of flame along the banks of the Sprang. “It’s even more dazzling than I thought it would be. I didn’t know if I had the right balance of strontium and copper, but that purple is so perfect! And that green! I dropped my notes here somewhere, but if I can remember the exact proportions of barium chloride, I…”

With an animalistic snarl, Bruce spun the shorter man around. Heavy hands clamped around Firefly’s cheeks, forcing him to see his handiwork. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He snapped. “How many lives you might have cost tonight?” He waved his hand in a wide arc to encompass the asylum and the waterfront. “What possessed you?”

Firefly gulped. “I thought it would be…” he stammered, “pretty...” He met Bruce’s gaze, as though he expected to find some sort of compassion. He didn’t. Lynns took a step backward and nearly slipped from the landing. His arms windmilled frantically. A hand grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it so hard that it would probably leave a bruise. “I…” Words failed him. “I… I…”

Disgust mingled with rage. “GO!” Bruce thundered. “Get out of my sight! Just get down those steps and surrender to the guards, or I’ll make you wish you had. GET DOWN THERE!” He raised his other hand as though to strike.

Lynns cringed and began to make his way down as swiftly as he dared.

Bruce watched him descend. Then he stepped back into the burning asylum. He’d just wait here for a moment to make sure Dick was alright. That was all. Just a moment. Just a… Who did he think he was kidding? Cautiously, keeping a watchful eye for any hint of collapsing walls or ceiling, he started forward.

Dick moved swiftly down the corridor. Jeremiah’s office would have to be further down the hallway. A chunk of the ceiling fell inches in front of him. He cursed under his breath as he stepped over it. Ahead of him, another pair of portals loomed. Like the first, they were made of lightweight metal, with thick windowpanes laced with chicken wire and set at eye-level. He pushed the doors open. The designer’s idea might have had some merit under different circumstances: in case of a hostile party, the doors could be locked by remote control, effectively trapping the person in a small section of the corridor. Here and now? It was an irritant.

His destination was through the next set of doors and then the second office on his left. With a sigh, he bounded forward, wondering whether he shouldn’t have taken the left-hand corridor instead of retracing his original path.

As he pushed open the final set of doors, he groaned. A pile of debris perhaps three feet high blocked the way ahead. He debated whether to turn back. There was a loud crack. Dick whirled. He pushed open the doors through which he’d just come. Behind the next set of doors, he could make out a bright orange glow. The roof must have fallen in that section. Great. He lifted his halligan tool—a combination axe, crowbar, and spike—and attacked the plaster and timbers that blocked the path ahead. He hoped that Bruce hadn’t followed him, because right at this moment, Dick wasn’t sure that he knew how he was going to get out of here.

Batman used the crowbar end of his halligan tool to shift the last of the timbers aside. He checked the gauge on his breathing tank. Another six minutes or so and he’d have to switch to the third tank. Great. His thermal imager told him that the walls were getting hotter. As for the ceiling… he pressed against the wall as more chunks of plaster began to fall. His eyes grew wide. There was a bright spot on the wall facing him, which was spreading quickly. He had to locate Arkham—and fast—and get out of here.

He forged ahead steadily. One office door was wide open. The smoke and debris made it hard to get his bearings, but he thought this might—he smiled. In the middle of the heat-signature, there was a cooler spot. Someone was in there. Batman took a deep breath and entered the room.

Better make that two someones. Dick wasn’t sure whether he was upset that Bruce had decided to brave the fire despite the obvious danger, or whether he was merely irritated that his mentor had made it into the room ahead of him.

Tentatively, he reached out and tapped the other man on the shoulder. Bruce nodded as he continued to drag Jeremiah out from under the desk. The director had evidently taken refuge there. Batman took note of the smoldering debris that coated most of the furnishings in the room. Arkham had leaped for the only shelter he could. Dick realized that it was a lucky thing that there were no papers or other flammables lying around. The rug had been rolled up—it looked like Jeremiah had tried to wedge it under the door to keep the smoke out. The fire hadn’t found much ready fuel in here—the large heavy pieces of furniture were slow to catch. The smoke was a more immediate danger.

He could see at a glance that Arkham wasn’t in good shape. The administrator had evidently stayed close to the ground, avoiding much of the smoke for as long as could. It had kept him alive until now, but the smoke and heat were too strong, and the man was beginning to succumb. Batman wished he’d brought an extra radio for Bruce—the ambient noise made it difficult to talk and lip-reading was out of the question with the breathing apparatus.

Bruce locked his gaze with Dick’s. One hand came up, gloved fingers signing the words: Need to get him downstairs… less smoke… Stairwell… right… 5 yards.

Batman nodded. Got it. You okay?

Fine, he signed. Then immediately he doubled over, wheezing.

“Bruce!” He cursed himself for several kinds of idiot. Bruce couldn’t hear him. And he hadn’t been wearing a gas mask when Dick had found him. Which meant he’d already been inhaling the smoke. They had to get out, fast. But… Batman wasn’t sure whether hurrying would make things worse.

Bruce’s coughing ceased. Batman waited for him to look up. I’ll take Jeremiah, he signed. Walk ahead. I need you to show me the stairs.

Bruce shook his head. You lead. I need to make another sweep. Make sure everyone else is out.

Dick blinked. What in the world… Comprehension dawned. Bruce wanted him to get Jeremiah out, even if that meant abandoning… under the breathing apparatus Batman’s jaw set. I’m not leaving you here, Bruce. Not a chance.

Jeremiah needs—

Yeah he does. So do you. And if it’s a choice between you and him—

Then there is no choice. You have to get him out.

There were some words that Bruce had omitted from the syllabus when he’d taught Dick ASL. Luckily, the younger man reflected, he’d obtained a saltier vocabulary from one Joseph Wilson. Batman’s hand formed the profanity almost instinctively.

F--- that! I’m not going without you, Bruce. We can stand here and argue or you can—

Bruce made a cutting motion with his hand, even as another paroxysm of coughing seized him. Every second you waste means Arkham’s chances grow slimmer. I’ll only slow you down. Get out of here!

Dick considered. Is that what you would do if our positions were reversed?

Bruce flinched.

Dick pressed his point. Bruce? If you were standing in my place, would YOU leave ME?

Bruce looked away. Dick advanced a step, and placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Then he took another two steps forward to stand in front of his former mentor. Bruce? He signed, I’m not leaving this place without you. The longer we stand here arguing, the worse our chances get. We can debate this until the roof falls in on us or you can show me where the damned stairs are, and we can all get out of here.

Bruce shook his head, defeated. Alright. We’d better hurry.

I know. Dick lifted Jeremiah and slung him over one shoulder. Then he placed his free hand on Bruce’s arm. Lead on. As he shifted the director to a more comfortable position, he managed to turn on the cowl radio and relay instructions to Barbara.

It seemed to take forever to reach Gotham’s North Island. Barbara drove as quickly as she could, speeding through yellow lights and barely slowing down for stop signs. She could just envision tomorrow’s headlines: Former police commissioner’s daughter busted for reckless driving. She caught herself. The headlines were going to be more along the lines of Asylum burns while inmates look on. She’d be lucky to make a two-paragraph blurb on the bottom of page three.

Rae hadn’t kept her on the phone long, but she’d been encouraging. The lawyer was going to make a few calls and get back to them. She’d been concerned but not panicky. On the other hand, Barbara had to admit that she didn’t know the other woman well enough to gauge whether she was actually confident, or just didn’t like appearing nervous to her clients.

Once at the trauma center, Barbara pulled into the closest handicapped spot and wheeled her way into the emergency room. She saw a young man in jeans and a brown windbreaker seated in the waiting area. He was holding a magazine, blankly staring at the page. Her father was sitting next to him. Barbara watched them for a few minutes. Dick’s gaze never wavered. The page never turned.

She wheeled over. “Hi.”

Dick held out a hand to her. She clasped it, then winced as he squeezed back. He loosened his grip, but he immediately brought his other hand forward, sandwiching her own between them.

“We’re waiting to hear,” her father said gently.

Barbara bit her lip. “Where are you going?” she asked as Gordon rose to his feet.

“We could be here for awhile,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can find some coffee.” He touched Dick’s shoulder. “You know him,” he said simply. “He doesn’t know how not to fight.”

Dick nodded.

His hands were ice-cold, Barbara noted. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she gently maneuvered them so that one hand was pressed against her cheek. With her free hand, she began to massage the back of his other one.

“I wish someone would tell us something,” he said finally. “It’s the waiting that gets me.”

Barbara said nothing.

“If only Firefly hadn’t said Jeremiah was trapped up there,” he whispered.

She glanced about nervously.

“I don’t care who hears!” he snapped. Then he seemed to reconsider. “Batman told me what happened when he gave me a lift. I can’t believe Bruce… oh, what am I saying? The unbelievable bit would’ve been if he’d decided to save his own neck. I…” He pulled his hands free and brought one down gently on her shoulder.

Barbara squeezed it.

“What did Rae say?”

She took a deep breath. “She’s going to make some phone calls. She thinks she can file an emergency order to get Bruce transferred to a psych ward in one of the regular hospitals.”

Dick brightened at that. “No Blackgate, then.”

“No,” she shook her head. “She’s convinced that sticking him there would be detrimental to Bruce’s mental health. Physical health, too, of course, but she thinks it’s best to downplay that card, seeing as it probably won’t be effective.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, the judge would probably just order Bruce into segregation and decide the problem was solved.” He smiled. “Thanks for making that call for me.”

“Not a problem.”

Jim returned with the coffee. They drank in silence.

They waited.

They waited more.

Periodically, one would head over to the main desk to ask for an update. The answer was always the same: we’ll let you know as soon as we have answers for you.

Each time the swinging doors that led to the emergency ward opened, they tensed, but each time it proved to be a false alarm. Barbara wished she could have her cell on. There was a line up to use the pay phones, and she was convinced that the instant she rolled off to wait would be the instant that someone would finally have a status report.

Finally, a tired-looking man in his early fifties approached. “Mr. Grayson?”

Dick looked up. “That’s me.”

Barbara glanced at her watch. It was a little after five-thirty. Bruce had been brought in over seven hours ago.

“I’m Dr. Wiacek. I’ve been looking in on your… on Mr. Wayne.”

Dick nearly jumped out of his seat. “How is my father?”

“Well, we were treating him for smoke inhalation. Now as you know, in cases like this, it’s not uncommon for complications to arise. We’re doing everything we can for him, and it is likely that he’ll be—”

He was using the present tense, Dick registered with more than a little relief. But the doctor’s facial expression, his posture, his overall demeanor implied that the news wasn’t entirely good.

Gordon was suddenly standing next to them. “Doctor. We appreciate your coming out here, and believe me when I say that we understand that Mr. Wayne is receiving the best of all possible care. But we’ve had no word for hours, and whatever it is you’re trying to say… maybe it’s best you just come out and say it so we can move on. Now, how is he?”

The doctor licked his lips nervously. “We don’t know. He’s on a ventilator right now. He’s suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning, facial burns, inhalation burns…” He shook his head.

“But he’ll pull through,” Dick said.

“There’s definitely reason to believe so,” Wiacek said, “but you have to understand… he’s still at risk for a slew of complications. It would be premature to make any kind of prediction at this juncture.” His gaze panned slowly from one face to the next. “I’m very much afraid that he’s not out of the woods yet.”