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It started in the foothills of a village in Mexico.

Old Jorge, foraging in the darkness of a cave about the village, found it: a small box, buried in the wall of the cave- revealed, now, because of a recent tremblor that had unblocked the entrance to the cave after thousands of years. He saw the rectangular shape protruding from the earthen wall of the cave and was drawn to it. Bending close in the darkness, he peered at the object. There were characters of some kind carved on the surface of the box.

He reached out slowly with arthritis-twisted fingers and took hold of the box. It was stuck fast. He began to slowly work it up and down. Clumps of earth fell away. He tugged, holding on with both hands, and the box came free. He stumbled back, clutching his newfound treasure. Holding it close, he tried to make out the carvings. Letters of some kind… Ancient, long-forgotten symbols…

He went to the entrance of the cave and stepped out into the fading light. The box was black, was encrusted with bits of earth. He dug at the earth with his fingernails. Wiped the box on his baggy shirt. Whatever the ancient treasure within, it was his.

He opened the black box.

In the village below, the boy sat cross-legged by a pool of murky water, staring at his reflection. He was three years old. He giggled because his reflection rippled whenever he tossed a pebble into the water. He stopped giggling when he realized that the sky was going black. He tilted back his head. There were dark, ominous clouds where moments before there had been none. Something that might have been thunder rumbled in the distance. An earthquake…?

No, this was something else; something… dark…

It wasn't just the sky: the darkness seemed to seep into the land around him as well, seemed to flow down from the mountains and into the village like the dark waters of a flood, seemed to permeate everything. The boy felt fear and he knew, instinctively, that that fear had been borne along by the darkness. He got up and ran to his earthen home, ran to his room and crawled quickly beneath the bed.

Outside, in the streets, the screaming began.

The Avenger sat at the great oak desk in his library, bent forward over an ancient text. His eyes through the slits in his black mask moved over the long-forgotten language that had been hand-lettered onto the open pages. He knew this language, had studied it for years. By the dim light of the desk lamp, he read:

And The Ancients sealed the Spirits of the Dead into this Box and cast it into The Ocean, where it was swallowed for All Eternity.

Until now, The Avenger thought. He closed the large book and sat back. The Spirits of the Dead [The Evil Dead, who hungered for human flesh], sealed ("for all Eternity") in that little black box, had been released again, after thousands of years- and they were hungry.

Reports of the walking dead were coming in from all over the world. The Watchers, The Avenger's mysterious benefactors, had sent word to him that some sort of delaying action had to be initiated. They would provide whatever monies were needed (as always), as well as an array of equipment specially designed for use against The Supernaturals. (Some of this equipment looked oddly ancient, but it always worked, and that was really all that mattered.)

The Avenger wore only the mask (which covered his entire head, with slits for the eyes, nose, and mouth and two small holes for his ears), a pair of wrestling tights, and high boots- all of it black. A chill shivered his heavily muscled, V-shaped body, though the room was warm. He gazed into the roaring fireplace. The Watchers were worried: Dr. Romero was clearly at it again; had somehow managed to set in motion a series of events that had unleashed an army of Zombies on the world.

The Avenger would have to strike at the source of the Supernatural Energy…

The island of Dr. Romero.

Like The Avenger's island fortress, the madman's headquarters was uncharted (except, of course, by The Watchers).

The Avenger rose and went to an ornate display case. Through the shatterproof glass, he could see The Power Belt. It looked not unlike a professional wrestling title belt, but was, in fact, the very belt worn by the Norse God of Thunder, Thor, eons ago. The wearer, so long as he was a man with the soul of a saint, would be endowed with the strength of ten men. The Avenger opened the display case and removed the belt, fastened it around his waist.

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