Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  CHAPTER 19

  Amy was screaming as thunder roared over her before the door was snatched open, and Sister Mary Francis was there, bending quickly to lift her from the floor. The old woman held her tightly in strong arms as she moved through a smoke-filled corridor, finding a way through the spiraling fumes of black.

  Amy cried out at the fire and smoke.

  “Hush, child!” the nun said sternly, closing a hand around the back of Amy’s head to cradle her. “God alone will decide this battle! And we have Him on our side!”

  She turned and moved up a stone archway, and Amy managed to silence her screams, holding tight. Then she felt the crucifix pressed hard against her chest, her tears absorbed by the black cloak.

  “God will provide a way,” Sister Mary Francis whispered, moving quickly. “This fiend will not get you! Not while I live!”

  She moved into the interior of the basilica, flaring with isolated fires. Pews were scattered haphazardly, and a terrific red light shone from the elevator shaft to cast a chaotic, unearthly atmosphere. Turning carefully, Sister Mary Francis peered, then froze and bent even further as she seemed to see something.

  “Aha!” she shouted and spun, running instantly, and Amy heard the horrific voice behind them.

  “WITCH! She belongs to me!”

  The nun threw open another door and fled quickly down a hall that seemed less well kept than the rest but also held less of the choking smoke that filled the basilica. As she reached the end of the hallway, she mounted a short flight of steps, not casting another glance over her shoulder to see if they were being pursued.

  But as they reached the third step Amy raised her face to see the man, the man, coming for them, his monstrous hands clutching and unclutching, his face a mask of horrible glee that caused her to scream yet again. He laughed as he caught her eye, and Amy lost whatever control she’d held in the quiet darkness of the closet before—

  The next movement came from nowhere as a black shape leaped from behind a doorway, swinging a wooden beam that descended hard over the back of the man’s head.

  Father Marcelle!

  “Sister!” Amy cried to Mary Francis as Cain staggered forward a pace, finally regaining balance to whirl back into Marcelle. And at the shout Sister Mary Francis spun on the steps, bending to watch the confrontation.

  Then with a cryptic curse the old nun spun again and ascended the stairs, moving away from the fight in the corridor, leaving Marcelle alone and unarmed against the beast.

  ***

  Soloman wasn’t sure if he was alive or not.

  It took him a few moments, rolling over something hard and sharp, aware of wounds and burns that seemed too numerous to count, before he was certain.

  Yeah, I’m alive ... I think ...

  He gained his knees, knowing he had somehow landed on the steel beams that anchored the elevator to a shack on the roof of the basilica. Smoke was so thick that it was suffocating, and he stayed low as he moved far too slowly, knowing he had to get back into the fight.

  Staggering and crawling, he finally found a faint ribbon of light and knew it was the door. Not even searching for a knob, Soloman hurled himself against it to blast apart the planks, and then he was rolling blindly in the night, taking a second to recover.

  He crawled toward a stairway and tumbled headlong, uncaring about more injuries since he was already so wounded. He cascaded over stone, bruised and bloodied to finally find the threshold, expecting to see Cain standing over him, ultimately victorious.

  A snarl of enduring pain twisted Soloman’s face as he raised himself to a single knee, like a boxer waiting out a count, finally standing. He knew without even looking that he had lost all his weapons. The M79 had been surrendered to the shaft; he had no idea where he’d lost the Desert Eagle.

  No ...

  No more weapons.

  Shaking his head to clear his thoughts as much as possible, Soloman rose and staggered down another flight, following the wide winding stairway that would take him back to the battle with Cain . . .

  ***

  Maggie rolled beneath a pew, concealed in smoke and chaos. She had seen Malo die, his heart torn from his chest only to be hurled far into the horror that enveloped this place.

  Frantic to escape, she had leaped and rolled, throwing herself wildly beneath a dark shadow of wood where she crawled madly, changing directions every few seconds as Cain vengefully pursued, splintering oak banisters and pews as he sought to finish the kill.

  Evading, hiding, knowing his location by the violence of his rampage, she escaped him by the narrowest margin, finally sliding behind a stone column located at the rear of the basilica. Now, trying to catch her breath as she stifled a groan, she placed a hand over her mouth and chest, concentrating.

  Despite her usually cold control, she wasn’t conditioned to this level of adrenaline rush and knew it was making her unstable. Breath by breath she tried to bring herself back down, calming, finding balance in themadness and fear that had unhinged her ability to think clearly. Then she glanced down through tearing eyes and saw it.

  My purse!

  Listening quick to hear Cain ravaging a distant section of the building, she reached out and snatched the purse from the floor, opening it to find what she sought. Her hand closed around the cold steel cylinder and in seconds broke the seal, withdrawing the syringe.

  Teeth gritted, she raised it before her face.

  Yes!

  Come on!

  Her rage gave her strength.

  It’s time to die.

  Then she heard shouts on the far side of the building and tried savagely to rise but fell over a burning desk. She screamed as the flames seared her arm and hand and as she rose, she saw the syringe rolling across the stone floor into the smoke-filled darkness.

  “Oh my God!” she cried, scrambling forward, searching, searching . . .

  Couldn’t find it—

  As she heard a horrible voice.

  “Witch! She belongs to me!”

  “Oh, Amy ...”

  Maggie almost rose and chased suicidally after the voice. Her teeth gritted, and she threw herself across the darkened floor, hurling shattered wood to the side, searching, searching, searching for the only thing that could kill this beast, the only thing ...

  ***

  Cain glared at the intrepid priest with singular hate. He stared at the shattered wooden beam in Marcelle’s hand and laughed. Then with a lion-like growl he took a stride forward.

  Marcelle stood his ground and contemptuously cast the broken wood to the side. He revealed no fear as Cain stepped closer. Instead, Marcelle regarded the giant as if he could kill him with a word.

  “Your god fails you, priest,” Cain snarled in a ravaged voice. “Yes. He always fails you because only strength shall prevail in this hardened world – which I will rule.”

  “So tell me of your strength, beast,” Marcelle replied bitterly. He did not retreat. Nor would he, he knew. “Tell me of the strength that was taken from you at Golgotha!” The priest backed up, shaking his head with a frown; “Esto mihi, Domine, turris fortitudinis!”

  “Coram inimico vestro?” Cain whispered, smiling.

  “Et sit Dominus cum spiritu meo!”

  “No,” Cain replied. “He will not receive your spirit. Because your spirit belongs to me.”

  A fanged roar erupted as Cain lashed out to snatch Marcelle by the collar, bringing him so close to the bloody breath and the great, distended fangs. “Golgotha was only a temporary defeat, Marcelle,” he said gratingly. “Tell me if I’ve been defeated tonight.”

  “The night is not over.”

  A laugh. “Such courage.” He moved a taloned hand over Marcelle’s face, caressing it. “Such a waste that it was spent serving a tyrant. It might have served me well. And you would not have faced this defeat.”<
br />
  “I will never serve you!”

  “Words spoken often,” Cain laughed. “But I have no more patience for fools. It is time to finish this charade.” He closed a hand around Marcelle’s neck as the priest stared him hard in the face, and Cain seemed suddenly to realize something.

  He paused long. . . longer.

  “You,” Cain whispered finally. “It was you who released me from that tomb so long ago. Yes! At last I remember!” He nodded slowly, “Yes, I had been imprisoned there for so many years, chained by the Hebrew dog, until you came. Yes, now, at last, it comes to me. It was you who defied the curse of David ... to set me free.”

  “Yes,” Marcelle replied. “In my ... my foolishness I defied the warning of David. I had lost my fear of God and all that was holy. But now I fear Him again! Him! And not you! And I will return you to that grave!”

  Shaking his head, Cain despised the words. “No, priest. I will never return to the grave. Not in this world, nor any other.”

  “You can terrify,” Marcelle gasped. “But His judgment is upon you! And soon you will terrify no more! Do you truly believe you can rewrite what has been written? Do you! You are nothing, beast! What creature can be greater than the Creator? None! Not even you! You have deceived yourself, and your doom comes as we speak! Listen! It is at the door!”

  In a snarl Cain’s fingers tightened. And slowly, so slowly, he began crushing Marcelle’s thick neck between iron fingers that closed and closed with inexorable force. Struck by the numbing pain, Marcelle shut his eyes tight for a final prayer, surrendering his soul to— “It’s over, Cain!”

  Cain spun like lightning to hurl Marcelle aside, staring with blazing eyes into the corridor. Stunned, Marcelle struggled to his feet, expecting it to be Soloman, as before, but instantly recognizing the feminine voice. In the same breath he hoped desperately that she wouldn’t be making a suicidal stand against this monstrosity as he looked up to see . . . Maggie.

  She stood defiantly in the corridor.

  Challenging.

  Marcelle groaned, falling heavily against a wall as Cain walked slowly toward her. “Maggie!” Marcelle shouted. “Please! Don’t do this! Don’t do this! He’ll kill you!”

  “Maybe,” she frowned. “But I’ll have company.”

  Slowly she removed a hand from behind her back, revealing that she held a large steel syringe. And at the movement Cain halted, staring narrowly at the gray cylinder. For a single moment no one moved. Then Maggie lifted it higher, before her face.

  “Come to me, Cain,” she gritted teeth with the purest purpose. “I’ve got the cure for what ails you.”

  Cain tilted his head, seeming to understand.

  “I created you.” Maggie took a step forward. “Now I’m gonna kill you.”

  With a dangerous, hissing growl Cain stepped back, and Maggie took another step forward. “Come on, big man. Come and kill me. It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”

  As if summoned from the heart of Hell a primal, cosmic pride blazed in Cain’s face. His jaws twisted, fang grating on fang. “You think you can defeat me with that!” he laughed. “Fool! I know what you hold! It is the virus that you used to create this flesh! Dominus mihi turris fortitudinis” He glared but did not advance. “You did your work too well! I am stronger than anything living! I could crush you like a worm and deliver that virus to the flames! Then you would have nothing!”

  Maggie was unexpressive but Marcelle saw that her eyes had the disturbing glint of madness—the madness of love. She was fighting for her daughter now and knew no fear.

  “Then come to me, Cain.” She continued to advance. “Take it away from me. I’m sure you can. You tore out Malo’s heart, didn’t you? Come on.” She lifted her chin. “Take this little thing away from me.”

  Cain staggered and Marcelle saw true fear smolder in his eyes. Then the giant took another step back, away from them, and Marcelle suddenly remembered—

  “NO!” He leaped.

  It was too late.

  “The child shall be mine!” Cain roared, hurling himself with incredible speed to the stairs where he took them five at a time, reaching the top as Marcelle reached the bottom in a desperate rush.

  It was a chaotic thing—Marcelle would remember—that made Cain stagger at the crest. For at the last second Mother Superior Mary Francis, seemingly as frail and old as the Earth, emerged in his path to hurl a bucket of liquid, the substance splashing over Cain to shower the stairs.

  Marcelle, instantly stunned and frightened for the old nun, stared wildly upward as Cain glanced with a laugh at his drenched form. His voice was mocking as he smiled over unhinged fangs, leaning closer.

  “Holy water, Mother?”

  “No,” Mary Francis frowned. “Gasoline.”

  She struck the match with a finger as it left her hand.

  ***

  Soloman spent a moment mourning over Malo.

  He bowed his head, closing his eyes, and laid a hand on his chest.

  “Semper fi,” he whispered.

  Then Soloman wearily took the chambered Colt from the Delta lieutenant’s waist and, staggering, lifted the M203, opening the chute to ensure that a grenade was locked in the chamber. He slammed it shut and jerked the slide to chamber a round.

  A chaotic battle exploded close by.

  Knowing instantly that Cain was still alive and fighting, Soloman limped across the demolished church as quickly as he could, his right leg numb. But in his battle rage he didn’t think of how badly he might be hurt; he knew only that he had a fight to finish, a man to kill. He wished wildly that he had more to work with but there was nothing, nothing ...

  Nothing but himself.

  Raising the rifle, he entered the hallway and saw fire raging on the steps of a distant stairway, a fire that moved and roared from within with more than flame. Struck with a stab of emotional pain, he prayed desperately that it wasn’t Maggie or the rest of them, and then he saw Maggie in the hallway, shocked and staring up. He shoved her roughly aside as he reached the threshold, instantly raising aim, knowing it was Cain.

  Cain leaped through the door at the top, and Soloman could hear him rolling, beating at the flames. With a curse Soloman leaped onto the stairs and immediately collapsed, falling on his injured knee.

  Howls at the crest rose in volume and then began to fade as Soloman rose again, climbing with determination, using the rifle as a crutch to stagger through burning steps. He emerged boldly onto the second floor, ready to throw down face-to-face, and he saw the old nun stretched on the floor, unconscious. Soloman swung the rifle for acquisition and saw it all at once.

  Cain stood smoldering, ravaged beyond comprehension. It was incredible that, injured as he was, he could still be on his feet. Nothing, surely nothing could stand after this. But Soloman had also somehow sensed from the beginning that Cain would never be destroyed by force.

  Swaying, Cain smiled.

  Amy stood in front of him, Cain’s ravaged hand wrapped closely beneath her chin. He tightened his grip and she cried out, struggling.

  “Enough!” Cain gasped. “Enough games, Soloman. I will take the child now. Or I will kill her now. It’s your decision.”

  Soloman advanced into the room, patiently lifting a hand. “There’s no way out of here, Cain. We’ve got two gunships in the air that will liquefy you if you step outside.” Soloman went into a bluff. “It doesn’t matter if you have Amy with you or not. This is a matter of national security. They’ll open fire on acquisition.”

  A laugh.

  “I doubt that, Soloman.” Cain was amused. “Yes, I doubt that very much because your love makes you weak. And you don’t have the strength to do the hard thing. Now, lay down your weapon.”

  Soloman s face twisted. His eyes met Amy’s.

  A cry erupted from Amy as Cain lifted her from the floor.

&nbs
p; “All right!” Soloman screamed, instantly laying the rifle on a table. “All right! The gun is down! It’s down so just let her go, Cain! Let her go! Don’t hurt her!”

  Shuffling, Cain laughed as he lowered her and stepped horrifically closer, moving Amy before him. He lifted her chin, and Soloman was staggered by emotion as he saw the vivid fear, the pleading and the horror in her eyes. He stifled a moan, half-reaching out. Then Cain was backing down the stairs, turning the child as a living barrier to send Maggie and Marcelle before him.

  In seconds they were in the basilica, and Soloman was only two steps behind the giant. He contemplated a desperate lunge, an attempt to take Cain into a throw-down before the giant could snap Amy’s neck, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Even wounded, Cain was ten times faster and a hundred times stronger than he was.

  Thunderous rotors of gunships roared over them, and Soloman knew the cannons were centered. Just as he knew that they would never open fire as long as Cain held Amy as a shield.

  Soloman shouted, “Cain! Listen to me! You can’t win this! Just let me take you in and we’ll put you in quarantine! But we won’t kill you! You have my word! Just let her go!”

  “Order one of the gunships to land.” Cain smiled with joyous cruelty. “Do it now.”

  Soloman knew better than to debate. Amy already stood on the narrowest line between life and death. He raised both arms in a signal of surrender and motioned for a gunship to settle in the courtyard. He repeated the gesture twice, clear anger revealed in his expression. And in a moment one of the massive Apaches came in low to land in a maddening haze of gray wind.

  “Tell them to exit the craft,” Cain mumbled, blinking slowly. He seemed to be suffering a gathering pain unrelated to his injuries. “Tell them . . . to hurry!”

  Both pilots exited at Soloman’s command, standing away from the tandem cockpit. And then Cain walked forward, holding Amy tight in his arms. He carried her like a breastplate. “Now,” he breathed, “tell the other ship to set down in the swamp. Tell the pilots to remain in the craft.”