The ghast that landed on me has found just enough of my hair to grab hold of, slamming my head down and reigniting the fire behind my forehead. I watch it lean down, jaws parting. There are particles of dirt wedged between its teeth, sickeningly warm air thick with decay seeping from its lungs. Its mouth opens inhumanly wide, coming in as if for a kiss. A kiss that would consume the lower half of my face. I buck, heave, strain, but it’s too strong for me to move. With a snarl, the ghast strikes.
I never see the sneakered foot that slams into its head, interrupting its attack, but somehow Claire has maneuvered her struggle close to mine and has landed a stiff kick to the thing’s head. It isn’t enough to do any real damage, but its leverage is broken and I’m finally able to heave it off my body.
As I roll to my feet Claire manages to shove hers away. It rebounds off a monument, flying through the air as if it has come off a trampoline. It has barely touched the earth between us before I jack my elbow squarely into its jaw, sending it reeling. As it does it lashes out with claw like fingers and grabs Claire by the tail of her shirt, pulling her along with it. I catch her wrists and pull, a brief but violent tug of war between the living and the dead. In the end it isn’t the strength of either combatant that decides the winner, it’s the strength of her shirt. It tears with a sharp, wet sound as the material gives way in a straight line up the back. She desperately twists her body, allowing half of the ruined cloth to slide free of her arms. Suddenly unbalanced, the ghast tumbles out of sight, its ragged trophy still in its grip. It pops back up a second later. My first round catches it in the shoulder, the impact jarring it, but my next catches it in the temple. It drops like a stringless puppet.
Unexpectedly free from the thing’s resistance, Claire falls forward in a clumsy arc. I leap in close and catch her before she hits the ground, but as she falls her right ankle gets wedged against the base of the monument and she makes a guttural cry of pain. I gently set her on the ground and she reaches down to cradle her ankle. When our skin is touching her cries are pained sobs. When I let go of her arm the pained sound causes the grass around us to utterly dry out, in an instant becoming sere and brown as if there had been no rain for months. Interesting. I kneel down next to her, my head pivoting rapidly as I try to look everywhere at once.
There’s a moment of awkwardness as I run my free hand down her bare shin, even though I’m only checking the extent of her injury. I’m suddenly very aware that she’s almost half naked, the tautness of her sports bra her only clothing from the waist up, and a precious second wasted as her eyes found mine.
I can’t help it. I’m distracted. A beautiful, shirtless woman literally falls into my arms. Wordlessly, she holds my gaze for the briefest of moments.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Maybe a sprain,” she groans. “I’ll live, but I can’t keep up with you.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I insist.
“Just find me a place to hide. You need to get to Bruce before they do.”
I know she’s right, though my mind and soul rebels at the thought of leaving an injured woman behind. I pull her back to her feet as gently as I can and pull her left arm over my shoulders. I half-carry her up a short flight of marble steps and in between two sets of columns, coming to rest against the solid door of an old marble mausoleum. The marble is old, pitted and weather worn, but it’ll serve to keep anything from her back.
I set her on the steps, put my shoulder against the door and heave. It scrapes along its hinges but moves easily enough. I carry her in and sit her on a cement sarcophagus, dust and grave mold choking us. The thin bar of moonlight that lay on the floor grows smaller and smaller, then the door closes and we’re plunged into darkness.
“You’ll be safe here,” I whisper.
“How’s your arm,” she whispers back, her breath hot against my neck.
I still have half of her shirt in my hand from the tug-of-war. I snap it out flat and wrap it around my forearm, stifling the blood flow. “I’ll live.”
I slide the magazine out of the Springfield, muffling the small sounds with my palm. I run my index finger down the magazine, identifying by touch how many bullets are left in it. Not nearly enough for my liking. I reach into my holster, identify the spare mag with the silver rounds (carefully avoiding the red magazine, since things aren’t that bad yet) and replace the partially spent magazine with it. In this case, a bullet is a bullet. A full mag is better than half, and I can always replace the silver.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” I promise.
“I’ll be waiting,” she says. I reach for the door and she snags my hand in hers.
“Be careful, Ian,” she says quickly, as though she has to say the words quickly or not at all.
“I will,” I say. Then I take a solid grip on the Springfield, stand up and edge back to the door of the mausoleum. I pause, listening for footsteps, skin brushing stone, anything, but I can only hear the soft twistings of the night. I wedge the door wide enough to slip out, expecting to feel a rush of dead flesh and teeth but only getting the cool caress of wet night air.
I run lightly in the general direction we’d been going, looking for signs of Bruce. About fifty feet down the path I find the remains of another ghast. Its head is laying three feet to the left of its body, though since I’m sure the former priest had been unarmed I have to wonder exactly what he’d used to decapitate the thing. Guess I was right in my assessment of how Linear trains its employees. Afraid of what would happen if I stop I keep running, leaving a trail of bloody droplets along the way.
Two hundred feet further and I realize that I might never find them in this maze of the dead. The ghasts are as silent as the occupants of the graves all around me, and if Bruce is still alive he’s keeping silent. I come to a stop, resting against a large marble obelisk and trying to gather my thoughts.
I’d spent some little time in this cemetery before. That was what, a year ago? A year and a half? Doesn’t matter. I’d come here to help reunite a pair of husband and wife ghosts after he’d been accidentally summoned by a group of college kids conducting a séance nearby. I remember some of the graveyard’s layout, enough at least to remember that there’s no real shelter to be found without backtracking. We’re roughly in the middle of the graveyard, so the houses we’d just fled are too far to reach safely with a pack of ravenous zombies after us. The only other option is to run off into the thin woods to the northwest.
Oh. Duh. Thinking of the woods reminds me that there is in fact some measure of shelter here. Near the fence by the trees there’s an abandoned caretaker’s shed, the place the college kids had used for their séance. It isn’t officially used anymore since the town built a new, modern garage facility nearer to the roadway. If he could reach it, the shed might just give Bruce the cover he needs. I turn northwest and set out at a run.
It’s five minutes before I come to a stop at the outer perimeter of the marked graves. I’m drenched in sweat, and I can only blame the stifling Louisiana humidity for part of it. I’m pushing hard, harder than my body is ready for. I’m still not recovered fully from the beating Azrael gave me, and with the sudden fight with the ghasts and now the blood loss I’m losing steam fast. Leaning against a mausoleum wall I slow my breathing, feeling my pulse throb in my face while I look over the building a short distance away.
The shed is just like I remember. It’s about the size of a roomy two-car garage, built out of old weathered red bricks with a pointed roof sheathed with red ceramic tiles and a thick weatherproofed door. It’s a utilitarian, unstylish block made with absolutely no thought for charm, built up against the remotest fence in the cemetery. Regardless, it’s the only game in town when it comes to a solid structure. I survey the area until I’m satisfied that I’m not being watched, then I creep up to the building and kneel with my back to the door so I could keep watch on the area.
“Bruce,” I whisper, looking out over the tombs. “It’s Ian DeLong. Don’t be afraid.” Af
ter a long moment, long enough to make me wonder if I’d made the wrong decision in coming here, the door flies open. I jump inside and shut it behind me.
The room is as empty as I’d expected except for layers of spider webs, some of distressingly large sizes. Bruce is next to one of the small porthole windows, staring out at the cemetery grounds.
“Did they follow you?”
“I didn’t see any,” I say, “and if they were here we’d know about it. They’re not made for subtlety.”
He nods, never taking his eyes away from the glass. “Are you going to shoot me now?” he asks absently, as if we’re discussing a lunch order.
“It’s crossed my mind,” I say. He looks at me, surprised. “Not really,” I admit.
“I don’t think I’d blame you if you did,” he says. “I haven’t been what you’d call helpful.”
“I think I could use stronger language than that, but I understand. You’re trying to help protect people. I can relate to that.”
“Yes, I guess you can at that.” He places a hand over his pocket in a protective motion. “You meant what you said, didn’t you?”
“Which part?”
“You’re working for Madeline?”
“Gotta tell you, Bruce, I’m kind of wishing I’d never met the woman. But yes, I swear that I’m working for her on this.”
“And you won’t let Remy Danaher use the Cleave?”
“No way,” I promise.
For the first time he seems to believe me, and he visibly relaxes. “Thanks,” he says. “If you must know, I…”
The door I’d just come through explodes outwards, punctured and hauled in one monstrously fast action. Sheer reflex, holdovers from my time in service, makes me fling myself away from it, landing roughly on the dry wooden floor. Bruce is not so graceful, tripping backwards over his own heels, scrambling away from the shattered entrance. Before I even know it’s there Azrael crashes into the building.
Sixteen
Each step the creature takes threatens to rattle the heavy tiles right off the roof. I hadn’t gotten any kind of a good look at it in the shadows outside my house, but here in front of me it’s gargantuan. It’s standing close to ten feet tall and as broad as a bank vault, thick and heavy and impossibly muscular. A thick pelt of dark fur covers its head and shoulders like a mantle, running down the top of its arms and ending just short of enormous paws that could palm a hubcap. Where the fur leaves off its skin looks like thick, ridged alligator hide. Orange eyes burn underneath its shaggy brow, and in the slashes of moonlight I can see a flat, apelike nose and a mouth that seems to take up a third of the face. Two dripping fangs rise unevenly from the lower jaw, and in the tight, breezeless room I’m almost overwhelmed by the raw, unnatural stink of the thing.
Bruce’s scream is so shrill as to be almost nonexistent. He tries to back away, trips over his own heels and falls hard on his ass. Squealing, he crab-walks on his hands until he slams his back hard on the far wall, then he tries to push himself through the timber and out the other side.
I roll to my feet and put myself in between Bruce and Azrael, keeping my gun pointed at the floor between my feet. The last thing I want is to antagonize this thing, especially having felt firsthand what kind of strength it has. But neither can I just let it take the Cleave, mainly because I’m pretty sure it would kill me with it first. Forget its magical properties, the blade is still sharp and solid enough to do the job, even without being wielded by a monster like this.
“Hold it, Azrael, this man is under the protection of the Aegis,” I lie with false bravado.
It stares hard at me. I have no way to be sure it knows what the Aegis was, but I’m desperate enough to try almost anything. A look of deliberation makes the eyes waver, though. Evidently the name isn’t lost on it. The eyes regard me with new interest. They are full and liquid, as wild and savage as anything that ever existed in nature, the eyes of something that would crack your bones for the flavor of the marrow. Or for the pleasure of simply hearing your bones crack.
“You,” it heaves. “I told you to stay out of this.”
“Sorry,” I answer, setting my jaw to stop the quivering. God, it’s so big. “You knew from the start that I couldn’t do that.”
“I care nothing about you. I alone am the master of the Cleave. Go now. Leave me the Cleave. And this man.”
“What for? I have what you want, not him.”
“He has held the Cleave, sullied it with his skin. I must punish him for his transgressions.”
“Wait a minute,” I say frantically. “He’s like you. He used to serve the same God as you did. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
It shifts its stare from me to him.
“I serve no God,” it growls, and raises an endless, shaggy arm for Bruce.
This whole evening has been an exercise in dwindling options. Now I’m literally in a corner, and I can think of only one way out.
“If I give you the Cleave, what will you do? Will you leave this town?”
“Once I have my Sword back, I will once again be able to resume my work. Immediately.” It takes an immense step that carries it halfway through the room. Under its foot the floor cracks audibly.
Shit. My options have dwindled rapidly, and now I can do nothing else but pray that the only trick I have left to pull will be enough. I drop back next to Bruce, dart my hand into his pocket and snatch out the Cleave. I hold it aloft and the monster freezes, unable to tear its gaze from the razor. A mammoth, sickle-clawed paw reaches for it but stops when Azrael sees me put the barrel of my gun against the blade.
“Stop,” I command, and in all honesty I’m shocked when it obeys. I’m not sure if the gun could actually damage the blade, but apparently the monster isn’t either. I hadn’t even been sure if an item with the possible holy origins of the Cleave would be affected by my touch the same way normal magical items are, but apparently it is. Or maybe this thing’s just afraid I’ll scratch the finish.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “You give me your word that you will harm no one within the borders of this town and I’ll give you back your Sword.”
“What are you doing?” Bruce whispers, horrified.
“Running out of options. If you know any other way to save our skin, I’ll be glad to hear it.”
The silence behind me makes me believe that Bruce is as bereft of ideas as I am. I hate making this deal, but I can see no other option. I have no illusions that I can do anything to even slow Azrael down, let alone kill it. It seems inevitable that it will come away with the Cleave. The best I can do now is to try to make sure that the people who live in this town were safe, ourselves included. I’ll apologize to Madeline afterwards.
It still hasn’t taken its eyes off the razor, but it has made no overt move in our direction in what feels like an eternity. Finally, it nods its great, ape-like head in agreement.
With a guarded breath of relief I move slowly towards the center of the cabin, never taking my eyes off the beast, taking care to keep myself between Azrael and Bruce. My insides are clenching with each small step forward. There’s not enough space in here to keep anything even close to a safe distance, but going closer to Azrael is feeling dangerously close to suicide. I keep the razor pressed firmly against the muzzle of my gun, just to keep its attention, and kneel to set the razor down. I place the razor down on the cracked floor.
The moment I release my hold on it the monster reaches out over my head with both paws, snatches Bruce and hauls him back through the air as if he was a pencil. Before the man can even scream Azrael lifts him to its cavernous mouth, opens wide and bites down with the savagery of a rabid bear, taking Bruce’s head clean off and leaving a gaping hole that extends right down into his collarbone. Blood fountains, drenching the monster, the walls, floors, ceiling, and me. I turn away, instinctively covering up with my arms as I’m soaked with the thick, hot fluid.
“Dammit, why’d you do that?” I scream. “We made a deal!”
> “I don’t deal with mortals,” it rumbles. “I only care about my Sword. That is my only cause.”
Son of a bitch. I aim at the blade on floor, finger already squeezing the trigger, and see that I’m already too late. Azrael has the blade, pinioned neatly between two jagged claws. The blade changes in front of my eyes, shimmering and stretching until it fills that giant paw. Physically it’s the same folding razor, only now the handle is two feet long. With care that belies its size the monster unfolds the blade, two more feet of polished steel with an edge so sharp it almost hurt to look at. The fanged mouth tightens at the corners into a fiendish smile as the eyes find me again.
“Now…you,” it breathes, its unoccupied claw lashing out, but I have already guessed its intent and I’m already in motion. Staying here will accomplish nothing but my own death, and while I’ve known for a long time that my job is going to kill me one day I won’t throw my life away for no reason. I duck under the grasping talons and rush past the vast body, rushing for the jagged hole where the door had been.
And stopping dead.
Outside the door a throng of figures stands waiting, what looks like about thirty men in dark clothes. Ghasts. A lot of them, this time. They stand in a semicircle around the front of the cabin, an unmoving dam of faceless, shadowy bodies. As one they tilt their faces to the moonlight. The silvery glow catches and reflects in sixty vacant eyes, the hollow mockery of life perfectly imitating the emptiness of their souls. As I stare one comes forward, the moon catching its face as it draws close. It’s a man, tall, skin luminous under the moon. The skin of its jaw hangs in an empty flap, shards of bone glistening through the hole I’d blown in its cheek a short time ago.
“You,” it rasps when it sees me. “Ahhh.”
I look over my shoulder and see Azrael looming in the room behind me. When I look outside the semicircle of ghasts begins as one to tighten, closing in on me from the front and effectively blocking off any means of escape.
Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay Page 17