The Vagabond Codes

by J D Stone

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Ben led them out into a hallway. He stood there, stunned. The hallway was roughly forty-feet long, and it ended with doors at both sides, the closest ten feet away. The entire ceiling was strung and lit with hundreds of large red Christmas bulbs and bleached white animal skeletons. The walls were painted black, and a soft goo slicked the floor.

  It was clear of debris except for a couple of pallets leaned up against the wall, three empty five-gallon buckets, and an old industrial metal chair.

  He ran over to the doors closest to him and yanked at the door handles. Locked.

  I’m lost, Ben said to himself. Completely lost.

  His chest hurt, and his left wrist throbbed like crazy.

  Which way?

  He glanced at the kids out of the corner of his eye. They were both watching him intently. He scowled at them.

  But then the way was made known to him. In a sense.

  The door at the other end of the hallway burst open, and at least three spear-wielding Witchers poured out, stumbling over each other like mad bulls charging to impale him.

  Ben calmly raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Jammed.

  He threw his left hand up and smacked his helmet three times. Then he unclipped a smoke grenade — his last one — and threw it down the hallway like a four-seam fastball.

  Coughing fits erupted as the grenade exploded at the men’s feet.

  For good measure, Ben took out his pistol and fired three shots down the hallway to buy himself some seconds. A piercing howl answered.

  He ran back inside the room and stuck his head out the window. On the far side of the alley, another window was smashed open.

  The Stranger!

  Ben pumped his fist then rushed back to get the kids, who were crouched behind the pallets.

  “Okay, guys, I found a way out,” he said quickly as he waved them to move back into the room.

  They both shook their heads vehemently.

  “Are you kidding me?” he cried. “This is our way out! Watch.” He swept shattered glass to the side with his forearm and climbed through the window. Laying on his stomach, he turned around and extended his arms back inside the room. “See? It’s easy. C’mon!”

  He frantically motioned them to him, but they wouldn’t move.

  They’re too afraid to come back in here.

  Ben pulled his head out of the room and stood up in the alley. He looked up and around him.

  Suddenly a gunshot ricocheted right off his helmet. Without thinking, he held his pistol up and pulled the trigger. Muscle memory. A Witcher fell through an open window and joined his comrade on the ground.

  He touched the chink in his helmet. I’m going to get killed — in fact, I should be dead right now.

  His face flushed with anger at the kids. I can’t believe this is happening.

  And then it hit him.

  What do I owe these kids? And Fat Oswald. What do I owe him? Cameron is nice and safe hiding out in the bushes yet I’m going to die in this hole? For them?

  He knelt down and gazed through the window. The children still sat out in the hallway, looking at him with moist, blood-shot eyes. Looked through him.

  Ben scoffed in disgust, and then he left them to their fates.

  He scampered across the alleyway and eased himself through the window that the Stranger had smashed.

  As his boots touched the floor, an unforgettable feeling suddenly overwhelmed him.

  He felt like his soul had been torn open, and a great emptiness was flooding his innermost being; and his heart was gripped by an aching sorrow that would agonize him for all eternity if he left those kids behind.

  Life is precious. . . .

  Ben closed his eyes and let the guilt seize him and shake him to his core. He needed to feel it because he hated it, and he never wanted to feel it again.

  He opened his eyes.

  I’m going to save them, he told himself. I was meant to save them.

  Clenching his teeth, he grabbed the top of the window pane, clambered out into the alley, then stumbled over to the broken window and into the black.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Show Your Fires

  THE CHILDREN WERE still there. As he slipped through the window, Ben saw them recoil in anticipation of something wicked coming their way.

  He charged toward the hallway and burst through the doorway just as a Witcher was reaching for Sammy’s neck. Ben drove his shoulder into the goon, who crashed into the wood pallets.

  The impact caused Ben to lose his balance, and as he fell backward, he pulled out his pistol and put a bullet in the other Witcher.

  Like a felled tree, the armored brute toppled over and on top of him. Seriously? Ben groaned inside. He caught a whiff of the man and gagged.

  Straining every muscle, Ben rolled the Witcher off him and staggered to his feet. Then he grabbed Sammy’s and Claire Marie’s arms and dragged them back into their cell.

  “You kids are dumb, you know that?” he snapped as he ushered them to the window.

  Checking to make sure it was clear, he lifted Sammy with an “Out you go!” Next came Claire Marie.

  Ben covered his arms over their heads, and they ducked and stumbled to the other window, climbing in just as a line of gunfire peppered the ground.

  He stopped for a moment to unjam his rifle and reload his pistol, then he grabbed Sammy’s arm and motioned him down the hallway, followed by Claire Marie. He led them through several twists and turns, but in reality, he had no idea where he was going.

  With frustration comes carelessness. He rounded a corner too quickly and came upon three Witchers ten feet away, squabbling amongst themselves. Without pause, they raised their shotguns and let loose.

  Ben yanked the kids back as shards of cinderblocks exploded above their heads. Playing the odds, he took a right down a narrow, low-hanging passageway.

  The Witchers were closing in, and Ben could hear them popping new shells into their shotguns and shouting profanities that, thankfully, were muted by their thick masks.

  Rounding another corner, they stopped at a stack of rusted steel drums. He whirled around in a circle. That’s it. No windows. Dead end.

  Ben pulled the children down and motioned them to crouch behind two barrels.

  The footsteps stopped. Silent as a tomb.

  He wanted to call out for the Stranger, but he’d certainly give away his position.

  Keep cool, he told himself. He’ll come.

  Two minutes passed. Time was running out. The Stranger wasn’t coming, and he needed to make a move.

  They were pinned down — from a tactical standpoint, it was the worst possible situation for a soldier.

  Ben double-checked his ammunition: one magazine left in his rifle; one on his belt; two clips for his pistol.

  He began to dig around in his pack for more ammo, and clearing his throat, he called out: “Alpha, what’s your location? I’m in quicksand!”

  No answer.

  “Alpha, I repeat: what’s your location?”

  No answer.

  Nobody’s coming to help. It’s all on him.

  An explosion boomed in the distance, and the overhead fluorescent lights snapped off, flickered on, then buzzed off again.

  Ben was about to pull the night vision goggles out when the lights fizzled to life. At the bottom of his pack was Tomàs’s flash grenade.

  He then spotted a half-broken broom on the ground a foot away.

  He had an idea.

  Pulling the flash grenade out of his pack, Ben glanced over his shoulder and whispered, “Get ready, kids.”

  Standing up, he called out: “What’s that, Alpha? Come out now? Copy that, I’m coming out now. Cover me!”

  He stomped his feet twice then stuck the broom out into the hallway. A barrage of machine gun fire poured out, shredding the broom. He heard the click of an empty magazine.

  Bingo.

&nbs
p; Yanking the pin off, he hurled the grenade toward the Witchers.

  Kapow!

  The hallway lit up like a thousand Roman candles, and by the time the goons recovered their senses and reloaded, Ben had charged down the hallway and emptied his magazine into their chests.

  Then all was quiet except for a smattering of gunfire in the distance.

  The kids were behind him, wide-eyed and trembling at this good bad guy who was rescuing them.

  Ben read their faces, and he softened his features. He cocked his head at the hallway. “Let’s go, kids.”

  Except he didn’t know where to go. Once again.

  “What about that way?” he asked Sammy, pointing down a dimly lit hallway that ended with a staircase, hoping that the boy would know.

  The boy shook his head. But Ben felt a check in his gut.

  “Let’s see anyway.”

  They passed several rooms, already cleared out by one of the teams. Grotesque, armored bodies were everywhere. The lights fizzled out again, then flickered back on.

  As he approached the stairs, he noticed that a door under the stairwell was ajar. Creeping up, he stepped into a large cavernous room lined with tall aluminum shelves and stacked with cardboard boxes and pieces of equipment.

  He quickly scanned for an exit. None. He stepped back into the stairwell. But at that moment, in the deep darkness of the room, he heard a soft voice, lined with pain, cry out.

  “Benedict. Help.”

  His heart froze. He knew that voice.

  Ben moved through the aisles of metal shelves until he reached the last row, and there was Danna, hunched over a steel drum, her pistol in her left hand. On her right thigh, the fabric of her pants was soaked red.

  Please, no.

  He rushed over to her and propped her up with his arms.

  “Let me sit,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Ben helped her slide to the ground and rest against the steel drum. That’s when he saw Kaela laying on the floor two feet away — she wasn’t moving.

  “Ben,” Danna said, reaching up and grabbing his face. “You gotta help them.”

  “Help who, Danna?”

  She nodded behind her.

  He looked past the steel drums. The eyes of four or five children glimmered in the meager light.

  “You gotta get them outta here,” she said with a cough. “They’ve all been kidnapped too.”

  “I can’t leave you here,” he cried. “Can you walk?” He looked over her leg. He knew the answer.

  “Maybe you can come back and get me.”

  Suddenly the room began to shake violently. Several aisles over, a part of the ceiling fell through with a deafening crash, bringing with it a tumbling inferno. The thirsty fire immediately began to engulf the cardboard boxes stacked on the shelves.

  Ben frantically looked around him. A toddler tugged on his pants legs.

  “I’m hungry, papa,” the toddler pleaded. “I’m hungry.”

  “He ain’t your pa!” one of the older boys hissed. “Shut up!”

  The toddler began to wail.

  Ben’s chest tightened, and he glanced at Danna. Think, think. Look around you. Something to move her. I can pull her in a cardboard box. Dumb idea. I can tie her around my pack and drag her on one leg. Stupid. Wait. There — a dolly. A mover’s dolly. Yes!

  He pulled it out from a bottom shelf and yanked on it furiously to extend it. Laying it on its back, he pulled up the extendable handlebars until it clicked.

  Whoosh! Another piece of ceiling fell through ten feet away. The children shrieked.

  Danna was beginning to nod off.

  “No, Danna, c’mon,” Ben said, tapping her face gently. Drops of his sweat plopped on her cheek. “Stay with me.” He turned around. “Sammy, bring me that dolly.”

  “Y-yes, sir.” The boy pulled it next to Danna.

  “Okay, Danna, you need to help yourself up.”

  Danna, heavy-lidded and pale, nodded and grabbed the edge of the dolly.

  “Sammy, give me a hand. 1-2-3, up!” Ben positioned Danna as comfortably as he could, then spun around and grabbed the toddler and settled her onto the dolly. “Get to go for a ride, okay?”

  For a moment the toddler stopped crying, and a small smile cracked the corner of her mouth.

  Ben slapped his cheek; his mind was clouding up. He turned to the kids huddled in the corner. They recoiled in terror.

  “It’s okay, guys, I’m here to rescue — er, we’re here to rescue you,” he said, gesturing toward Danna. “Now you’re gonna follow me real close, okay?”

  He unslung the rifle from around his back and popped in the last magazine. “Sammy and Claire Marie, you’re gonna push Miss Danna, got it?”

  Both of them nodded gravely.

  “Kids, hold on to the dolly or Sammy’s shoulder, just like this.”

  The kids jumped to their feet and scrambled toward them. “Don’t leave us!” they cried as they huddled around Sammy.

  A burning beam fell through the ceiling and smote the shelf above their heads. The shelf tottered, then began to fall forward.

  “Go! Go!” Ben ran behind the kids and ushered them forward as the flaming shelf came crashing down. He shook his head and whistled. Stumbling ahead, he led them out into the hallway.

  It was filled with smoke. But he had no choice.

  Ben grabbed the dolly’s handlebar and began to run down the hallway, stopping every ten feet to implore the kids to hurry and to stay low. The children scrambled after him, some crying, others screaming.

  Then he came across a double door that hadn’t been cleared by the other teams. He paused for a moment, looked both ways, then stepped up and pushed it open.

  The room was pitch black, if not darker, as if light had ceased to shine in this desecrated corner of the world. Ben led the children through the doorway, but a great uneasiness fell upon him, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  He stopped and listened. Nothing. He took another step, but his blood suddenly ran cold and his muscles froze and he felt like he couldn’t move.

  He tried to talk, but nothing came out.

  This is an evil place.

  He jumped as a dozen hands fell upon him and wrapped around him. The children.

  “Please get us out of here,” one of the little boys pleaded. “Please get us out of here, please.”

  “Shh! I’m trying to! But you need to let go!”

  Sammy, who was holding the door open to get Danna through, let the door slip, and it clanged shut, and blackness swallowed them whole.

  Ben groaned. He reached into his pack and pulled out his night-vision goggles, fastened them around his helmet, and turned them on. He looked at the door; it was smooth sided. They were locked inside.

  He pulled out his tactical flashlight from his bag and clicked it on. “Come here, Sam,” he whispered, grabbing the boy’s arm.

  Ben clicked off the flashlight and shoved it in Sammy’s hands. The children cried out, but he resisted the urge to scold them. “Don’t move, Sam, and don’t let go of the dolly.”

  “Where are we?” Danna asked softly. “How come it’s so dark?”

  “Getting you outta here. Just try to stay awake.”

  Facing the darkness, the first thing he perceived were the bones. Countless bones, splintered and interwoven like carpet at a funeral home for the living dead. He looked up and saw dead animals hanging from the rafters, and —

  Bones crunched.

  Ben turned upon Sammy. “I said don’t move!” he hissed.

  Sammy’s face was white with terror. “B-But I didn’t move.”

  Ben slowly pivoted on his left foot and again faced the darkness.

  Standing in the middle of the abyss was a large, wicked shape of a man, its arms outstretched toward them.

  It wore a long, trailing black robe fastened together at the chest by a barbed wire brooch. On its head was a gray metal helmet with twisted spikes that curved upwards like a bull from hell. T
he helmet shielded its entire face except for two bulbous red eye caps that throbbed to the rhythm of its foul heart.

  On the other side of the door, Ben heard a thunderous crash. Amid the nauseating stench, smoke wafted into his nostrils.

  The wicked creature stood erect, silent, and watching. It appeared unarmed.

  “Aren’t you gonna say something?” Ben called out, the sound of which echoed deeply across the vast expanse and gave him the chills. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Witcher King.”

  Its voice was dry and scraping, like a twisted dagger being sharpened on the skull of the Red Dragon.

  Its hands clenched into fists then snapped opened, fingers outstretched toward Ben. “You have things that belong to Adramelech.”

  Ben had never heard of that name before, but his knees buckled at the sound of it. “They’re people, not things,” he replied forcefully. He’d mustered up his toughest voice, but to him it sounded like a whimper. “And they’re coming with me.”

  Without a word, the Witcher King reached behind its back and slowly pulled out of a scabbard a long, vile-looking sword. It was rusted yet razor-sharp; the entire blade was forged with inch-long, triangle-shaped daggers, serrated like a chainsaw.

  Holding the sword high above its twisted helm, the Witcher King advanced toward Ben.

  Ben calmly pulled out his handgun, positioned himself in the Isosceles shooting stance, and waited.

  Hearing the crunching and popping of bones as the Witcher King drew nearer, the children began to wail in the darkness.

  Danna shifted and said something, but Ben didn’t hear what it was.

  Twenty feet. Fifteen feet.

  Just a little bit closer, Ben muttered to himself.

  The Witcher King stopped and brought the sword to his side. Straightening up, he screamed: “And now, bloody star, show your fires! Let the Light see my black and deep desires!”

  As if conjured up by a spell, a burst of sickly orange light blasted from the Witcher King’s sword. The children screamed and recoiled in blind horror.

  Somehow Ben was thrown backward, and his gun inexplicably slipped from his fingers. A sickness washed over him, and he wanted to vomit.