by Jack Conner
He had spiraled, lower and lower. Unwilling to let her go, he sought her in opium dreams. In his dreams they lived out the romance that should have been theirs. The years had blurred away, and only the occasional brush with the underworld had kept his skills sharp and bloodlust pricked. Even so, he had slipped further and further into his dreams, hoping one day Eliza would take him away completely.
And now here she was.
A member of the Society. An ally of Lars Gunnerson -- the very person who had killed untold people, mutilated their bodies, and tried to kill Lynch as well.
He had to find out how she was involved, and why, and save her from it if he could, whether she wanted it or not. His heart ached to think of her taken and corrupted by the Society, whoever they were. He clenched his fist at the thought.
He took the right-hand passage, following Gunnerson into the Society’s lair.
Chapter 7
Sounds up ahead. Lights flashed on earthen walls.
Lynch drew closer, sidling along the edges, holding his breath as he went, afraid any sound might give him away, even over the tumult. Voices shouted, metal clanked, and somewhere people screamed in agony. Hell would sound more peaceful, he thought. He passed several side-tunnels, and noise issued from all sides. Soon it was impossible to discern Gunnerson’s footsteps over the crash and thump of activity. Once a squad of black-uniformed troops filed past and Lynch was forced to retreat into the shadows of a side-hall. There were many of these, and most were dark. It was as though the lit, busy areas of the Society’s lair were superimposed over a larger, long-neglected network of tunnels, as if the people here were simply taking over and inhabiting an older system.
He passed a stairwell, eyeing the next level down with amazement. How deep did this place go? When another squad of troopers neared him, he was obliged to descend the stairs and sidle along a new set of halls. It didn’t matter. For all he knew Gunnerson had gone down this way.
Soon he came to the edge of a great room. Bulbs overhead pulsed with light, then faded, then pulsed again, indicating the generators that powered them were overtaxed. They dangled from a lofty ceiling, and as they ebbed shadows swelled throughout the room, devouring it, then retreated, beaten back by the dying generator, but for how long? Great cages occupied the room, long rows of encrusted, iron-black bars, one cage stacked atop another, but very neatly, as were the rows themselves. A man in a doctor’s jacket, with four troopers trailing behind him, stalked along the catwalk on the second level, peering into the cages and making notes. The man was tall and gray-haired, but something was subtly wrong about him.
Lynch could not immediately tell what dwelt in the cages, but he could see, as the light brightened, ragged human-shaped shadows amid heaps of hay and refuse. When the light retreated, their eyes shone in the darkness like those of feral cats. He remembered the poor bastards that Lars Gunnerson had imprisoned in his laboratory, the same ones Lynch’s own impetuous actions had doomed, for better or worse. Something similar, surely related, must be going on here.
Other troopers and medical types moved throughout the room, strapping ragged figures down to surgical beds, or shoving food through slots, or tending various machines, or hosing off the things in the cells as if they were animals, or writing down notes on clipboards.
Lynch retreated down the way he had come, found a side-tunnel, waited for a squad of troops to file past -- how many of them were there? -- then started down it. His mind churned. Before he had wondered if the troopers came like ants from the earth and now he realized that indeed there was a sort of hive down here, but it was unlike anything he had expected.
He made his way through the Society’s lair, saw hallways, offices, chambers that looked like dungeon cells, and many tunnels. Work stations were set up in the big chambers, and Lynch saw men at desks writing notes or dictating to secretaries, as if this were some run-of-the-mill office building in Gaston.
As he crouched next to the entrance to a large chamber, Lynch noticed that two guards stood to either side of the entrance just a few feet away. One smoked a German cigarette and stared at the activity of the room while the other glared into the shadows of the hall Lynch hid in, as if he’d heard a noise. Lynch had traveled down one of the dark, unused hallways to minimize his chances of running into a patrol, but the trooper muttered something to his comrade – German, it sounded like -- and stepped into the tunnel.
One moment Lynch was crouching, heart racing, and the next a German-speaking man in uniform was about to step into him. Lynch recoiled. The movement and the noise alerted the trooper, and his hand flew to the gun in its holster.
Lynch was already moving, rising, his hook drawing back, then coming across in a vicious swing at the trooper’s throat. Blood sprayed the walls, and the trooper stumbled back, horrid gargling noises issuing from him. Lynch avoided the pumping blood.
The second trooper, hearing the noise, leapt into the tunnel and collided with the stumbling body of his comrade. His gun was already in hand, but as the body struck him he spun around, and Lynch swung his hook, batting the gun away. The collision with the second trooper toppled the dying man before he could enter into the lights of the main room, and he twitched and spasmed in the dirt, his lifeforce spewing out in hot torrents.
The second trooper swung a fist into Lynch’s face. Lynch reeked back. The trooper flew at him, fists flying. Lynch was amazed by the man’s strength and speed, and he remembered thinking something similar about the man who’d tackled him in the hotel above.
The trooper beat at Lynch savagely, driving him back. He knocked Lynch to the ground and wrapped his hands around Lynch’s throat.
Lynch tried to impale his eye with his hook. One of the man’s hands shot up and grabbed his hook-wrist, stilling the arm. His other refused to let go of Lynch’s throat, and Lynch sacrificed a bit of lucidity to jab the man in the eye with his thumb. He dug his thumbnail under the side of the man’s eye and flipped it out, as though shooting marbles.
The man screamed and flew back, his eye half out of its socket. Lynch’s hook snared his shirt front, reeled him back in. He swung him bodily against the wall, striking his head hard against a new-cut beam of wood -- then again. Lynch heard the loud impacts, like a melon hitting pavement, and smiled grimly as the man crumpled to the floor.
Lynch stripped him and donned his uniform, even taking the man’s hat and using his black gloves to hide his hook. A close look at his left “hand” would reveal him for the imposter he was, as the glove merely flapped and jiggled over the hook, but it would fool a casual observer. Lynch debated with himself whether or not to slit the man’s throat while he was insensible, but in the end he simply used his old clothes to bind and gag the man, then dragged him and the dead man into a storage room in one of the lesser-used areas and locked them away.
Breathing heavily, heart pounding, Lynch lit one of his new German cigarettes, straightened his tunic, and marched out into the brightly-lit main chamber.
***
The bright lights pained him. He blinked. He felt many eyes on him but continued forward as though he was about important business. Desks surrounded him and cables from lamps and machines snaked across the floor. Men huddled over desks, and secretaries glanced up at him. He felt as if every eye stared straight at him.
In reality, of course, he was sure they went about their business without much thought to him. There were evidently many troopers, and they would be a separate class from the office workers. He listened closely to the workers, occasionally noting what he thought of as a German accent. Paranoid, he told himself. There were people of German descent or even immigrants from Germany scattered throughout the world. Why should a few German-speakers disturb him so? He could not imagine Eliza in league with Nazis, whatever else she might be capable of.
Of more concern to him than the office workers were the other troopers. They stood stationed at every major entrance to the room, and he had to wonder if they were here to guard the office workers --
or guard against them. Were the workers prisoners? In any case, the troopers would likely know each other. At least those of one squad would know the others of their own squad. Lynch had to hope they thought that he belonged to a different squad.
He carried three guns now -- two strapped to his ankles by socks, hidden under his pants, and one stuffed in his holster. He could start a war if he needed to.
He neared an entrance to a connecting tunnel and passed between two of the black-uniformed guards, those of the fist-and-sun crest. In the city the troopers had not worn hats or gloves, and their uniforms were somehow toned-down, without embroidery, so that they looked like members of a security service. Down here, they looked very much like soldiers. German soldiers.
Like SS, in fact.
The two guarding the entrance eyed him narrowly as he passed them, and suspicion radiated off them. He kept walking, not even looking at them, as if whatever business he was about was vital and he was not to be detained. They tensed but allowed him past.
The short hall connected to another large room, this one even more filled with lights and activity than the other. Two more troopers guarded this entrance, but their focus was inward, not outward, and he did not pause to gauge their reaction.
Several rows of cages lined one wall of this new chamber, but the cages were only a part of the activity in the room. This was clearly a sort of laboratory, and there were rows of tables laden with scientific paraphernalia, tubes and beakers, shakers, autoclaves, and more. He also saw several pieces of the strange technology he had observed in Lars Gunnerson’s lair: a green-glowing pedestal; an asymmetrical obelisk that emitted intermittent humming noises as people that seemed to be scientists or technicians bent over it; a vaguely pyramidal device, also green, that stood on one of its points and revolved slowly, then faster, than slower again. Scientists bent over microscopes and stored cultures in large refrigerators.
Lynch made his way through the room, past the cages. As he did, he looked inside one and had to wrench his eye away to prevent showing a reaction. Within the cage he had seen a ragged human figure, huddled on a bed of hay. The man’s flesh, cadaverous and gray like that of a corpse, suppurated and peeled off his limbs in long strips, blood issuing from the peels in long rivulets that dripped off his elbows and tangled in his sparse chest hair, or coursed from his chin and legs. He looked like the victim of some terrible plague, something that destroyed flesh and inflicted unending misery on its bearers. But there was more. The man was not proportioned as he should be. One arm was very long, the bones exceedingly thick, while the other was normal. The same with his lower extremities, one leg (on the opposite side to the enlarged arm) seeming to belong to a man of a different size than the one who owned it. The enlarged bones were knotty, covered in bulges. He was clearly in agony, and he trembled, arms wrapped about himself, moist eyes staring into Lynch’s as if beseeching him to intervene even if it meant ending his misery in the most direct way possible.
Lynch’s fingers inched toward his pistol. He held himself back. Shaking, he walked on.
Ahead, two troopers unlocked a cage for one of the scientists, who seemed to be a leader of sorts, and he spoke imperiously and brusquely to the troopers. He was medium-sized but thick of body and meaty of limb. A thin brown mustache perched above thick lips, and intense green eyes, somewhat pug-like, stared out of a fleshy but not unhandsome face. He directed the troopers as they collected the figure inside the cage and dragged it out into the light. The man was taller, straighter and more regularly proportioned than the one Lynch had seen in the other cage, but he walked bowed and broken between the troopers, and his skin, though clearer and healthier, still showed signs of the wasting disease or condition. And he seemed large, almost gigantic, his bones thick, his limbs long. His skull had also undergone changes, and it was elongated and seemed very thick, almost predatory. His wet, reddened eyes evinced nothing but agony.
The troopers half-carried him, brute though he was, to a lab table, where two others assisted them in strapping him down. The man struggled, cursing them weakly. A junior scientist prepared an injection and filled the victim’s veins with some fluid that calmed him.
“As you see, my dear, we are making much progress,” said the thick-bodied scientist, turning to his side.
To Lynch’s horror, from around what seemed to be a packing crate, stepped Eliza de Courtney, her supple form now draped by a doctor’s white coat. Her pale face lit by the naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, it looked tense and wan. Horned-rimmed glasses, glaring in the light, concealed her eyes. Her lips were very red.
Lynch’s heart twisted as she gazed down at the figure on the slab, and he could not read her expression.
“Yes,” she said. “But not enough, Commander.”
The Commander grunted, amused. He reached to the side, lifted a scalpel from a nearby table. “Wait until you see the reduced rate of vascular degeneration.” He stepped toward the figure on the slab, who despite the sedative mewled in terror and writhed against the restraints, his heavy jaws snapping loudly.
Lynch removed his pistol and stepped forward. “Why don’t we test the rate of your own degeneration? Quite impressive, I’m sure.”
Eliza flinched, taking a step back and blinking her eyes behind her glasses. The thick-bodied man -- the Commander -- turned around, scalpel poised. His hairy eyebrows rose, and his mustache twitched. “Well, look who it is! Our very own crusader -- yes, I can tell by your eye patch. I had been told we’d be seeing you today. I see my Eliza was not wrong.”
Eliza looked at Lynch, her face hard. “This is not how I expected to bring him to you, Commander.”
The Commander shrugged. “I will take what I can get, my dear. I still consider it a success.”
Lynch aimed at the Commander’s face. The Commander did not flinch.
Nearby troopers rushed forward, but the scientists who had been close to Eliza and the Commander -- and who had drawn back at Lynch’s arrival -- waved them away, hissing at them not to endanger the equipment.
“Just what the hell are you doing here?” Lynch demanded. He should not have so impulsively revealed himself, he knew. Yet he could not have watched Eliza carve into the wretch on the slab.
He gestured to the room at large, seeing more of it now, as his adrenaline-fueled gaze took in every detail. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling, blazing bulbs strung between them, wires snaking down the cavern walls. This was part of an old cave. One entrance showed a short hallway connecting with another room full of cages. The other, nearer entrance was barred by a black iron grill and a cluster of soldiers grouped before its thick gate as if to guard against something on the other side. All Lynch could see beyond it was darkness.
His gaze returned to the man on the slab. “What are you doing to him?”
Eliza visibly mustered herself. “I will tell you. If you lower your weapon.”
“Then you’ll tell a corpse.”
She shook her head sadly. “You really should not have come here.”
“Now that he has, however,” said a new voice, “maybe he can prove useful.”
Lynch felt something pressed into the back of his skull and heard a distinct metallic click.
“If you shoot me, my finger will twitch and your Commander’s brains wind up all over your lab specimen there.”
Lars Gunnerson laughed -- for that is who had pressed his gun to Lynch’s skull; Lynch recognized his voice. “A pretty situation! Still, I am sure our illustrious Commander would die for the Cause.”
The Commander nodded placidly. “I would at that.” He frowned, his eyes going over Lynch’s shoulder. “Did you have any success?”
Gunnerson shook something, perhaps his briefcase. “I have it with me. In fact, I was wondering on the way here if you had a fresh specimen to try it out on.” With another laugh he added, “I see that you do.”
“I will help,” said Eliza.
“Why, thank you.”
She tapped her chin. “
In fact, I think Doctor Jung would like to be involved in this. You know he’s been trying more than anyone.”
“True. And with more reason.”
Lynch ground his teeth. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your leader! Give me some answers or -- ”
“Oh, we’ve heard your threat,” Eliza said. She gave a curt nod to Gunnerson, and Lynch felt the pressure of the pistol remove itself from his head.
Just as he was about to turn to see what was going on behind him, he felt something brush his shoulder and half-turned to see the pale, sickly face of Fieglund, stringy yellow hair radiating from the sides of his otherwise bald, scabrous head. Yellow eyes twinkled above a long, curved nose, and the thin, cracked lips opened.
Gas poured out, directly into Lynch’s face.
Instantly weakness came over him. Dizzy, he shoved the wretched Fieglund away and stumbled forward, shaking his head. Eliza, the Commander, Lars Gunnerson and the others blurred around him.
“You didn’t -- ?” he heard the Commander say.
“No,” Gunnerson replied. “Fieglund knows better.”
“Twas a sleeper,” slurred Fieglund, “not a killer.”
Gunnerson laughed. “One’s as good as the other.”
Lynch stumbled toward Eliza. Grasping for something to keep him from falling -- his legs were weak -- he wrapped his hook arm around her middle and threw his good arm over her right shoulder. She squealed and tried to shrug him off, but his hook arm tightened around her middle, pressing her to him. Panting, he gazed over her shoulder and realized the others were staring at him.
He grunted, stumbling backward, taking Eliza with him. He pointed his gun at the blurring lot of them, heard a table shuffle behind him, then the clink of glass. “Watch it, you oaf!” Eliza said. “You’ll break something valuable.”
He continued lurching backward, using her as a shield. Troopers half-circled him, guns pointed.