by Jack Conner
Gunfire cracked outside. He rushed to a window. Soldiers fired into the air, laughing, some even embracing. The archeologists, diggers, whatever they were, smiled and joined in the celebration. Lynch heard laughter and shouts of joy coming from inside as well.
“The Prince!” someone called. “He’s awake!” “It’s wonderful!” “Someone get the Queen!” “It will be joyous!” “The new world can begin!”
Lynch dropped into a chair, crushed out his cigarette.
“Shit.”
He helped himself to another glass.
Eliza did not return. He paced up and down, restless, worried. If she had been caught and killed, he would find a way to burn this whole goddamned place down, see if he didn’t. Nazi scum! God, but he hated them!
Still Eliza didn’t return. The sounds of celebration continued.
Lynch made use of the time. He’d wiped off the make-up, replaced his eye patch, and taken off his left glove to attract the attention of the Prince’s guards. Now he took off his patch, reapplied the make-up, and put the dirt-stiffed glove back on over his hook. He examined himself in Eliza’s small hand-mirror -- made of silver, something her buzzard of a husband had bought her, no doubt; the thought made Lynch grind his teeth -- satisfied himself that he looked like a normal trooper if one didn’t look too closely, and left Eliza’s suite.
He marched down the hall, poking his head through canvas door after canvas door. “What in hell are you looking for, soldier?” demanded one half-dressed archeologist, his great white hairy belly sticking out.
“Excuse me, sir, I have a message for Herr Gunnerson.”
The man snorted. “That one. He’s at the end of the hall. Learn to knock! We may not have doors, but we have walls, you know.”
“Yes yes, very sorry sir, thank you.”
Bowing apologetically, Lynch ducked out and sidled down the hall, keeping his footsteps light. Sounds of laughter, tinkling glass and gay conversation drifted from the Throne Room. Sounds like they’re throwing a party, and I’m not invited.
He stopped before the canvas that spanned the doorway of the last suite in the hall, then quickly slipped through and into Lars Gunnerson’s suite of rooms, which he found dark and murky. All the windows had been broken centuries ago, of course, and while Eliza had kept her windows open for sunlight Lars had tacked tarps over his. The thin corpse-light this admitted revealed a spartan lack of furniture or accessories. Lynch knew the members of the Society had not been allowed to bring much with them from Brookshire, but it seemed as if Gunnerson had brought nothing. Unless it had been in the laboratory tent Lynch had discovered. Perhaps the only things he had brought with him were scientific.
Lynch located the main room, and the cot that Lars Gunnerson used for a bed. At its base, dirty towels and a thin sheet snarled across the floor. Lynch snorted. Fieglund slept at his master’s feet, on the floor, like a dog. Lynch spared a moment to contemplate their perverted, twisted relationship and tasted something bitter in the back of his mouth.
Get to it, he told himself.
He rifled through the few things Gunnerson had brought with him. He was looking for the so-called prototype but, as he suspected, he found nothing. Lars would carry it on him. Lynch didn’t know what it was for, but Gunnerson hadn’t made it just to tuck it away. Still, Lynch had had to try. Now he’d have to wait for Gunnerson --
Lynch smelled gas.
Shit.
Faintness already stealing over him, he jerked his head up to see green-yellow vapor pour from an opening in the wall toward the ceiling, what might have once been a vent of some sort. The gas spread over him.
His eyes burned. His tongue swelled. Gagging, he stumbled away. Staggered toward the exit.
Fieglund blocked the way.
Ghoulish and horrid, the man’s pasty skin glistened in the vague light. He grinned, showing his hideous rat-teeth, and ran his tongue over his lips, leaving viscous smears.
Lynch yanked off his left glove, revealing his hook. Dirt caked it. He stumbled toward Fieglund, his head full of clouds. The world tilted around him.
“Knew ye’d come here,” Fieglund said. As he spoke, green-yellow vapor puffed from his nostrils and mouth. “The troops’re searchin’ outside in the city, but I figured you’d come back here. Lookin’ to finish things, are ye? Well, then, pray finish.” He laughed as Lynch tottered against a wall and put his hand over his nose and mouth. “Like my little vapor, eh? I was hidin’ in the next room and thought I’d surprise ya with it. Won’t kill ya, don’t worry. I want to make that nice and long. Siegel would want that. Plus, the boss’ll want his cut.”
Lynch reeled forward. Fieglund blurred before him.
The monster chuckled. “Glad to see ya’ve still got some sport in ya. Wouldn’t want it otherwise.”
Lynch took another step, wavered.
“I’m amazed ya made it this long,” Fieglund said. He yanked out a knife from inside of his jacket, thick and sharp. Almost instinctively, Lynch realized something.
“You,” he wheezed. “It was you killed Franklin. For his . . . juices . . .”
Fieglund frowned thoughtfully, then brightened. “You must mean one of those. One of the cows. There were a bunch, and I don’t remember your Franklin. Master needs the fluids to live, so he does, but that won’t last forever. Soon Queenie will make him a god, and me too, see if she don’t. But as for your Franklin, I just slit the throats. Usually they were still twitchin’ when the master stuck his needle-jack into their spines and began the harvest.”
Lynch lunged. Fieglund danced back, laughing. He sliced at Lynch’s shoulder, and Lynch felt a searing pain. Lynch rushed forward, grabbed Fieglund about the middle and bore him to the ground. Fieglund’s laugh turned nervous. He jabbed at Lynch again, but Lynch clumsily blocked the blow with his hook. He balled a fist and smashed it across Fieglund’s face. The blow landed weakly. Fieglund howled and bucked him off. Lynch slipped to the ground.
Fieglund brought his knife around. Stabbed at Lynch’s face. Lynch threw himself backward. The knife hit the floor. The rebound threw Fieglund’s arm up.
They were both sideways on the floor, facing each other. Lynch’s right arm was pinned to the floor. He kicked Fieglund in the crotch once, then again. Slashed his hook at the ghoul’s throat. Fieglund writhed away, tried to stand. Lynch rolled forward, knocked his legs out from under him. Fieglund crashed on top of him.
Lynch wrestled him onto his back, shoved his right forearm into Fieglund’s throat, raised his left arm back to give it some momentum, then slashed it sharply down and up. He buried it in Fieglund’s belly. Fieglund arched his back and started to scream.
Lynch thrust his forearm into Fieglund’s mouth. Fieglund bit down, but Lynch was protected by shirt, jacket, and the fogs of gas still swirling in his mind. The pressure of Fieglund’s jaws slackened after a moment, and strength deserted him.
Lynch twisted the hook. Fieglund screamed into his arm.
“Don’t scream,” Lynch said. “Don’t move. Answer my questions and I’ll send you to your brother quickly.”
Fieglund nodded, his yellow eyes wide.
Lynch removed his forearm from Fieglund’s mouth, grabbed Fieglund’s greasy hair and pinned his head to the floor. He could actually feel the heat of Feiglund’s body leaving through the wound. It warmed Lynch’ middle, but not pleasantly. Beads of sweat popped out on Fieglund’s pasty face.
“Just what are you, anyway?” Lynch asked.
“How -- how -- ?”
Lynch shook his head. “You shouldn’t use a narcotic to put a narcotic junkie to sleep, you idiot. Now answer the question. Here.” He withdrew the hook, just a bit, easing the pressure. Fieglund shivered. “Now tell me what you are.”
Fieglund’s words came out in a jumbled, pain-filled rush. “Master -- h-he put extra stomachs in me and m’brother, each filled with a different gas. Have to be pumped full after every use -- a side project of m’ master. Was gonna have us go into bomb shelt
ers and poison everyone while they hid from bombs, but ‘e never got around to it.”
“Where’s the prototype?”
Fieglund refused to answer.
“What is it?” He jerked the hook, and Fieglund’s resolve collapsed.
“Dulls Queenie’s powers . . . in the area . . . around it. Not very strong.”
“What’d your master make it for?”
“In case Q-Queenie went mad -- sort of a she-bat, y’know. Could blow at any moment. So h-he . . . he made . . .” He stopped, trembling all over, as if in the grip of fever. “It r-renders the wearer immune from h-her . . . her tech-technology.”
“So if she tries to incinerate you . . .”
Fieglund nodded. “P-please . . . j-just end it.”
Lynch withdrew his hook -- gas spurted out -- turned Fieglund sideways, away from him, and slit his throat. Nauseous -- from the effects of the gas, he told himself -- he mounted to his feet. The world still spun around him, but it was slowing.
Gas swirled at his ankles. Holding his breath, he found his glove and staggered away.
***
As if a veil lifted before him, his head began to clear as he passed down the hall. Blinking and shaking from the effects of the gas, he fitted his glove back over his hook and considered his options. He needed to find Gunnerson, steal the prototype. It could prove of great help in assassinating the Queen and her spawn. Unfortunately, Fieglund’s body emitted such a stink that it would surely be found in short order, and that would reveal that Lynch was still on the premises, a discovery that would in turn ignite a room-to-room search. And there was no way to hide a body like Fieglund’s or even tolerate its presence long enough to move.
If Lynch was smart, he would vacate the palace immediately, before the body was found. As soon as a passer-by sniffed Fieglund’s stench, the jig would be up.
But . . . if Lynch left now, before killing the Queen and her son . . .
Sounds drew him. Laughter, clinking plates. The smells of food. Coming upon the Throne Room, he saw that a lavish feast had been laid out. The long table (surely a collection of smaller ones) was covered by beautiful scarlet tablecloths and mounted by ornate candle holders. The candles burned within what looked like flutes of stained glass, making the flutes glow like exotic and fantastic flowers. Silverware glittered by the strange light, and all the Society members in their finest attire gripped knives and forks to attack the succulent meal prepared for them. Lynch, who had only found a few odds and ends to munch on throughout the morning, including some cheese and crackers in Eliza’s suite, felt a rumbling in his belly. It smelled divine. What was it, roast beef? Yes, roast beef indeed. And they were under siege!
The Queen and the Prince shared one end of the table, and they sat very close together, their arms casually rubbing each other, their legs the same. The meal before them was elaborate, the dishes and cutlery doubtlessly provided by the Society. Lynch didn’t even know if the ancient Atlantans had eaten beef, roast or otherwise, or if they had used chop-sticks or bare hands or had slaves feed them mouth-to-mouth -- he wouldn’t have put it past them -- but the royal pair made a go of the silverware, and they looked experienced with the utensils. The knife flashed skillfully in the Queen’s hands.
It was Lynch’s first good look at either of them. The catacombs had been dark and filled with vapor. Both mother and son were ridiculously beautiful, he saw, and somehow . . . vivid. Larger than life. They shone. Dazzled. It wasn’t just the golden armbands or diamonds in their hair -- hell, they were basically naked -- but they stood out amongst the gathering like . . . well, like gods.
The Queen’s gaze turned in Lynch’s direction. He ducked back behind the doorway.
Surely she didn’t see me. His heart beat fast.
He waited a few minutes before peeking out again. Something the Prince had said distracted the Queen, and they talked animatedly, their foreheads pressing against each other. The others at the table looked on in discomfort. Among them Lynch saw Eliza. Relief swept him. He had been afraid she had been caught trying to kill the Prince, but no, she sat at the table with the other Society muckety-mucks, drinking and feasting, celebrating the awakening of the man who would help end the world -- at least, the world as they knew it. Lynch supposed they looked at it as a new beginning.
Eliza laughed and smiled along with the rest of them, but Lynch sensed a strain behind that smile, a tension. She gripped her wine-glass too tightly, smiled a little too rigidly.
They must have recruited her to help organize the feast, which is why she hadn’t returned to her suite; she’d been scrounging for plates and laying out the table, doubtlessly all while brooding on how to murder those she sat the table for.
Opposite the Queen and Prince, at the far end of the table, sat Lord Wilhelm. He rose suddenly, raised his wine glass, and the table fell silent.
“I just wanted to say a few words in honor of Their Majesties . . . ” he began, what sounded like it was going to be a good, long, ass-licking toast.
Lynch tuned it out. He need only wait for his quarry to leave. Lars Gunnerson, sitting near Iasolla, took small, measured sips of his wine and ate with quiet, methodical rhythm. Lynch wondered if he would ask the royal pair to sit down for him to paint their portrait. Did he still find time to paint amidst the bustle of world-dominating? Lynch wondered if all his artwork had burned in the destruction of his house. Hopefully.
Somewhere on him would be the prototype. The Queen-bane. As soon as he returned to his room, Lynch would ambush him.
***
Eliza tried not to roll her eyes as Lord Wilhelm delivered his speech. She stabbed her food in irritation.
A smile on his face, Wilhelm glorified the Queen and her son, thanked them for helping Germany achieve its grand ends. Queen and Prince would be rewarded well and in full, he vowed, and they would be the Fuhrer’s partners in building a new world. They would be teachers, guides, mascots. I doubt Iasolla intends on being anyone’s mascot, Eliza thought. She pictured the Queen strangling Hitler after one such request, and she smiled.
When Wilhelm finished at last, Iasolla nodded her appreciation, and she and Jeselri whispered something to each other that entertained them both, but already they seemed to have forgotten Wilhelm.
Table talk resumed. Eliza wished the damned thing would just end already, but she played her part, trying to ignore the guests of honor when she could.
Iasolla and Jeselri openly kissed at the table. They caressed each other, fed each other, stared into each other’s eyes. Constantly they whispered to each other, and when they looked back at the table-guests amusement danced on their faces, as if they knew something the Society did not. Through it all, they groped and caressed.
An archeologist sitting next to Eliza must have seen her expression. “Don’t judge them,” he said. “They come from a different time, a different place. The Romans too often engaged in incest.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t make incestuous Romans the poster boys of Germany, either,” Eliza said.
Lord Wilhelm laughed. Speaking quietly -- Iasolla and Jeselri sat far away, and over the noise of the luncheon they surely couldn’t have heard him if he shouted, and that’s if they had not been absorbed in each other -- he said, “They will aid us in our project, that is all that matters. Or rather they will allow us to subvert their project for our own ends.”
“Will they?”
“You doubt them?”
The archeologist, a stocky man with a walrus mustache, said, “They have given no indication of duplicity. Indeed, they have only agreed that the world should be brought to heel, that new masters can make it a paradise.”
“They may mean themselves.”
Lord Wilhelm sipped his wine, nonchalant. “They are only two, my dear. Even if they produced offspring they could not form a governmental entity large enough to rule the world. No. They need us -- more than we need them. After tomorrow, once the Project is finished, if they give us any trouble . . . well, I ha
ve been familiarizing myself with their weaponry. Over the last few days, I have grown very familiar with it, as I’ve had to repel the Casveighans. Fear not. The royal pair will not be an obstacle.”
“By our side or trod beneath our boot heel, then?”
“That is the way to victory.”
“Indeed,” said the archeologist. “Seig Heil!”
Lord Wilhelm repeated it, as did others nearby. Eliza mumbled beneath her breath and took a large sip of wine.
“Enjoying things, my dear?” Wilhelm asked her some time later. He was chewing on green beans and looking most pleased with himself.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Very much.”
His gray eyes glittered. “Then will you not join me for a private toast later? I have some things I’d like to . . . discuss with you.”
Play nice, she cautioned herself. “I actually meant to confer with some of the diggers. There might be an interesting site in the northwest quadrant . . .”
“Trust me, whatever your discussion with them, it shall not be nearly so illuminating as your time with me.”
“I will think it over.”
Troopers stood around the edges of the room. One approached Lars and whispered in his ear, and immediately Gunnerson’s face grew grim, but he did not stop chewing. He swallowed, said something to the trooper, who said something back.
At last Lars stood and clinked his glass with his fork. The table quieted. “My manservant Fieglund has just been killed. The murderer Lynchmort James is still on the palace grounds.”
Something fluttered in Eliza’s belly.
“Mein Gott!” thundered Lord Wilhelm. “Will he not leave us alone?” To the trooper, he said, “Lock down the palace! No one gets in or out. We will institute a room-to-room search at once.”
Chapter 24
Lynch stiffened when he heard Lars’s announcement. Fieglund’s corpse had been discovered sooner than he’d expected. Damned stinky thing. Now ambushing Gunnerson was impossible. Soldiers surrounded him.