Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2)

by Stu Jones

“I have news of the station. I believe you’ll find it interesting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I discovered why they’ve been fortifying themselves. It appears they’ve become the focus of a large group of mutants.”

  Malak’s features darkened. “What do you mean?”

  “Somehow the people there have upset these creatures, and the monsters appear to be amassing along the ridge in some sort of battle formation.”

  “I thought they weren’t capable of such organization.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Malak crossed his arms across his chest and furrowed his brow. Raith’s news was unsettling. The possibility that they could start a massacre and rob him of his moment of greatness enraged Malak. He paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. Raith took a step back and prepared to flee if necessary.

  Again your human anger controls you. Your faithlessness is pathetic. It bleeds you of the control you could have. If only you would truly believe in the power of the darkness. Trust in me. Use this. Make it work for you. Command the power within you.

  Malak stopped pacing. “Don’t lecture me, Voice,” he snarled.

  Raith, now thoroughly confused, took a few more steps away toward the hallway. He had all but decided to leave when Malak looked at him.

  “We can use this to our advantage, spare our own numbers by letting the beasts wear them down.”

  Raith nodded his understanding. “My thoughts exactly.” He took a second to gather himself, flashing a yellowed smile.

  “But we hit them on multiple fronts. There must be layers to our attack. I’ve waited this long. I will not fail.”

  “If I may,” Raith said with a slight bow, “I think we should send the woman, Shana, back in. We could sabotage their operation from the inside.”

  Malak nodded. It wasn’t a bad idea, but he needed real diversion—something that would hit them where it hurt and weaken their ability to put up any resistance. As much as he hated to admit as much, at times like these, Malak missed Dagen. He had been an indispensable tactical advisor. It was too bad he had met his end at the hands of that miserable entourage.

  “We have to divide them,” Malak said, “draw them apart before we hit them. Kane Lorusso must pay. His whole world must die around him.”

  A throat cleared from the darkened hallway as a figure stepped forward into the room.

  “I couldn’t help overhear, and if I may be so bold, Lord Malak…” the figure stated. He stepped forward to reveal a painted face, covered with wild, blue Celtic patterns.

  “My name is Saxon, and I believe I have just the thing you’re looking for.”

  “They’re moving!” the guard at the gate called out. “I think they’re moving down the ridge!”

  “Hold your positions!” Kane yelled above the anxious murmurs of the group. “We’re well fortified and prepared to withstand the assault, but you have to hold your ground!”

  Few acknowledgments came from the group as they shifted nervously along the fence line. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, men and women alike. Some fumbled with their rifles or pikes, others wiped the cold sweat from their foreheads.

  “Remember to move with your line. The first line will take aim and fire on my command. If the Sicks get to the fence, the riflemen will fall back and the pikemen will take their place. Clear them away from the fence just as we practiced. Do not under any circumstances let them inside this fence. Your life and the life of the person next to you depends on it.”

  Kane glanced to his left and noticed Jenna approaching with a pike in her hands. She took up position in the second line back. He allowed his surprise to ebb, as Jenna met his gaze and gave a brief nod of assurance. In this moment, Kane knew that their differences ceased to exist as they stood together in defense of the group. He forced a smile and gave a nod of acknowledgment. Then, looking up, he surveyed the hillside once again.

  They were moving. Slow and methodical, they moved in step with the rhythm of their scraping down the hillside toward the station. The piercing shriek of the bone flute filled the air, stopping the creatures in their tracks about fifty yards from the fence. The mutants stood swaying, continuing their scraping in unison. Shick, shick, shick, shick. The people along the fence squirmed in anticipation.

  Kane turned to Courtland, who had returned from the station with his giant, black, scimitar-shaped blades. The jet-black blades glistened in the artificial light, indelible reminders of wild stories and forgotten foes.

  “What is going on already?”

  “I don’t know, Kane. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “The sooner we get into this fight, the sooner it’ll be over.”

  Courtland, sensing what was about to happen, began to bellow scripture at the top of his lungs. “Remember how the enemy has mocked you, Lord. Do not hand over the lives of your doves to wild beasts. Remember your covenant because haunts of violence fill the dark places of the land. Rise up, O God, and defend your cause!”

  “Riflemen, prepare your weapons!” Kane shouted. “Be mindful of your ammo, and only take shots that will cripple or kill.”

  Kane glanced at Courtland then back at the monsters that stood just fifty yards up the hillside. “Ready! Take aim! Two rounds. Fire!”

  The explosive concussion of more than forty rifles blazing in unison deafened the crowd. The landscape illuminated in a brief, brilliant flash of devastating power. The creatures shrieked, and some of them fell, clutching their wounds as the piercing wail of the flute was heard once again. They began moving down the hill, closing the fifty-yard gap that separated them from the fence.

  Kane screamed again. “Two rounds. Fire!”

  Again the rifles blazed, and the Sicks fell, tumbling toward the service road at the base of the hill. The others continued on, entranced, moving to the cadence of their scraping. Without regard for their welfare, the mutants walked directly into the gunfire. The riflemen, though effective, squirmed as they realized the shots were not stopping them. The mass of freaks continued to approach the gate, reaching thirty-five yards and closing fast. The flute sounded three sharp blasts as the mass of hundreds of creatures froze, the twisted and broken bodies of their brethren in piles at their feet.

  “What the hell now?” Kane managed, just as a horrific cry rose from the ranks of mutant freaks as they swung their clawed hands in the air and rushed the fence. For a moment Kane choked, his tongue caught in his throat like a foreign object.

  “Fi…” he coughed out, as the maddened creatures closed the gap with blistering speed. “Fire at will!”

  Sporadic gunfire lit the night sky, each flicker illuminating the teeth and claws as the creatures jumped for the fence.

  “Riflemen, fall back! Pikemen, advance!” Kane shouted above the uproar.

  The front line shifted back as the row of men and women holding spears advanced toward the barricade. Holding tight to her pike, Jenna trudged forward into the fray, her jaw set in fearful determination.

  “Holy God, stand with—” she managed, just as the howling line of freaks slammed against the fence and began to climb. Sounding a wild battle cry, she thrust her pike through the links and ran one of the maddened beasts straight through its heart. The creature shrieked and clawed at the fence as black blood sprayed across her face and hair.

  The creatures jumped against the fence, clambering upward, the pikemen thrusting their poles through the gaps. The bladed weapons punched holes in the mutants like hot knives through butter, their black innards spilling over the pikemen, who thrust their weapons, again and again.

  As some of the beasts approached the top of the fence, Kane stepped back and yelled above the screams.

  “Riflemen, direct your fire upward! Fire!”

  Kane raised his own rifle and took a deep breath. He squeezed his rifle’s trigger, sending a few well-placed shots into the heads of the maddened creatures. Their lifeless bodies tumbled over the fence and into the courtyard. It was happ
ening so fast. Two, three, five of them landed inside the courtyard, leaping at the defenders, red blood splashing against the dusty turf. Down the line, the fence wobbled and creaked under the weight of the monsters, the poles creaking and folding as portions of the fence collapsed in on itself.

  “Courtland!” Kane yelled, pointing, but he saw that the big man was already moving down the line, closing the distance between them and the breach, his bladed weapons gleaming like ebony fire under the glare of the halogen lights.

  Jenna was stabbing through the fence when the section to her left came down. She turned and saw the monsters coming through the gap, pouring in like sand through an hourglass. One dropped in behind her. She smelled the thing before she saw it, the rotting stench of death and decay heavy in her nostrils. She spun to the right and tripped over the man who had stood next to her just moments ago. His belly slashed open, his guts hanging there, exposed on the dark sand.

  She couldn’t stop the bladed talons of the Sick as they sliced deep across her collarbone, just missing her carotid artery. She crashed into the fence, her shirt blossoming red with blood. Jenna cried out in pain and clutched at her neck, slumping back in terror, bearing witness to the demonic menace that closed in upon her.

  She had done her best. She wasn’t a warrior, and there was no shame in what would come next. This was a cause she would gladly give her life for. She pinched her eyes tight and whispered words of faith as the monster approached.

  With a sound like wet wood pulling apart, the Sick cleaved in two, severed with one blow by Courtland’s massive blades. The giant rose and flung the creature’s remains into the air like a disfigured toy. Jenna gasped, her eyes taking in the onslaught.

  The station’s defenses were beginning to fragment as some fled and others cowered in fear. Two Sicks leaped over the fence and landed on the dirt in front of Kane, bearing their jagged teeth as they came for him. He raised his AR-15 and fired through the chest of one of them, dropping it to the ground, as the other closed the gap and swiped at him. The subhuman creature clawed a short gash in Kane’s arm as it knocked the assault rifle from his hands and sent him sprawling.

  Masses of creatures now scaled the fence as the terrified inhabitants fought desperately for their lives. Courtland turned, leaving Jenna against the fence as innumerable Sicks poured through the gaping hole beyond and converged on him, threatening to overpower the enormous man with their numbers.

  “Come on, you vile beasts,” the giant shouted, glowing with the power of battle. He held his blades high in front of him, as he faced the masses of deranged freaks. “Come and test yourselves against the power of the Lord!”

  The monsters screamed as they flooded toward him. He swung his blades through the crowd, the first swipe cleaving half a dozen Sicks in half, the back swipe splitting another eight. Spinning and dropping to one knee, he flung the blades together and eviscerated another fifteen. Swinging back and forth, up and back, Courtland tore them apart in a fury of righteous anger.

  Kane rolled across the dusty ground as the Sick pressed down on him.

  “Not this time!” he growled, as he hip-tossed the creature and rolled on top of it. It slashed its claws and snapped its teeth at him as he parried the creature’s swipes, countering with straight and hammer-fist blows to the gray flesh of its face. The monster screamed and thrashed as Kane’s rage grew to a storm.

  “You wanna eat me? Eat this!” Kane yelled, as he drew his Glock from its holster and crammed the barrel deep into the dazed Sick’s mouth. With a muffled pop, the monster’s skull came apart under the force of the blast as black blood splattered the dusty ground. In a flash Kane was on his feet, turning to acquire new targets, advancing into the madness. Nearby Jacob screamed as his M-16 blazed, sending mutants spinning to the ground.

  “Cover me!” the boy yelled, as he stripped an empty magazine and retrieved a fresh one from his pocket.

  Redirecting his fire, Kane moved toward Jacob and picked up the monsters that clambered over the fence in front of them, a wild snarl of violence plastered across his face.

  Further down the fence, the flow of mutants through the gate slowed, bottlenecked by Courtland’s bloody destruction. He swung the blades back and forth as the remaining Sicks dodged away, keeping their distance. One came too close, and as Courtland’s blade came crashing down, he sliced the disgusting creature in half. Three more appeared before Courtland in a rush as two clawed their way up his back. Another flew onto his arm as others charged him, their mouths foaming like overworked horses.

  Courtland swung down to the right and found that his timing was as true as the blade. He slashed through and through, from collarbone to hip, even as the Sicks continued to charge him. As Courtland fought, the two on his back sank their teeth and claws into the flesh of his upper back, causing him to roar and drop his weapons. He pulled one from his arm like a parasite as it thrashed in the grip of his massive hands. With one swift move, Courtland pulled the head from the creature’s body, tossing its parts to the side as he continued to duck and shrug the violent freaks off his back. He ducked, pulling two more screaming creatures to the ground, where he secured his grip on their throats, raised them high into the air, and slammed their skulls together like bursting grapes.

  Though Courtland’s efforts were valiant, the compound was falling. They were being overrun by the mutant horde. Kane knew they couldn’t hold out indefinitely, and sounding any call for retreat would be useless. The momentum of the conflict had shifted decidedly in favor of the attackers. But, just as hopelessness descended on the defenders, the Sicks froze as though hypnotized. With a sharp whine, the flute piped again, the sound drifting across the air in an eerie melody as the Sicks retreated en masse. They scurried back over the broken fence, their ragged, sinewy forms scattering up into the dark hills above the station.

  Kane completed a combat reload of his handgun, retrieved his rifle, and checked the wound on his arm. His hands and face dripped with black goo. The question took shape across his face before it hit his lips. “What?”

  Courtland shouted from across the courtyard. “They’re retreating!”

  A roar rose from the surviving defenders of the station as they lifted their weapons into the air and cheered in victory. In a matter of seconds, the hundreds of Sicks that were upon them were gone. All that remained was the desperate survivors of the station, the mournful cries of the wounded riding on the humid night wind.

  EIGHTEEN

  In the basement of the Reeds at Colonial Pointe, a mob of psychotic bandits cheered two of their own on as they fought each other to the death. Saxon’s six men were first put to the test, and now only two remained, the blood of the others splashed across the sticky basement floor.

  “Enough!” Malak growled. The room fell quiet. “You have both proven yourselves. Kneel before me, and submit yourselves to me.”

  The last two men were first pitted against the others—every man for himself. Then they’d been forced to fight Malak as a team, two against one. Malak told them that only one could be victorious, but in the end, he accepted both. Malak had almost killed them both, while their former leader, Saxon, nodded his painted blue face in approval.

  “Open your mouths and consume the flesh of darkness,” Malak intoned, as he sliced a gash in his arm. The blood sprayed into the mouths of both men as they waited, their tongues extended. As the men swallowed, the darkness clouded their spirits like ink dripping into a jar of water. They licked their lips and smiled as their eyes grew dark. Together they chanted, “We worship you, Lord Malak.”

  “Good,” said Malak, turning his attention to Saxon. “And what of their leader? Does he wish to partake as well?”

  “He does,” said Saxon, stepping forward and removing his shirt to reveal a muscular, scarred torso.

  “Very well, then. Prepare yourself for death.” Malak bared his teeth, the words like a snarl on his lips as he stepped forward, dwarfing the smaller man.

  Saxon shifted, and a fl
icker of fear crossed his face. He suppressed it, knowing it would, without question, get him killed. Malak balled his fists and squared himself off against the painted man. “What are you waiting for—or has your fear crippled you?”

  Saxon threw himself at the larger man with a scream, his knotted ponytail whipping behind him as his fist connected with Malak’s frame, the impact like punching a stone wall. Saxon cried out in pain just as Malak swung his arm in an arc, catching the painted man under the chin. Saxon flew backward. The men howled as his body slammed into the concrete floor and tumbled, the blood of other men sticking to his skin as he rolled back to his knees.

  “Is that it?” Malak mused.

  Saxon pulled himself up and charged again with a flurry of blows, punching Malak’s midsection, throwing an uppercut to the jaw that connected, and finishing with an attempted knee strike to Malak’s groin. Malak deflected this last attack and grabbed Saxon by the neck, hurling him into the low ceiling, the concrete surface cracking under the force. With a disinterested air, Malak dropped Saxon’s weakened body to the floor and turned.

  The crowd howled again. Everyone in the room knew that not a man on earth could defeat Malak in single combat. Those who tried were either murdered or hailed for their savagery in battle. The latter was the only means by which one could become a Coyote.

  “You have yet to impress me,” Malak spoke, towering over the smaller man, now on all fours, trying to catch his breath. “It’s time for you die.”

  Saxon searched the floor with his hands for something, anything that might give him an advantage. At last, he felt the hexagonal shape of a crowbar lying at the feet of one of the thugs. Grasping for it, Saxon rose with a furious scream. The movement caught Malak by surprise, allowing Saxon to slam the crowbar into his opponent’s ribs, the metal bar tearing a chunk of flesh from his side. Saxon swung back again, the blood blinding him as it ran into his eyes. He landed a lucky strike across the side of Malak’s neck, a blow that forced the big man to stagger backward.

  Saxon’s overconfidence became evident as he charged Malak, the crowbar held high. When Saxon reached him, he swung as Malak caught the weapon midair and closed his iron grip around it. In the blink of an eye, Malak grabbed Saxon by the throat and lifted him from the ground. As Malak began to squeeze, the painted man flailing and kicking Malak’s torso in what was sure to be his final moment. Then, without warning, Malak released him. Saxon fell to the floor, gasping and trying to drag himself away.