Necroscope V: Deadspawn n-5

by Brian Lumley

  From his cross, through billowing smoke (though the flames had not yet reached him), Harry had seen it all. ‘No!’ he cried out loud. And in his mind cried out again: No … no… no!!! And something of his agony, not merely of the flesh but of the soul, went out through the disintegrating Möbius door, which on the instant imploded into the Gate. Then -

  — A single, brilliant, prolonged flash of lightning illuminating the peaks, followed by a long, low, ominous drum roll of thunder, and finally a silence broken only by the crackle of the bonfire and the sputtering of fresh raindrops striking the flames.

  Until, for the third time, Shaitan came forward.

  ‘You cannot feel it, can you?’ He stood over his descendant, glared at him a while, then lifted his head to sniff like some great hound. ‘The Necroscope has released something into the air, and into his secret places. But you feel only your own lust. You’ve neither thought nor vision for the future, only for what you can take today. And so I warn you one last time: beware, son of my sons, lest you lose us a world!’

  Shaithis’s face was twisted in its madness; he was first and foremost Wamphyri, and now allowed his vampire full sway. A beast, his hands were transformed into talons. Blood slopped from his great jaws where his teeth elongated into fangs and tore the flesh of his mouth. With Karen’s once crowning, now lustreless hair bunched in his fist, he looked up at Shaitan and beyond him to the man on the cross. And his eyes blazed scarlet as he answered: ‘I should feel something? Some weird, mystical thing? All I desire to feel is the Necroscope’s agony, and the flight of his and his vampire’s spirit as he dies. But if I can hurt him a little more before he dies, so be it!’

  ‘Fool!’ And a heavy, grey-mottled appendage of Shaitan’s — a thing half-hand, half-claw — fell on Shaithis’s shoulder. He shrugged it off and came easily to his feet.

  And: ‘Ancestor mine.’ He ground the words out. ‘You have pushed me too far. And I sense that I shall never be free of your interference in my affairs. We’ll talk more about that — shortly. But until then…’ With a mind-call, he brought forward his warrior out of the shadows, placing the creature between himself and Shaitan the Fallen.

  Shaitan backed off and gloomed on the warrior — which, in the Icelands, had been Shaithis’s most recent construct prior to their departure — and inquired of his descendant, ‘Are you threatening my life?’

  Shaithis knew that sunup was nigh and time of the essence; he had none of the latter to waste right now; he would confront his ancestor later, possibly after the fortress beyond the Gate had been taken. And so: ‘Threatening your life?’ he answered. ‘Of course not. We are allies, the last of the Wamphyri! But we are also individuals, with our individual needs.’

  For which reason Shaitan in his turn let Shaithis live. For the moment.

  And as the fire smoked and blazed up brighter, despite a renewed downpour, and as Harry Keogh felt the first breath of heat where flames closed in towards his lower limbs, Shaithis again turned his attentions to the Lady Karen.

  While in another world…

  … It was midnight in the Urals. Deep under the Perchorsk ravine, in the confines of his small room, Viktor Luchov snatched himself awake from a monstrous nightmare. Panting and trembling, still only half-awake, he stood up on jelly legs and gazed all about at the grey metal walls, and leaned on one for its support. His dream had been so real — it had impressed him so badly — that his first thought had been to press his alarm button and call out to the men he kept stationed in the corridor outside. Even now he would do so, except (and as he’d learned only too well the last time), such an action could well be fraught with a terror of its own. Especially in the claustrophobic, nerve-racking confines of the Perchorsk Projekt. He had no desire to have anyone come bursting in here with the smoking, red-glowing muzzle of a flamethrower at the ready.

  As his heartbeat slowed a little and while he fumblingly dressed, he examined his nightmare: a strange, even ominous thing. In it, he had heard an awful, tortured cry go out from the Gate at Perchorsk’s core, and he’d known its author: Harry Keogh! The Necroscope had cried out his telepathic anguish to any and all who could hear him, but mainly to the teeming dead in their myriad resting places across the world. And in their turn they had answered him as best they could — with a massed moaning and groaning, even with their soft and crumbling movements — from the airless environs of their innumerable graves. For the dead knew how they had misjudged the Necroscope, how they’d denied and finally forsaken him, and it was as if they were grief-stricken and preparing for a new Golgotha.

  And the departed spirit of Paul Savinkov — a man who had worked for KGB Major Chingiz Khuv right here at Perchorsk, worked and died here, horribly — had materialized and spoken to the Projekt Direktor in his dream, telling him about the warning which Harry Keogh’s son had sent out through the Gate. For in life Savinkov had been a telepath, and his talent had stayed with him, continuing into the afterlife.

  And seeing in Luchov’s mind the nuclear solution to the threat from beyond the Gate, Savinkov had told him: Then you know what to do, Viktor.

  ‘Do?’

  Yes, for They are coming, through the Gate, and you know how to stop them!

  ‘Coming? Who is coming?’

  You know who.

  Luchov had understood, and answered: ‘But those weapons may not be used until we are sure. Then, when we can see the threat — ‘

  — It will be too late! Savinkov cried. If not for us, too late for Harry Keogh. We’ve all wronged him and now must make amends, for he suffers needless agonies. Wake up, Viktor. It’s in your hands now.

  ‘My God!’ Luchov had tossed and turned, but Savinkov had seen that he wouldn’t wake. Not yet. But… there were others sleeping here who would. And then, when Luchov heard the telepath talking again — to whom, and what he asked, begged them to do! — that was when he’d started awake.

  Now he was dressed and almost in control of himself, but still breathless, still alert and listening, tuned in to the Projekt’s heartbeat. The dull throb of an engine somewhere, reverberating softly through the floor; the clang of a hatch, echoing distantly; the hum and rattle of the ventilation system. In the old days the Direktor had been accommodated on an upper level, much closer to the exit shaft. Up there, it had seemed quieter, less oppressive. But down here, with the magmass caverns and the core almost directly underfoot, it could be that he felt the entire mountain weighing on his shoulders.

  Still listening intently, Luchov’s breathing and heartbeat gradually slowed as it became apparent that all was in order and it really had been a dream. Only a terrible dream. Or had it?

  That sudden clatter of running footsteps, coming closer in the corridor outside. And voices shouting hoarse warnings! Now what in the world…?

  He went to open the door to the corridor, and heard in the back of his mind, like an echo from his dream: But Viktor, you already know ‘what in the world’! Paul Savinkov’s telepathic voice, and clear as a bell. Except this time it was no dream!

  A hammering at his door, which Luchov opened with hands which were trembling again. He saw his guards, astonishment written in their drawn, tired faces, and a pair of gaunt technicians just this moment arrived here from the core. ‘Comrade Direktor!’ one of the latter gasped, clawing at his arm. ‘Direktor Luchov! I… I would have telephoned, but the lines are under repair.’

  Luchov could see that the technician was stalling; the man was terrified to report what must be reported, because he knew it was unbelievable. And now for the first time there sounded the sharp crack! crack! crack! of distant gunshots. At that, galvanized, Luchov found strength to croak, ‘It’s not… something from the Gate?’

  ‘No, no! But there are… things!’

  Luchov’s flesh crawled. ‘Things?’

  ‘From under the Gate! From the abandoned magmass regions. And oh God, they are dead things, Comrade Direktor!’

  Dead things. The sort of things Harry Keogh would underst
and, and which understood him only too well. And according to the warnings of a dead man, the worst of it still to come. But hadn’t Luchov tried to warn Byzarnov what could happen? And hadn’t he advised him to press that damned button right there and then? Of course he had, even knowing at the time that the Major didn’t fully understand, and that in any case circumstances didn’t warrant it. Also, Byzarnov was a military man and had his orders. Well, circumstances had changed; maybe now he would put his orders aside and take matters into his own hands.

  Luchov had experienced and lived through similar disasters before. Now he felt torn two ways: should he make his escape to the upper levels and abandon the Projekt entirely, or should he see what could be done down below? His conscience won. There were men down there after all — just following bloody orders! He headed for the core.

  As he ran along the angled, split-level steel ramp through the upper magmass cavern to the steep stairwell leading down to the Gate, the Projekt Direktor heard the first shouts, screams, and more gunshots from the core. The technicians were right behind him; his own men, too, armed with SMGs and a flamethrower. But as he approached the actual shaft where it spilled light from the Gate up into the cavern, so Major Alexei Byzarnov’s voice echoed from behind, calling for him to wait. In a moment the Major had caught up.

  ‘I was alerted,’ he gasped. The messenger was incoherent. A gibbering idiot! Can you tell me what’s going on, Viktor?’

  Though Luchov hadn’t seen it yet — not with his own eyes — still he had a fair idea what was ‘going on’; but there was no way he could explain it to Byzarnov. Far better to let him see it for himself. So that when he answered, ‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ his simple lie was in fact a half-truth.

  In any case, there was no time for further conversation. For as a renewed burst of screams and gunshots rang out, so the Major grasped Luchov’s arm and shouted, ‘Then we’d damn well better find out!’

  A box of plastic eye-shields lay at the head of the ramp just inside the shaft. Byzarnov, Luchov, and his guards, each man paused to snatch up a pair of tinted lenses before continuing down to the core. There they emerged in a group, spreading out onto a railed platform high in the inward-curving wall. From that vantage point, looking down on the glaring Gate with its reflective perimeter of steel plates, they could take in the entire, unbelievable tableau in all its horror.

  Dead men — once-men who had become hideous magmass composites, whose stench was overpowering even up here — were active in the core, coming up through hatches in the fish-scale plates, invading the safety perimeter and the rubber-floored area of the missile-launcher. There were nine of them all told, six of whom had already emerged and moved clear of the currently inactive electrical and acid spray hazard area. But such was their nature that Byzarnov could scarcely take in what he was seeing. Again clutching Luchov’s arm, he reeled like a drunkard at the rail of the platform. ‘For Christ’s sake… what?’ he mouthed, his eyes bugging as they swept over the madness down below.

  Luchov knew he need not say anything. The Major could see for himself what these things were. Indeed he had seen several of them before, down there in the magmass, when they had been part of the magmass! Some were rotting; others were mummified; none was composed of flesh alone. They were part stone, rubber, metal, plastic, even paper. Some were inverted, with material folded-in which had tried to become homogeneous with them. They were magmass, neither pure nor simple but highly complex: magmass at its nightmarish worst.

  One of them, guarding the perimeter walkway, had an open book for a hand. He had been reading a repair manual when the original Perchorsk Incident happened, and the book had become a permanent part of him. Now… his left forearm mutated into a stiff paper spine at the wrist, with pages fluttering and detaching themselves as he moved. This wasn’t the worst of it: the lower half of his trunk had been reversed, so that his feet pointed backwards. Even the plastic frames of his spectacles had warped into his face and bubbled up in crusts of brittle blisters there, while their lenses lay upon his cheeks where first they’d melted, then solidified into tears of optical glass.

  And yet he had been one of the… luckier ones? Shut in by magmass, crushed in the grip of convulsive forces and confined away from the air, he had died instantly and his fleshy parts had later undergone a process of mummification. But when the Perchorsk Incident was over and space-time righted itself, others had been left dead and twisted and isolated out in the open, and their condition had been such that ordinary men just could not bring themselves to tend to them. Fully or partly exposed — occasionally joined to the greater magmass whole or partly encysted within it — they had simply been left to… degrade, in areas of the Projekt which were then sealed and abandoned. Eventually their human parts had rotted down to deformed skeletons, for even bone had been subject to change, in those awful moments when matter had devolved to its inchoate origins.

  Byzarnov saw men who were part machine. He saw a creature with a face composed of a welding torch jutting from a crumpled oxygen cylinder skull. Another was skeletal from the waist down but encysted around the chest and head in glassy stone, like a figure in a half-spacesuit. Spiky magmass crystals were growing out of the fused bone of his legs, and behind the glass of his ‘viewplate’, his unaltered face was still trapped in an endless scream. Another was legless, a half-man which the magmass warp had equipped at the hips with the wheels of a porter’s trolley. He propelled himself with arms which were black where scorched flesh had shrivelled into the bone. The trolley’s long wooden handles projected upwards from his shoulders like weird antennae framing his head.

  The twisted, mummied hybrids were bad enough; the semimechs were worse; but worst of all were those who were partly liquescent, who but for their magmass parts must simply collapse into stinking ruin.

  Byzarnov had almost stopped breathing; he started again with a gasp, said, ‘But… how? And what are they doing?’ He turned to one of his terrified technicians. ‘Why haven’t we fried them, or melted them with acid?’

  The first one up made it to the defence mechanism,’ the man told him. ‘He ripped out the wiring. No one lifted a hand to stop him, not then. No one believed…’

  Byzarnov could understand that. ‘But what do they want?’

  ‘Are you blind?’ Luchov started down the steps. ‘Can’t you see for yourself?’

  And indeed Byzarnov could see for himself. The nine once-men had isolated the exorcet module; they were closing in on it, invading it. Three of the Major’s technicians, together with a handful of Perchorsk’s soldiers, were trying to hold them off. An impossible task. Dead men don’t feel pain. Shoot at these magmass monsters all they would, the launcher’s defenders couldn’t kill them a second time.

  ‘But… why?’ Byzarnov came stumbling down the steps after Luchov. Behind them on the platform, the other technicians and Luchov’s guards were reluctant to follow. ‘What’s their intention?’

  To press the bloody button!’ Luchov barked. They may be dead, warped, weird, but they’re not stupid. We’re the stupid ones.’

  At the foot of the steps, the Major caught up and grasped Luchov’s shoulder. Tress the button? Fire the missiles? But they mustn’t!’

  Luchov turned on him. ‘But they must! Don’t you see? Whatever brought them up knew more than we do. The dead don’t walk for just anyone or anything. No, they need a damn good reason to put themselves to torture such as this!’

  ‘Madman!’ Byzarnov hissed. He was close to breaking. ‘Oh, quite obviously this is some long-term, alien effect of this totally unnatural place, but these reanimated — things — can’t have any real purpose. They’re blind, insensate, dead!’

  They want to launch those missiles,’ Luchov shouted in the other’s face, over the clamour of discharged weapons, ‘and we have to help them!’

  At which the Major knew that the Projekt Direktor really was mad. ‘Help them?’ He drew his pistol and pointed it at Luchov’s chest. ‘You poor, crazy ba
stard! Get the hell back away from there!’

  Luchov turned from him, hurried along the rubber-floored safety perimeter towards the creature with the page-shedding manual for a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he was gasping. ‘Let me pass. I’ll do it for you.’ And to Byzarnov’s amazement, the thing shuffled aside for him.

  ‘Like hell you will!’ the Major shouted, and squeezed the trigger of his automatic. The bullet hit Luchov in the right shoulder and passed right through, punching out in a scarlet spray from a hole in his chest. He was thrown forward, face-down on the walkway, where he lay still for a moment. And Byzarnov came on, aiming at him a second time.

  But the magmass things knew an ally when they saw one. The thing with the book hand got in Byzarnov’s way, blocking his aim, while another whose limbs were cased in stony magmass welded to a trunk which was a jumble of fused bone, rubber and glass, came lurching to the Direktor’s assistance. The Major fired at this one point-blank, time and again, to no avail. But as the thing loomed in front of him, finally a shot cracked the magmass casing of its left arm. The brittle sheath fragmented at once, and a black, vile soup — a decomposed mush of flesh — began leaking from inside.

  Almost overwhelmed by the stench, the Major fell against the curving wall. Still the rotting hybrid came on. Byzarnov lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger, and the firing mechanism made a click! He had a spare magazine in his pocket. He reached for it…

  … And the magmass thing closed a bony hand on his windpipe. Byzarnov choked. He could see Luchov getting to his feet, staggering, moving towards the launching module, where most of the defenders had either fainted or stampeded in terror. Only one technician and one soldier remained there now: their weapons were empty and they danced, gibbered and clung together like children as decomposing nightmares closed in on them.

  But Luchov: two of the magmass composites were helping him, supporting him where he lurched towards the firing console!

  The Major made a final effort, drew the spare magazine from his pocket and tried to fit it into the housing in the pistol grip of his weapon. As he did so, the magmass sheath fell away completely from his assailant’s left arm. Byzarnov opened his mouth to yell or throw up… and the anomalous thing stuffed its skeletal arm and envelope of jellied, rotting flesh right down his throat!