Or been caught by something.
Suddenly, we were running towards the sound. It took us a couple minutes to work our way towards the City Hall garage, where a single rusted door allows entrance to the tunnels below, but it wasn’t hard to find—the dogs were still barking. Two uniformed officers blocked the doorway, though they were turned towards the door, rather than guarding it. A rookie mistake, and one they could have paid dearly for had someone deadlier than us come upon them. As it was, neither saw Bernie reach into his satchel to draw out a slender glass flask, or to watch as it sailed into the door.
It shattered. In an instant, both cops were down, and a strange liquid dribbled down the length of the steel door. Bernie took one cop by the shoulders and slid him out of the way, grunting. “One of Betty’s concoctions,” he said, as if that explained everything. He patted the satchel. “I’m a shoddy wizard, but Betty was a damn fine witch.” He grinned, then kicked open the door.
An eerie yellow light poured out of the tiny entrance. The sound of dogs braying and snarling grew louder. I swore I could hear people yelling. And we were about to wade into the mess. On purpose.
I drew my gun.
Fuck it.
Chapter 9
The first dead thing I saw was, mercifully, a rat. I wasn’t fond of vermin or the possibility of contracting the plague while I was mucking about below the city, but at least it wasn’t a zombie, or—Heaven forbid—a cop. I slid my finger reassuringly up and down the ridged slide of my fully enhanced P226. The gun had been a gift from an ex-boyfriend. A Navy Seal who’d known me well enough to buy me a military grade pistol for our six-month anniversary, but not well enough to know I’d point it at him when I’d learned he’d been seeing other women. Live and learn. To be honest, I liked the gun more than I’d like him, anyway; the P226 may never have bought me a drink, but it’d never made me put up with mansplaining, either.
I realized I was trying to distract myself, thinking about the past rather than focusing on the present. I took a deep breath and let it out, still following Bernie, who seemed remarkably sure of himself now that we were in the thick of things. A military man, he’d said. It showed. “Everything alright?” he asked, softly, without turning to look back at me.
“Aye, everythin’ is fine. Can ye tell which way they went?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yeah. Down the tunnel to our left, then right, is my guess. It’s hard to tell how far, though.” He gestured towards the tunnel walls. Echoes of cries and howls cascaded around us, warping them into something manic and pain-filled. “If we hurry, we can catch up to them.”
“What if they’re trackin’ the necromancer?” I asked. “Won’t we be in the way?”
Bernie nodded. “Yeah. But what if they aren’t? What if the zombies are chasing them, not the other way around?” This time he did look at me. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. If everything’s good on their end, at worst I’ll be picked up for trespassing. If you go and get detained,” he eyed my gun, “I doubt you’ll end up thanking me.”
I ground my teeth. Bernie was right, but that didn’t make things easier. The truth wasn’t that I cared whether or not I ended up in Machado’s crosshairs, or even that I wanted to ride to Jimmy’s rescue. The truth was the flesh-sucker had scared the shit out of me, figuratively speaking, and I couldn’t shake that feeling no matter how much I tried.
And I hated it.
Ever since I was a kid, I’d been fearless. At first recklessly so, but then—over time—it’d become a choice. I refused to let anyone or anything scare me. The minute a new fear had cropped up, I’d found a way to confront it. In a way, that’s what I was doing, now. As much as I wanted to give in and let Bernie march into the tunnels alone, I would never have forgiven myself for being such a coward.
“Let’s go rescue the cops,” I said, finally.
Bernie grinned. “Anything you say, miss.” He started to jog, his gait a little uneven, but easy enough to keep up with in flats. I clutched my gun two-handed and whispered a prayer to whoever, or whatever, was listening.
Don’t let me be brave and die, please and thanks.
Chapter 10
We rounded the corner just in time to see a police dog leap towards a walking corpse. The German Shepherd’s lean, muscular body coiled as it landed, snout covered in blood as it flashed its teeth. The ensuing snarl sent the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up, and I took a quick step back. People tend to forget that dogs, while so often domesticated to the point of blind obedience, descended from something much fiercer, much deadlier. If you’ve ever seen an attack dog do its job, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about; never again will you casually reach out to pet a stranger’s pooch for fear of losing an arm.
That, it seemed, was exactly what had happened to the corpse. His mangled arm, bloody and covered only by the barest sheen of muscle fibers, had torn free and flopped on the ground like a fish. I heard a shriek and turned in time to see one of the police officers slump over, unconscious against the wall of the tunnel. His skin was wan and thin, almost luminescent, like a white t-shirt stretched tight enough to see beneath. The zombie must have been sucking him dry, I realized, before the dog came to the rescue.
But that was as much time as I had to take in the scene before the zombie struck. It bum rushed the dog, charging towards it with one arm extended. Fortunately, the canine knew better than to let the thing get close; it hopped away, squirming between the creature’s legs, only to turn and tear at the zombie’s ankle. Bone crunched as the dog tugged, working its jaws back and forth, hind legs scrabbling at the ground.
The zombie turned and reached for the dog, its balance precarious, but close enough now to touch. I raised my gun without thinking, adopted a shooting stance, and fired. The hollow point bullet took the thing in the shoulder, the metal shell expanding on its way out, tearing through bone and cartilage to leave the arm hanging limp and useless. Ideally, hollow points would do exactly what Hollywood claimed they did: send the bad guy flying across the room like they’d been hit by a bus. But the reality was a lot less pronounced, although perhaps more cringeworthy; think of it like a metal shell passing through your body, then imagine a metal parachute being deployed almost as soon as it hits, allowing the bullet to tear through you as it slows.
That’s a hollow point.
Of course, its effectiveness depends on the shooter. Typically, a kill shot is a kill shot, whether you use a full metal jacket or a hollow point round to do the trick. Which is why, immediately after I incapacitated the thing’s arm, I adjusted my aim and put a bullet through the bastard’s skull—such as it was. Shards of bone, blood, and flesh sprayed the tunnel wall. Far less of it than it might have if the thing had been a living, breathing human being, but still enough to contribute to a Jackson Pollock painting.
The body flopped to the ground in an oozing mass.
I started to look away, my ears were ringing from taking the shots indoors, but then caught the dog stalking towards me, muzzle dripping with gore. Too late, I realized that I’d blown away the animal’s adversary, and that its owner likely lay passed out nearby, which meant there was nothing between it and us. I raised the barrel of my gun, but didn’t take aim. Honestly, I had no desire to see what a hollow point did to a dog. I’d never liked the mangy bastards, but I wasn’t a cruel person; I cried watching the Sarah McLaughlin commercials like everyone else.
“I’ve got this,” Bernie said, reaching into his satchel. I took a deep breath, expecting him to throw another sleep potion down, but instead he fished out a grungy baseball. He held it up for the dog to see, like holding a coin up to the light, then tossed it back the way we came. “Go get it, boy!”
The dog snarled, looking more pissed off than it had before, but at least now it wanted to eat Bernie and not me. “That was dumb,” I said. “Ye can’t expect a police dog to play fetch, Bernie. They’re too well trained.”
Bernie fished out a
nother ball.
“Seriously?” I asked, exasperated.
Bernie grunted and tossed the ball into the air, then took a step back, pulling me with him. The ball landed just in front of the dog, and—before I could so much as speak—the baseball burst. The gut which filled the ball began to spew out like Silly String, snaking out likes webs and snaring the pooch. Bound, the dog toppled, whimpering. Bernie flashed me a thumbs up. “Wanted to see how he’d react to the ball. If he tried to catch it in his mouth, he’d end up impaled,” Bernie explained.
The image made me cringe. Alright, so Bernie wasn’t completely useless in a pinch. Good to know. “How’d he get left out here alone?” I asked, half to myself.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Bernie replied. “A straggler, maybe? Or maybe he got separated from the others?”
“I’ll ask him,” I replied. First, however, I checked to make sure the zombie was well and truly dead; I’d seen enough horror movies to know better. Once satisfied, I approached the cop against the wall. The canine growled. “Easy there, Fido,” I said, hunkering down to get a closer look. “I won’t hurt him.” I frowned as I said it. There was something familiar about the man’s face. Too late, I realized I was looking at Cassidy. But it wasn’t Cassidy’s face, it was as if the young cop had aged ten years, his skin tighter, thinner, somehow. His smile lines were deeper, the furrows of his brow more distinct. “Jesus, what happened to ye, Cassidy?” I whispered.
Cassidy’s eyes fluttered open, like he’d woken up from a nap. He gazed drowsily at me, then his eyes went wide with fear. “Oh God, what was that thing? What’s happening? Where am I? Oh Jesus, what happened to me?” He started to babble as he studied his hands, which were streaked with blackish stains, his mouth moving so fast I couldn’t make out one question from another.
I slapped him across the face.
Not hard, mind you. But enough to get him to focus. I didn’t have time to play therapist; I needed to know where the others were—fast. Cassidy could have a nervous breakdown later. After we survived. “Stop ramblin’,” I said. “The others. Where are they?”
Cassidy blinked, shocked into silence. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s before, at last, he responded. “They’re up ahead. Past the turn. We found the boy...oh God, we found him, but he...he wasn’t…” Cassidy began to hyperventilate.
“Calm down! Deep breaths,” I commanded.
But it was too late. Cassidy passed out, which meant we were on our own.
“Let’s go,” Bernie said, studying the tunnel ahead.
I sighed, stood, and checked my gun to make sure everything was still working properly. We stepped over the fallen canine, ignoring its angry snarls, and prepared ourselves for what lay ahead, for whatever had sent Cassidy into a panic attack.
As if there were any way to prepare for what lay ahead.
Chapter 11
The carnage was unimaginable. It looked like I’d always imagined a war zone might: bodies strewn about like discarded dolls, their torn out stuffing oozing blood and other, more viscous fluids. For all that, however, it seemed the cops had fared well enough. All but two of the bodies on the ground belonged to risen corpses, many of them only half-formed. The other two had been torn apart, their clothes shredded and drained the way Cassidy almost had been. I took it all in as calmly as I could, knowing I’d have fresh material for my nightmares, as we followed the trail of broken bodies. The heads of the zombies had been blown to pieces, or were missing altogether in some places. I was guessing at least one of the cops had a shotgun; a bullet does plenty of damage, but taking a head clean off isn’t that easy.
“Someone got smart,” Bernie said, peering down at one such corpse. “Only way to break the necromancer’s hold, damaging the head.”
“Takin’ out the brain?” I asked, mildly curious.
Bernie shook his head. “That’s only in movies. The necromancer’s ritual requires a focus point. Blood on the skull, usually. Destroy the mark, and you destroy the binding.”
I nodded absentmindedly. It made sense. Otherwise the skeletal remains I’d seen would have been more or less invincible. Either way, Bernie was right: someone had known where to aim, and the other cops had followed suit. The low body count alone told us that much.
“What else can the necromancer do?” I asked, still listening for shots. They’d died down a few minutes before we arrived, leaving us little to go on but the obvious trail ahead.
“Besides wake the dead?” Bernie asked. “Depends. Some have training as wizards. Their abilities make it tough to differentiate between the two, early on. Once we know what they are, though, they tend to get kicked out, for one reason or another.”
“Why’s that?”
Bernie shook his head. “It isn’t forbidden magic, but it is...frowned upon. Using magic that blurs the line between realms is considered unwise. There’s a theory out there that doing so will bring back the old gods. The wilder magics. The legends.” Bernie snorted. “Personally, I think that’s a bit far-fetched. It’d take a whole lot more meddling to fuck things up that bad.”
I shook my head. “None of that matters right now. I just need to know what to expect if we run into this bastard. If he’s had wizard trainin’, what’s our plan?”
Bernie was quiet for a moment. The bodies thinned out considerably as we headed further down the tunnel. “I’ll try and distract him, if he’s alone. Throw everything I have into it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and something’ll stick.”
“And me?”
“Put a bullet in him. Or a dozen. Whatever it takes.”
I frowned. “And if the cops have him surrounded?”
Bernie shook his head. “They’ll try to subdue him, probably. It won’t go well. He won’t be armed, and they won’t have cause to shoot.”
I cursed. “I hate this in-the-dark shit, sometimes.”
“Me too. But it is what it is. The minute the Regulars start believing in the monsters is the minute they start hunting us down. We’ve seen it before.” Bernie’s eyes were haunted, and for a second I wondered if I’d guessed his age correctly. I’d heard wizards lived longer than most. Was Bernie really only middle-aged, or had he been around longer? Long enough to remember the age of torches and pitchforks?
Regardless, we didn’t have time to get into it. Another dog barked down the tunnel and to the left. They’d found something. Bernie and I picked up the pace, still checking to make sure each corpse was well and truly dead before pressing on; we weren’t about to get attacked from behind for being careless.
“Any idea for what we say to keep them from shooting us?” Bernie asked.
“Tell ‘em we’re civilians, and keep your hands where they can see ‘em,” I suggested. I didn’t mention my reasons for joining him or my suspicion that Jimmy would be among the officers tasked with following up on Bernie’s lead; I’d searched for the big man’s body among the fallen as we walked, but mercifully hadn’t found it.
Now it was Bernie’s chance to frown. “Not the best idea, if we’re about to get attacked.”
“Best I can tell ye,” I replied, the braying of the police dog getting louder and louder.
Bernie grunted, but didn’t bitch about it.
I was beginning to like the guy.
Chapter 12
We found the cops nursing their wounds, an officer guarding either side of the tunnel. One held the dog’s leash and had quieted the thing down, though its growls were still audible once we got within sight. I’d put my gun away. Bernie had slung his satchel around so it rode the small of his back, out of sight. We approached with our hands in the air.
“Who’s there?” one of the guards asked. Two others joined him from the group on the floor, guns drawn and pointed at us. They were jumpy. Ready to shoot first and ask questions later. I didn’t blame them.
“Civilians,” I called back. “Is there an Officer Collins with ye?” I asked.
A fourth man rose to stand with the others, his shou
lders well above their own. “Who’s asking?” Jimmy asked. I let out a sigh of relief. He was alive, at least. As we neared, I could make out his perplexed frown.
“It’s Quinn MacKenna. And this is Bernie.” I didn’t bother giving them Bernie’s last name. If we made it out alive, they’d have plenty of questions for us both. But for now, his anonymity might as well remain intact.
“Quinn? What the fuck are you doing here?” Jimmy asked. I noticed he didn’t tell the others to put down their guns. They noticed, too, because several of them adjusted for a better shot.
“Bernie here was the man who gave ye the tip to come down here,” I said, sticking as close to the truth as I could. “When he told me ye were headed into the tunnels, I figured ye might be walkin’ into a death trap. I came to warn ye.”
“Little late for that,” one of the uniforms quipped.
“We ran into Cassidy on our way here,” I said. “He’s headed back to the Plaza to call for backup. Said ye lost contact when ye got down here.”
“Cassidy’s alive?” Jimmy asked.
“He woke up a little older today than he was yesterday, but aye, he’s alive.”
Jimmy seemed to consider that, then nodded. “You can put your guns away, everyone,” Jimmy said. “They’re morons for coming down here, but I don’t think they’re here to kill us.”
“And who put you in charge, Collins?” a cop, the same one who’d wisecracked, asked. He was sitting with one other officer, a woman, conceivably the last of those who’d been sent down into the tunnels. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, his uniform torn along one arm, revealing a sleeve tattoo and more cuts.
“Sergeant Howard’s dead, Sanchez,” Jimmy said, staring down at the man. “If you want to run the show from here on out, I’m all ears.”
“Collins kept us alive back there, Sanchez,” the woman said, her hair pulled back into a ponytail so severe that it left the shape of her skull visible. “If he hadn’t told us where to aim, we’d all be dead.”
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 12