Necropolis

by James Axler

  She was protecting lives, and that made the murder of these men all the more easy to bear. She’d sleep at night because she’d seen the condition of those poor humans, wrecked by a forced march, scoured bloody and raw by manacles and yokes about their neck. This wasn’t murder. This was the end of torturers.

  Brigid caught movement from the corner of her eye. Kane motioned for her to stop shooting. She paused to reload the Copperhead, feeding it a new magazine.

  They didn’t speak. The snarl of bullets through suppressed firearms was enough of a risk to compromise their position in the dark. The enemy knew that there were gunmen in the tree line, and they could quickly adapt to the situation. Brigid didn’t know how many of these soldiers there were. Kane had mentioned about thirty, maybe more. She wanted to do the mental math, but all that would accomplish would be counting how many more lives had ended this night.

  The only true determination of victory was the retreat of their enemy and the cessation of gunfire.

  Kane motioned to Brigid, gave the finger signal for grenades, then quickly pointed in the direction he wanted her to throw them. No need to risk being heard, even subvocalizing into their Commtacts, especially when they were under fire. Brigid sized up the targets for her grenades and braced herself to let loose.

  “Now,” Kane whispered over the radio.

  Brigid pulled the first pin, threw, then quickly armed the second miniature bomb. Both flew straight and far. She could see that they were fanning out their explosive counterattack along a wider front. Kane had kept an eye out for firing positions from among the Panthers beyond the tree line, and now they hammered the militia hard. Six explosions ripped through their ranks, and men screamed, torn asunder by shrapnel and concussive force.

  The thunderclaps of the detonations stretched out in two distinct staccato roars. Whatever would be left of this group would not be keen on making another attack.

  Back from the original path between the two clearings, they heard the rattle of heavy rifles.

  Kane nodded for her to go check on the scene, to support the others. Now it was time for the Cerberus expedition to strike back, to force the Panthers into retreat. Thanks to cover and concealment, they’d presented a nearly impenetrable front against the enemy. Now it was time to press the advantage and make them retreat and give up the struggle.

  Brigid gave a whistle, the signal for Nathan and Thurpa to know she was behind them. The last thing she needed was to be blasted at point-blank by either of the young men thinking that she was trying to ambush them. She saw Nathan wave her over, and she rushed to his side.

  “They heard you fighting inside the thicket, so they thought they could cut this way again. We dropped three of them,” Nathan told her.

  Thurpa’s rifle thundered, big bullets slapping the night air and cracking it before he shot down another of the Mashonan gunners. “Make it four.”

  Brigid nodded.

  “Do we pull back or hold?” Nathan asked.

  “Hold,” Brigid said. She unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle of her Copperhead. At this point, they were going to be on the attack, so they’d need to make noise. Silencers in the trees helped to keep them hidden against return fire, but now they needed to sow fear and scatter the militia’s surviving defenders.

  In the distance, Kane and Grant cut loose with their automatic weapons, the unmistakable throaty booms of the Sin Eaters and the high-pitched cracks of their Copperheads. They were sweeping against the Panthers in that direction, guns blazing.

  “Now,” Brigid said, and Nathan and Thurpa picked up on the cue for violence. Their rifles and her submachine gun cut through the darkness. They fired at shadows, pouring out a wall of bullets. Bodies fell, struck by rounds, but the blasting was to break the will of the enemy. The militia abandoned their camp, racing off into the forest, half of their number dead and likely more wounded.

  It was a decisive strike, and one that would force the gunmen to reorganize and recuperate.

  That would give them time to free the prisoners.

  “Grant and I are going to stick by the camp,” Kane said. “You three unchain those people. We won’t have much time.”

  “Acknowledged,” Brigid responded. Thurpa and Nathan heard him over their hand radios, which were tuned to the Commtacts’ frequency.

  The three people turned back toward the line of prisoners, seeking out keys among the dead guards to undo the painful, heavy manacles.

  The Panthers undoubtedly would either stage a counterattack or call for help from another group. Either way, Brigid was determined to free the prisoners and get them out of the clearing within an hour. Half that would be optional.

  Anything to free these victims was necessary. Otherwise, she was a cold-blooded assassin for nothing.

  Chapter 5

  Lyta grimaced as the yoke came off her neck. The harsh corners of the steel collar took tiny slivers of flesh with it, peeling away whatever upper epidermis was left where the metal had chafed against her skin. The other prisoners were already up, moving drunkenly but with a semblance of speed and energy. The men immediately picked up firearms from the dead guards, and one of the three people dressed in jet-black skinsuits pulled off a hood.

  Brigid Baptiste revealed herself as a woman, a white woman with hair that looked like streams of curled copper spilling over her shoulders. She was so tall, Lyta had originally thought her to be a skinny man, like the African with the staff or the humanoid who looked as if he was half cobra.

  “Most of us speak English, if you do,” Lyta spoke up to the woman.

  Brigid smiled. “Thanks. We’ve found that out working with your countrymen. We need to get to the other camp and get more stuff for you. Food, water, weapons and ammunition. Clothing would be good, too.”

  “That’s a good plan,” Lyta replied. “Who are you people?”

  “He is from India,” Brigid said, pointing to the cobra man. “His name is Thurpa. The other man is from Harare. His name is Nathan Longa.”

  Lyta glanced toward the man she’d indicated. “Longa...I had an uncle named Longa.”

  Nathan frowned. “What was his given name?”

  “Nelson,” Lyta replied.

  Nathan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m his son.”

  Lyta didn’t take long to put the subtext of Nathan’s painful reaction into context. “How did he die?”

  Nathan looked around, hating to take time from preparing for evacuation from the area, but he spoke after only a moment. “He was murdered. By something that might be working with the Panthers.”

  Lyta nodded, repeating what he’d said. “Something. As in what would eat us at the end of this march.”

  “Not anymore,” Nathan returned. “You and the others take off. Get back to your home.”

  Lyta narrowed her eyes. “I intend to find out what these animals wanted to do with me.”

  Nathan glowered at her. “You’re not in condition to come with us.”

  “She could be,” Thurpa spoke.

  “Help the others gather supplies,” Nathan snapped at him.

  Thurpa frowned. “They’re doing well on their own.”

  “Then stop convincing my cousin that she has to risk her life,” Nathan hissed harshly.

  Thurpa looked between the two. “As if you risking yours is any better?”

  Nathan rubbed his brow. “I’ve got an advantage.”

  “What?” Lyta asked.

  “None of your—”

  “The snake-headed staff that Nelson Longa owned,” Thurpa spoke up.

  “Snake-headed... Is that why you’re interested in it?” Lyta asked.

  Thurpa shook his head. “It’s an artifact, from the dawn of time.”

  “It’s too complicated to explain here and now. You’re hur
t. Exhausted...”

  “And free,” Lyta responded. “Why would you deny me the chance to find out why my home was attacked? There’ve been so many people killed...”

  Nathan grumbled. He gripped the strange walking stick, one she remembered from when Uncle Nelson had visited her so long ago. The object was as tall as Nathan, who was a shade under six feet, and it was one central ebony rod with strange designs inlaid along its length, wound about by two metallic serpents whose heads poked straight up. Lyta glanced at the space between the ominous snake heads and saw that there was a space for another object up there, braced or locked in between them.

  Thurpa walked closer to Nathan, whispering into his ear. She couldn’t make out what was being said.

  “I don’t know,” Nathan replied. He seemed crestfallen, looking first to the strange staff and then toward Lyta.

  “Just give it some thought,” Thurpa said.

  “Could I get some assistance?” the woman, Brigid, asked them. The two men walked away, leaving her be.

  Lyta felt hands on her shoulders, sitting her down. Petroleum jelly salve was spread over her neck and shoulders. The ooze was an important supply for a militia on the move to deal with blisters, cuts and abrasions of all forms. As soon as the balm was spread across her raw back and about her wrists, she began to feel better. There were several jars of the stuff for the militia, so there was more than enough for the prisoners. Bandages from the Panthers’ first-aid supplies were also put to good use to protect the ravaged flesh.

  Lyta accepted a shirt and a web belt. The shirt was long enough on her to act like a minidress, but there was enough air around her bottom to make her feel self-conscious until a pair of men’s briefs was provided for her from the militia’s laundry.

  Clean clothes, after being naked for so many days, were wonderful. A bottle of water was also provided for her, and she took several deep pulls before passing the bottle on. Fresh water, clothes, she didn’t even mind the cooling of the evaporating wetness on her shirt. Boots, unfortunately, were in short supply, but Lyta didn’t mind. Most of the people in her town didn’t have much use for footwear, and the soles of her feet were only slightly less tough than rhinoceros skin.

  Finally, Lyta got a weapon, two of them actually. One was a machete that looked rusted and pitted, but it was still heavy and felt good in her hand. The other was a .45-caliber pistol. Since the weapons of the Mashona were mostly stolen from the Zambian and Harare armed forces, she knew this pistol. She dumped the magazine and saw that it was loaded. She pulled back the slide and noted that the chamber was empty.

  Lyta would keep it that way. She wasn’t sure about the safety on the pistol, and she wouldn’t carry one with a hammer on a live round. It would take a moment to slingshot a fresh round into the breech, if necessary. Both came with sheathes, so she put them onto the belt that tugged the long uniform tunic about her hips snugly. She rubbed her hand across her bare scalp, wishing that she still had her hair and idly wondering how she looked. Right now, she felt wonderful, but she was certain that a glance in a mirror would show her the truth of her ramshackle appearance.

  Here you are, covered in bandages and the clothes of dead men, and you’re wondering if you’re hot or not, she thought, trying to hold down her disgust.

  “It sure beats being raped and dead,” she muttered. “I look human again.”

  “Are you all right?” It was Brigid, the beautiful woman from America, from the place she called Cerberus redoubt.

  “Just trying to get my mind off of my vanity,” Lyta replied. “Can I join your group?”

  Brigid looked taken aback. “We’re on a dangerous journey, Lyta. I don’t know if it would be wise.”

  “Wisdom comes from mistakes,” Lyta replied. “And I know this could be a big mistake, but if I survive, I’ll at least know what awaited me. What was on the other end of this journey.”

  Brigid’s brilliant green eyes looked the young woman over. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’ll see what my compatriots have to say.”

  “If it’s any help, I’m a resident of a frontier town in Zambia. We all receive firearms training,” Lyta added. She looked at the other prisoners. Though dressed, bandaged, rehydrating from water bottles and gobbling down random bits of food left behind by the Mashonan militia, they were ragged. They were unmistakably former prisoners, gaunt, wounded, eyes darting at the slightest sound.

  “Not that it seemed to help us,” Lyta amended, frowning.

  “Does anyone else want to see where the Panthers were taking you?” Brigid asked.

  “I have to see to my family,” one man said. Others nodded, muttering in agreement. “If there’s any left.”

  Brigid glanced to Lyta, and the young Zambian woman bit her lower lip, trying not to show any emotion. That effort translated into exactly what she tried to avoid as Brigid laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  It was a warm, comforting action, and she looked worried for Lyta.

  “I want to know what was worth the life of my mother, my fiancé,” Lyta admitted.

  Brigid nodded.

  “I’ll see what we can do,” Brigid replied.

  Lyta watched her head to the tree line. Her spilling curls of golden-lit crimson provided a beacon by which she could be seen in the light of the moon and stars above.

  Kane mulled over the whispered Commtact message from Brigid, then looked toward Grant’s position. He was a hundred yards away, barely a silhouette picked up by his night optics.

  “Grant, you have an opinion on this?” Kane asked.

  “The girl can use some closure,” Grant replied. “And if we send her back, she’ll just break from the group and follow us, maybe make a mistake which gives us away. At least we can keep an eye on her.”

  “Baptiste?” Kane inquired.

  “She has a powerful desire to know. And when something like that hits, it’s hard to resist,” Brigid responded. “She’ll definitely end up following us. We can keep her out of trouble.”

  “Pretty much my feeling, too,” Kane said. “We might actually have some luck bringing her with. She seems smart and determined.”

  “Any sign of the Panthers regrouping?” Brigid asked.

  Kane swept the forest. It had been twenty minutes since they’d driven the militia away, and their footprints had cooled to the temperature of the surrounding foliage. The blood of the injured was still only a few degrees warmer than the background ambient heat, showing signs of where the gunmen had escaped. Scanning between the trees, using the telescopic optics in conjunction with infrared and light amplification modes on the shadow suit hoods, he couldn’t see any sign of them returning. Even so, he and Grant had moved along their path for a good distance, keeping their eyes open and scanning as far as the advanced suits would let them, but also making time for the rest of their senses, as well. Infrared tracking could be beaten, especially with the use of a shield of “room temperature” woven foliage that blocked out the heat signatures behind it.

  For all the advantages that the two former Magistrates possessed, there were still ways for the enemy to sneak past them. Caution and alertness were the order of the day.

  “Nothing so far, but I still want those people on the move to someplace safer,” Kane said. “I noticed a couple of vehicles in the camp that they could use.”

  “We’ve fit as many as we could, those with the least ability to walk back,” Nathan explained over the shared frequency. “Tell me we’re not going to bring my cousin with us.”

  “She’s family?” Kane asked him.

  “Yeah,” Nathan responded. “I’d rather not have her join us. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t have any innate advantages like experience, cobra scales or a mystical artifact.”

  “No, but she does have frontier militia training,” Brigid spoke up.
<
br />   “Fifteen rounds a month shot at a paper target on a wall,” Nathan countered.

  “Her advantages don’t matter,” Kane said. “She seems dead set on joining this expedition. So let’s have her with us, rather than tripping over her.”

  Nathan grumbled, “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Don’t pout over it. Our job will be a little trickier, but she’s the one who asked to come with,” Kane offered. “She knows where we’re going is dangerous. We can only hope to survive with her help, just like she survives with ours.”

  “All right,” Nathan answered. He sounded much less sullen. It’d take a while for him to be comfortable with the idea of having a cousin along or their journey, but, in the end, Lyta was determined to join them.

  “Kane,” Grant warned over the Commtact. “I’ve got contacts. Seventy-five yards out. Three, no, five. Armed, moving low to the ground.”

  “Test force?” Kane asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Grant said. “None of them appear wounded. They don’t seem to have any night optics, so they might not be expecting us to have the same.”

  “Don’t engage unless they make the first move,” Kane returned. “Keep an eye on them.”

  “Right,” Grant said.

  “Baptiste, they’re early,” Kane told her.

  “Already back to the group,” Brigid answered. He could hear her shouting orders for the prisoners to pack up and start moving out. In the distance, Kane could hear the low rumble of engines starting. He was glad that it was the audio sensors in the shadow suit hood. Still, he kept ready for Grant to tell him that the enemy were reacting to their vehicles powering up.

  At the same time, he continued to sweep for signs of other foes in the forest. There might only have been five left uninjured after the initial assault, but Kane didn’t feel like he was that lucky. If anything, they wouldn’t put all their forces in one spot, especially not in the flanking maneuver that Grant observed.

  Something else was happening. His nerves were on edge.