Necropolis

by James Axler

  Almost as if Kane was either distancing himself from her or...

  Lyta thought about it for a moment. Kane and Grant were only referred to by singular names, as well. They didn’t seem to have first or given names, just the tag that came from their family. And with that, Lyta caught a slight glimpse. Brigid became “Baptiste” because Kane had accepted her into the same no-nonsense clique, the same ultimate level of trust that Grant had.

  They were family, despite the sharpness of tongue and differences of opinion. They’d disagree, get on each other’s cases or laugh at the other’s expense, but only in good nature and humor.

  Kane’s attention seemed to wander, and Lyta found herself tensing up. If something drew the man’s focus, then it was something important, worth that scrutiny.

  Kane gave her a gentle nod, then stood up. “I’m going to take care of some business. Be right back.”

  “All right,” Lyta answered. With that, Kane took a few steps toward the trees, and then he was swallowed up, disappearing despite the bright sun hanging low in the sky. The man moved with the speed and grace of a natural-born hunter, a sleek-muscled predator who had been both stalked and stalker and had always come out on top. Lyta hoped that his record would remain unbroken, because she didn’t relish being alone.

  Not when there was an underground city full of vampires a few dozen yards beneath their feet and other unknowns in the forest around them. Lyta slid her rifle into her lap, letting it rest on her thighs, hand not too far from the grip, finger ready to hook the trigger at the slightest sound of a twig’s snap. The silence became preternatural, odd and enveloping. Normally, there would have been the sound of birds and bugs, small creatures communicating with each other, but the silence accompanied a strangeness, a deep-down quiet that unsettled the Zambian girl, as well as apparently the local fauna.

  Lyta kept her big brown eyes wide, scanning for trouble.

  She grimaced at her pride going so far as to think it could match a man whose instincts were enhanced by an ancient god-fighting artifact.

  It was then that Lyta noticed that the staff still rested next to the tree, along with the rifle that Kane had picked up to supplement his sidearm. Her stomach flopped, and her heart felt like it had been splashed with ice water as she realized that Kane must be operating half-blind without the gifts of the strange stick. Against an intruder, that could turn out to be damning, crippling.

  Lyta cast her gaze about, seeking out Kane, but he’d disappeared completely. She hoped that it was enough for him. She let out a sigh, realizing that she’d been holding her breath for several seconds.

  “Please be careful,” she allowed herself to whisper.

  “If your companion is...” said a voice behind her. Lyta’s nerves were wound tight, and she whirled, whipping up her rifle in a fast, fluid movement that staggered even her expectations of her reflexes. As she saw the front sight of her weapon intersect the silhouette of a stranger, the man was a blur. He stepped aside from the muzzle, hand pushing down on the barrel. Lyta let out a yelp of surprise as she triggered the gun. A bullet slammed into the dirt, kicking up lots of dust but harming no one otherwise.

  “...who I believe he is,” the man, another white, wearing a battered Stetson and a well-worn khaki shirt, continued, not even fazed by the eruption of a high-velocity bullet into the ground. “Kane will be extremely careful. Chances are, he’s already got me in his sights.”

  “No chance,” Lyta said. “He already owns you.”

  “You show a lot of faith in a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours,” the man replied. Other than redirecting her shot, he had not moved an inch. “My name is Austin Fargo. And I’ve known Kane for much longer.”

  Lyta narrowed her eyes. “And if you’re trying to cast doubt on him because of that, you’re mistaken.”

  “And now, another convert to his cult. Where he finds you little girls—”

  Lyta swung up the rifle, bringing the muzzle around. It was a feint, and she immediately reversed the weapon, pushing the stock toward Fargo. Where she expected to connect with his chest, driving the wind from his lungs, she only pushed through empty air, much to her surprise. She turned, trying to reacquire her target, but the man quickly snatched the rifle from her grasp, taking advantage of her momentary confusion.

  With a sneer, she backpedaled away from the man in the hat. “How are you so fast?”

  “I have my own gifts,” Fargo admitted. As Lyta studied him, she realized that the brim of his hat was drawn particularly low. She couldn’t even see his eyes, but he followed her with little difficulty. He moved with unusual grace.

  “So, you know Kane?” Lyta asked.

  Fargo nodded. He wouldn’t allow her a complete look at his face, and that made her ever the more curious. She was half-tempted to try for the pistol in its holster, but his swift reflexes had already stymied her twice. That kind of preternatural awareness might not be accompanied by patience. A third try at shooting or harming him might be met with than simple disarming moves.

  So she kept her head, realizing that if she made the wrong move, she’d be dead, and that would make her worthless. Besides, Fargo was likely right. Kane had him dead to rights. It was one thing to disarm someone standing only a few feet away. Kane was a good shot, and pulling those swift kung fu moves from twenty feet away would not amount to much, not against a combatant like the one who had set a militia’s survivors to flight.

  “And how well do you know him?” Fargo asked.

  “Enough that he’s saved my ass twice in the space of a day,” Lyta replied. “While you—”

  “Prevented you from hurting yourself. Twice,” Fargo interrupted. He took off his hat, and now Lyta could see what was so “wrong,” what had made her suspicious. His forehead was swollen, but not as if it had been bug bitten. His brow had thickened, and it was smooth, unlined; even his eyebrows were missing. From under the shade of that massive forehead, Fargo’s eyes glittered like moonlight off black glassy ponds.

  “What...”

  Kane stepped out from behind Fargo. “This man made a deal with the same devil responsible for Durga becoming a cripple.”

  Fargo turned. Kane was out of his reach, and no amount of enhanced reflexes could give Fargo an advantage over the man.

  “You make Enki out to be a demon,” Fargo replied. “He was a good, benevolent being. Otherwise, the others who staked their claims on this ball of mud would not deride him so.”

  “Still, it was not Enki who gave you that facial condition. It was a computer. The same one which gave Durga superhuman power,” Kane countered. He kept his distance.

  “Why did you leave the staff unattended?” Fargo asked, nodding toward Nehushtan.

  “Because the stick has its own agenda, and if it doesn’t want to be touched, then it won’t allow itself to,” Kane explained.

  Fargo turned, walked toward the ancient artifact and grasped its shaft. He picked it up, looking it over.

  Lyta turned to Kane, who seemed surprised at this sudden turn of affairs.

  “Why isn’t it repelling you as it did before?” Kane asked.

  “Oh, I was repelled by Nehushtan?” Fargo asked, turning it, testing its balance. “Smooth. No glyphs on its handle at all. And the head has changed.”

  “You lied,” Kane surmised.

  “You were ready to blow my damn fool head off just for showing up in the wake of the Kongamato attack,” Fargo responded. “And then I’m going to make it look like I’m able to interface with this piece of technology? Yes, that would have been a great piece of strategy. No. I stayed away from it because I thought it’d be nice to not be riddled with bullets.”

  Kane had his machine pistol in hand. “Put it back down.”

  Fargo rested it against the tree where Kane had left it. “Now, the staff is freezing me o
ut. It hid its glyphs the moment I touched it. I cannot access it at all.”

  “Why do you feel safe unveiling your lie now?” Kane asked.

  Fargo smirked. “Is Brigid around? Grant?”

  Kane’s lips remained a tight crack. Lyta could feel the brittleness of his self-control. She didn’t envy Fargo’s position. The man’s cockiness had just rubbed a raw nerve on the tall Cerberus warrior. She was tempted again to reach for her pistol now that Kane was there to back her up.

  Kane shook his head, looking at her. “We need what little help we can get.”

  Kane slung his machine pistol over his shoulder and walked closer to Fargo. “Emphasis on little help.”

  “Where is this coming from?” Fargo asked.

  Kane glared. “You walked out on us when the Kongamato made their big push.”

  “Us. I seem to recall that you and Durga were both comatose,” Fargo replied. “And yet you both roused and rallied, defeating the menace.”

  “No thanks to you,” Kane remarked.

  “Are you certain?” Fargo asked.

  Kane didn’t appear to buy it. Lyta could feel the seething disgust just under his surface, so close that a mere scratch would open him up, unleash the blazing lava of hatred onto Fargo. That Kane kept that distrust on a tight leash only served to impress the African girl.

  It also conveyed just what kind of man Austin Fargo must be, if Kane was kept so close to apoplectic rage by his presence. The kind of fury emanating off of him indicated a killing mood, meaning that Fargo was likely guilty of more crimes than simply being an inconvenience to the Cerberus explorer.

  Kane moved closer to Lyta, looking her over, as if for signs of foul play. “He didn’t bring out his whip on you, did he?”

  “I didn’t need to,” Fargo responded.

  Kane glared at the newcomer.

  “He whips people?” Lyta asked. Her skin started to crawl. She’d spent enough time, for the past week exactly, living in terror of the whip as the Panthers of Mashona had marched her and her neighbors relentlessly toward the underground necropolis of Neekra. Using such a tool against animals disgusted her enough, but seeing the horrors it had exacted on other human beings—especially her mother—burned the thing into her mind as a symbol of evil.

  She leaned her head and saw the braided leather coils hanging from the back of his belt.

  “Good way to poison her against me,” Fargo murmured, his beady eyes narrowing. “I have not used this against a human being—”

  “This year? You’ve flayed people alive, as recently as a year ago, when we first met,” Kane grumbled. “So don’t play innocent. You have blood on your hands, no matter how dried it is.”

  “Like you, enforcer of Baron Cobalt?” Fargo returned. “You are no babe in the woods.”

  “I’m at least making up for the harm I caused while being a Magistrate,” Kane snapped.

  Fargo turned his attention to Lyta, a smug smirk stretching across his lips. “He is now a saint, or at least feels he is in the same standing as one. He’s the only one doing something to atone for his sins. No one else is as special as he.”

  Kane clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “I’m not saying that. But I am saying that nothing you have done since we first met has proven you to be anything but out for yourself.”

  “Well, you’ve proven yourself beyond any benefit of a doubt, Kane. How many cities have you left in ruins, not counting the villes? Not counting the swathe of destruction you tore through China? The wreckage of Garuda?”

  Kane narrowed his eyes. “Your bombs were a part of that. We protected the Nagah. And mind you—you brought us there.”

  “To protect them.”

  “This is how you can tell that Fargo is lying...his lips—”

  “Enough!” Lyta snapped. “Sunset is coming in less than an hour, and you two look like you’ve got enough piss to keep going ’til dawn!”

  Fargo glared at the young woman.

  “She’s right,” Kane agreed. “There’s bigger danger beneath our feet. You probably know all about them, especially if you’ve been spying on us all this time.”

  Fargo nodded, tugging his Stetson back over his head, obscuring his obscene brow. “I know about Neekra and her vampire minions. But not because of interest in your pedestrian exploits.”

  Kane let his shoulders drop, breaking into a smile.

  “That wasn’t an insult?” Lyta asked.

  Kane shook his head. “He’s groping in the dark when he calls our quest run-of-the-mill, and he knows it.”

  “Had to disarm your animosity somehow. Making you laugh helped,” Fargo responded.

  “So, what do you know about Neekra?” Kane asked, strapping his rifle across his back. He leaned against the ancient staff, taking a moment to study its suddenly smooth surface. On contact with his palm, he felt the artifact’s skin change. No longer in the hands of Fargo, it felt free to return to its normal mode.

  “She was a great opponent of the Annunaki, not only here on earth, but across the stars,” Fargo stated. “She had attacked their kin as they colonized other planets.”

  “Neekra had her own galactic empire to fight Kane’s ‘snake-faces’?” Lyta asked. She quickly added, for her own clarification, “No relation to Thurpa’s people.”

  “You’re familiar with the concept of a galactic empire?” Fargo countered. “Because for all her pomp and circumstance, Neekra was no more than the Norwegian brown rat sailing across the Atlantic with Dutch and British exiles.”

  Kane frowned at the analogy. “Those rats did pretty well in nearly wiping out Europe with a few plagues, let alone spoiling tons of food, helping out famines.”

  “That is why I used the rat as her analog in this description,” Fargo said. “Neekra is dangerous, not only to the local fauna—that being humanity—as well as being destructive and disruptive to the Annunaki themselves. Otherwise, Enlil would have let her scions run loose as a natural predator for mankind. However, now, considering the tentative hold that they have on the planet, the fragmenting of what structure the overlords had put in place for themselves, there’s nothing to stay one’s hand in unleashing them as a scorched-earth protocol.”

  “There’s an overlord operating in Africa?” Kane asked.

  “I’m looking into it,” Fargo stated. “It’s why I became interested in Durga’s escapades.”

  Kane’s mood took a turn for the darker. Gone was his loathing of Fargo, at least as far as Lyta could tell. It had been replaced with concerns of other menaces.

  “So, either Neekra was let loose...presumably to wipe out this planet’s annoying pests...” Kane began. He motioned toward himself and Lyta when he referred to the pests. “Or Durga is working with another overlord in order to protect his planet from her.”

  “Or both,” Lyta offered. “After all, didn’t you two mention that the aliens aren’t all on the same page anymore?”

  Kane and Fargo both nodded in agreement. He glanced at Fargo. “Of course, this story could be just a ruse for you to work alongside us so that you can accomplish whatever your twisted goals are.”

  Fargo smirked. “You have trust issues.”

  “Only with known and proven bastards,” Kane responded. “You were still fairly chummy with Durga, even after being chased to the high hills out of India.”

  Fargo laughed. “You do have a good point. If I prove to be utterly useless to you, there’d be no reason for you to keep me alive. If I’m somehow working with your enemies, you’ll hope to trip me up and find out what they are up to. The only time you’ll be free to eliminate me as a threat, and avenge whatever crimes you accuse me of, is if I take leave of my senses and act openly against you. Which I will not.”

  “Someday your little game will tire my patience,” Kane said. “You’re
just lucky I need all the help I can get right now.”

  Fargo nodded to the man, then bowed graciously to Lyta, handing her back the weapon he’d plucked out of her grasp.

  “We have minutes before Neekra’s children are free to stalk the shadows,” Fargo stated. “I have a back door that even she cannot suspect.”

  Kane motioned for Lyta to go along with the man in the hat. For now, they were in a dangerous balance of trust.

  Chapter 15

  Thurpa had been alone in his cell for just an hour, his mouth still hurting from where he’d wrenched the hinge muscles in one of his fangs, his body battered by the gelatinous forms of Neekra’s spawn. He’d been relieved that Durga, except for a few sneers, had largely ignored the former loyalist to the prince. It was for the best, Thurpa told himself.

  Durga was a man of no small temper, and his spite would be a focused, special flavor of hell. Thurpa had seen those who had failed the not so noble Nagah. And Thurpa had seen Durga’s negligent concern for the young man himself—it was the reason he’d thrown in his lot with Kane and the others.

  Putting aside thoughts of the ache in his overstressed fang hinge, he considered his options for escape as he looked down at his manacles. The chains were firm and thick, as were the clasps that limited the motion of his wrists. He’d also been frisked down completely, any hope of tools hidden in pockets taken away, not that he had much in terms of clothing to have pockets. He was good with a bare chest and feet, thanks to his scales and his tropical upbringing. His scales were thick and hard, relatively immune to sunburn. All he had were some cargo pants that he’d cut off at the knees. Those pockets had been emptied and his belt taken away.

  Thurpa looked at the manacle clasp and saw that there was a spot for a key. He didn’t even have to think twice about what long, slender tool he could slip into the keyhole. He had two hinged fangs. He simply had to bend his head down far enough to insert a tooth in and jostle the tumblers on the manacles’ locking mechanism.

  Sure, thank you, Enki, for giving us such great snakelike attributes. Everything except a spine that can fold and bend like string.