Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  Looking around for some other kind of weapon, the policewoman found a plastic container of lye and took it with her; it was dangerous, but was the best thing she could find. With each left step burning like fire, she opened the door and walked into the house.

  The stench here made her stomach clench and her bowels tighten. The walls of the living room were so dark that at first she thought the family that had lived here had painted them black, but upon closer inspection, she realized that the thick liquid smeared and spattered on the walls was clotting, drying blood.

  She fought to control her gorge while her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The interior was a shambles, with shattered wooden furniture everywhere, including the remnants of a table sticking out of the back wall.

  Looking down before she went any farther, she froze as she realized that she had almost stepped on the small, motionless arm of a child, a girl, maybe nine or ten years old, torn almost into two pieces while she’d tried to run away from whoever had slaughtered her family. She was only a step away from the front door, from the outside and survival. Her arms were twisted in the dirt, her legs bent as if she had tried to keep moving even after her face had been savaged and her throat torn out. Blood had coagulated on her shoulders, arms and back, coating her in a thick, red-black layer as it had spurted out to stain her skin, her pajamas and the wooden floor.

  Finigian tore her gaze away from the small body, but wherever she looked, she saw more death. The slumped body of a woman lay near the table, her dangling arms and legs still slowly dripping blood. Her head had been attacked so severely that the pale yellow-white of her skull could be seen through the savage bite marks crisscrossing her ruined scalp and face, one ear dangling by a strip of skin, twisting and turning in the thick air.

  But the worst was yet to come. In a corner of the room was what looked like a pile of blankets, the middle of them dark and sopping wet. Finigian took a step closer, then another. With a trembling hand, she reached for a corner and pulled it back, letting out a long, shuddering breath as she saw what was underneath.

  In front of her was an even smaller child, maybe five years old, still clutching a handmade woven doll to her breast. Her killer had impaled her with a butcher’s knife, stabbing her with such force that the blade had driven through the doll, the child’s chest and pierced the back of the chair, where a small pool of blood had gathered. Of the father, there seemed to be no sign, giving Finigian a good picture of what had happened.

  He went crazy, slaughtered his family, then ran off into the village to kill more people, she thought. But what would possess him to do such a thing?

  Knowing there was nothing she could do, she made for the doorway leading to the kitchen on unsteady legs. The weak sunlight through the window had never seemed more welcoming.

  She took several deep breaths to try clear her nose and lungs, although a part of her knew she would never forget that thick, sickly sweet odor. Hawking up saliva, she spit in the sink, then grabbed a glass and filled it with water, which she raised to her mouth, but stopped just before starting to drink.

  Contaminated water? Placing the glass on the counter, she limped to the small refrigerator and opened it to find a container of milk and a small one of watery apple juice, which she drained. Rinsing out the small bottle, she filled it with water from the tap, sealed it tightly and tucked it into her pocket.

  Heading for the front door, she stopped when she noticed a row of shoes by the front door. Among them was a pair of sneakers that looked close to her size. She sat on the first step and tried them on. They were a bit large, but still felt like heaven on her battered feet.

  As she got up, she heard a noise from the second story. Finigian looked at the narrow staircase along the wall as she strained her ears to try to catch it again. There—a board creaked. Someone was walking around up there.

  Grabbing a chair leg from the remains of the furniture littering the room, she climbed the stairs, each step making her wounded leg flare with pain. At the top, she wiped away the sweat that had suddenly appeared from her forehead with the back of her hand. There were three doors on the small landing. She listened again, trying to figure out which room the noise had come from. A rustle came from her left and she walked to that door and opened it, club raised high in case she had to defend herself.

  This room was relatively untouched, with a child’s bed and small dresser illuminated in light coming in from a window on the east wall. A young boy, maybe nine years old, was half under the bed, staring at her with wide eyes like a trapped animal. Unlike the others, he appeared unmarked by the slaughter that had swept through his home.

  For a moment the two stared at each other. Finigian lowered her club and held her other palm up, not daring to move. “It’s okay,” she said in Armenian. “I’m not one of them. I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

  “Dead...all dead... I hid in here...away from the screaming...everyone was screaming so much...” The boy trembled as the words tumbled out. While he talked, Finigian edged closer. At her movement the boy edged farther underneath the bed.

  She watched the boy, trying to hold his gaze with her own. “What’s your name?”

  “A-Aram.”

  “My name is Dina, Aram, and it’s very nice to meet you. I want to take you away from here. Would you like that?”

  “No!” He disappeared under the bed. “No, you’ll kill me like the others!”

  “Aram, listen to me, I’m not like them,” she replied. “I want to take you away from all of this, to keep you safe from the people who did this.”

  “No, he—he did it to them!” the boy cried, huge tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t know why Father killed them—he wouldn’t stop...and they just kept screaming...”

  Finigian walked over to him and pulled the screaming boy out from under the bed, enfolding him in her arms as his cries turned to sobs. “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right. You’re safe now.” Even as she mouthed the platitudes, she knew his life would never be the same again. She picked him up, the boy’s skinny arms wrapping around her neck and clinging tightly to her as she headed for the stairs. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  A part of her screamed she was crazy, that bringing this child with her in her injured state was probably going to get them both killed, but she knew she couldn’t leave him here. Once she was out of the village, there would be no coming back, not without serious reinforcements.

  “Just close your eyes and put your head on my shoulder, Aram,” Finigian said as she hobbled down the stairs. “I’m taking you somewhere safe.” Just as soon as I find out where that is, she thought.

  At the front door she put her ear to it and listened for any movement outside. Hearing none, she took a deep breath and slowly opened the door just enough to peek out.

  The street was deserted again, with no sign of any crazies around. Finigian looked up and down the lane carefully, then sniffed the air. Something...burning?

  She also heard a commotion—what sounded like dozens of animal howling in the distance. Unfortunately it sounded as though whatever was happening was in the direction she had to go—toward the main gate.

  “Are we walking out of here?” Aram mumbled on her shoulder. “We should take the car.”

  “Car? What car?”

  “Our car.” He raised his head and pointed at a small key rack on the wall next to the door. Finigian’s breath caught when she saw a key fob with a small VW symbol on it. Snatching the key off the hook, she peeked out the front window to see a decade-old Volkswagen hatchback parked on the street outside. For the first time, she felt a ray of hope.

  “Yes, Aram, we are definitely taking the car.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At the back of the Range Rover, Bolan and Sevan both w
atched the fire drive the crazies away.

  “Looks like we’re not the only normal people left here,” Bolan said.

  “Yes...where do you think it’s coming from?” Sevan asked.

  A blur of motion caught Bolan’s eye and he looked behind them to see another burst of flame sprout at the front of the SUV, sending a cluster of villagers dancing away as the flames caught them. “I think they’re being dropped from the building right next to us.”

  “The hotel?” Sevan glanced out the driver’s window at the two-story building next to them. “Makes sense. Some of the guests must still be okay. At least, okay enough to try and help us.”

  “Right.” Bolan looked around. Most of the villagers were gone, driven away from the pools of guttering fire around three sides of the vehicle. But there were still a half dozen on top, hammering at the glass and shouting their rage at being denied what was inside. Bolan glanced toward the back of the Rover, which was mostly clear. “If they could get these guys—” he pointed up “—off the roof, we’d have a shot at getting inside.”

  As if the incendiary-thrower had heard his request, another flaming bottle crashed onto the top of the SUV. The resulting fire ignited the people there, forcing them to run or fall off the side, their screams now of fear and terror as they tried to beat out the flames consuming their clothes and skin.

  “Move your ass!” Drawing his dagger, Bolan leaped for the back door and opened it—just as another bottle smashed on the stone street a few meters away. The burst of flame forced a group of approaching Armenians to back away, still staring at Bolan with wide, vacant eyes. Unlike other fuels, the alcohol burned clean, with no smoke, enabling Bolan to see all around him.

  “Anyone inside the SUV come to the hotel doors now!” a voice shouted in English.

  Bolan looked back at Sevan, who was extricating himself from inside. He had just reached the back when a mottled, liver-spotted hand grabbed his ankle. Bolan tried to find an angle where he could help, perhaps throw his knife as a distraction, but the crazed old man was behind the Armenian, almost completely blocked from sight. He began climbing back in to free Sevan, aware that every second of delay meant more of a chance of being trapped in here again.

  “Damn it!” Still clutching the flashlight, the mobster brought it down on his attacker’s arm, snapping it, and then moved to his head, the anodized aluminum flashlight rising and falling until the end was dripping red.

  “Come on, Sevan!” Bolan snapped, still watching for attackers. The other man pulled his foot free, got to the rear of the vehicle and stepped out. “This way!”

  Bolan shoved him toward the large wooden door, which was cracked open just enough to show a pale face peeking out from inside. He followed as Sevan ran toward the hotel entrance, but when he was only a few steps away, what felt like a freight train barreled into Bolan and carried him back to slam against the roof of the Range Rover with breath-stealing force.

  Dazed for a moment, Bolan regained clarity to find himself dangling several centimeters off the ground, his left arm pinned to his side. A huge—easily 200 kilogram—man buried his face in Bolan’s tactical vest and tried to chew through it while trying to squeeze the air from his lungs at the same time.

  Bolan had lost his knife in the impact, but he raised his free right hand and boxed the guy’s ear hard, once, then again. All it did was make the fat psycho squeal with rage and drop Bolan lower in his arms so he could get at his face with his teeth.

  The man’s visage was straight out of a nightmare. He was covered with sweat, slicking his hair and collecting wet, grimy dust under his eyes and around his mouth. Mucus flowed from his nose in a constant stream, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes were rheumy, red and constantly watering, adding to the mess on the rest of his face. Opening his cracked lips revealed tobacco-stained teeth and truly foul breath that washed over Bolan’s face like a stream of airborne sewage.

  Getting his free arm under the stinking man’s throat, Bolan levered gnashing teeth away from his face. But with that hand occupied, he had no way to get free. He drummed his heels against the man’s legs, trying to crack a kneecap, but to no avail. He even raked a heel down the guy’s skin and smashed his foot, but where that made a normal release him, this guy just whiffled mucus and sweat into Bolan’s face and redoubled his efforts to chomp on him, squeezing him even harder around the ribs.

  Bolan’s vision was starting to gray at the edges, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. He tried to get better leverage to force the man’s head back, but his arm slipped, letting the snarling mouth get a little closer. He groped for something, anything, with his left hand, and touched something that felt vaguely gunlike in a side pocket.

  The trank gun! With the guy’s teeth just inches away, Bolan scrabbled to open the pocket and pull the gun out. He didn’t both shooting it, but brought it up as far as he could, almost to within reach of his right hand. The two were just an inch away, and with a final push, Bolan grabbed it in his right hand.

  Raising it high, he smashed the bottle of tranquilizer into the man’s open mouth, breaking a tooth off as the glass shattered—releasing the remaining drug. The man instinctively bit down, his teeth crunching on glass. The tranquilizer began taking effect almost immediately, making him drop Bolan, who stumbled for the door as he pulled air into his lungs with a wheeze.

  “Come on...almost there...!” Bolan heard glass shatter and another whoosh nearby as an alcohol-fueled blaze lit the street again. Reaching the door, he was pulled inside and it slammed shut behind him. A second later, fists began pounding on the wood—a lot of fists.

  Hands on his knees, Bolan took a moment to get his wind back. A shout and a blur of motion caught his eye and he turned in time to see Sevan aiming a kick at his chest. Bolan trapped his foot and pushed him backward to fall onto the floor. “Knock it...the hell...off!”

  The mobster glared at him from the floor. “You just don’t know when to die, do you, American?”

  Bolan shook his head wearily. “Never have.” He glanced up at his saviors to see a whip-thin man in his early twenties, with shirt, messy brown hair and round glasses, holding what looked like a stained leg of a chair ready to brain either of them. “If he does that again, clobber him, will you?”

  “Has either of you been bitten by them? Is either of you infected? Feeling sweaty or have red eyes?” the young man wearing the glasses asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Bolan replied.

  “You’re—you’re American,” the young man said.

  “Yes. Matt Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan replied. His credentials were completely fabricated, but given the circumstances, it was unlikely that anyone here was going to bother to ask him for identification.

  “What are you doing here?” the pretty young woman in a short skirt and blouse next to him asked.

  “He’s kidnapping me—” Sevan began.

  “Shut up,” Bolan said to him. “That’s technically classified, but since you’ve already seen me and him—” Bolan waved at the Armenian “—I’m extraditing him.”

  “Against his will?” the man asked.

  “You got that right, boy,” Sevan said.

  “He’s the head of a large criminal syndicate, with outstanding warrants on him in several countries for crimes ranging from drug smuggling to murder.” Bolan took a deep breath. “As you might imagine, he’d prefer to not go quietly. But enough about my problem. Who are you two and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m William Scott and this is Siranush...” The man glanced at the woman, who shrugged.

  “If it matters, my name is Siranush Tatilian.”

  Scott pointed at the ceiling. “My other friend—the one upstairs with the bottles—is Gary Alcaster. We came here with a third friend, Josh Tyrell, but he’s dead. We’re all medical students from London.”

&
nbsp; “Students backpacking across Europe?” Bolan raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think you guys went in for that sort of thing anymore.”

  “It was a special trip...” Scott trailed off and Bolan could almost see the thought in the young man’s mind... That got my friend killed.

  “Look, you guys had no way of knowing what you stumbled into here—” he began.

  “Which was?” Scott asked.

  “Right now, I don’t exactly know,” Bolan replied. “But my primary mission is to get out of here and inform some people who can find out and stop this—hopefully without too much more bloodshed. Now, I’ve got a small jet waiting at a private airstrip about thirty kilometers away that can take all of us out of here. Do any of you have a car?”

  Scott nodded. “It’s parked out back. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but we’ll all fit.”

  Bolan nodded. “Good. Let’s grab your friend and get the hell out of here.”

  “Best damn idea I’ve heard all day,” Scott said. “Come on, this way.”

  “Hang on.” Bolan walked over to Sevan, who was still sitting on the floor. “Get up and put your hands behind your back.”

  With a groan, the mobster did as he was told. “Not again.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have to, except you tried to kick me in the face.”

  “I was aiming for your chest,” Sevan replied. “Then I would have left and either gotten another car to escape or holed up to wait all this craziness out.”

  “No chance of that now,” Bolan said as he held the man’s shoulder tightly. “Everything else may have gone to hell here, but I’ve gone through way too much to have you walk now. You’re stuck with me.” He nodded at Scott. “Go get your friend while I let my people know what’s going on. Make sure he has the keys.”