A machine gun opened up from off to their left.
All heads turned to watch one of the escort armored-up hummers pull to a stop. The automated MK9 40mm machine gun was shredding the ground about ninety meters out. When it paused its firing, an immense worm surfaced, shedding sand and cactus as it rose. If it turned towards them, they were doomed. Their weapons could hurt it, but it was doubtful they could kill it. Nothing short of a rocket could kill the Sonoran Death Worm. The machine gun opened up again, stitching the side of the beast. Great gouts of flesh blew away. Yellow blood oozed. The machine gun fired again, striking new places. The worm howled, then dove into the ground and disappeared.
Everyone waited for it to resurface, but after a minute, it was clear that it had had enough. Still, no one spoke as they eagerly scanned the horizon.
Somehow, they eventually made it through Morongo Valley unscathed.
Chapter Thirty One
Cathedral City. Blane was worried about the taint of magic upon him. It was clear that Rook’s men couldn’t discern the difference, but what of the monks and the harlots? What of Rook and the Black Bishop? He might not be able to get close enough to do what he needed and that idea was enough to make him desperate. He adjusted the strap of the bomb where it was chafing his shoulder.
Barry, you there?
Of course. How’s it feel to have me in your head?
It actually tickles a little.
I’ve heard that before.
It would help if we had some advance eyes.
All of our zombies were discovered after the earthquake. Even if we had some, we have no drivers left.
Blane thought about this for a while. They really were a desperate bunch. And to think that they’d once thought themselves sneaky, that they might be able to have the upper hand against the Black Bishop. It was laughable now. Now at the very end of it here he was, one lone man against an army. Even Don Quixote would have taken one look and turned Rocinante back home. Blane’s was such a preposterous task it was like a beetle trying to punch an elephant in the eye.
Yet here he was.
One last pathetic gasp.
His beetle punch.
What are you going to do when it’s all done, Barry?
Get out of here. Find some seashore somewhere. Drink margaritas.
Blane closed his eyes and tried to imagine him on a shore somewhere with a sweating glass in his hand but he couldn’t. Still, he said, sounds like a plan. I hope you make it.
He pushed off of the bed he’d been sitting on and strode to the door. He turned to check and noted that it was impossible to see the body wedged back in the shadows beneath the bed. They’d eventually find it, but by then it would be too late.
Blane was now Cody Chin. He wore the young man’s face. His build had been reshaped. His hair was much darker. At least it appeared that way.
He left the room, then the barracks, then found his way up the path to the entrance to the cathedral complex. Two of Rook’s men stood on either side of the wide gate, watching those who entered. He felt their eyes on him as he approached. He didn’t look left or right, just walked calmly past.
And it was easy.
“Hey, Cody?” came a voice from behind him.
BlaneCody froze, then slowly turned around.
“Yeah?”
The one on the left with the blonde hair said, “We still on for tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Yeah. You wanted to go ‘cabra hunting with spears.”
BlaneCody looked up, then grinned. “Yes. Of course.” Then he rolled his eyes. “Been one of those days. Know what I mean?”
The blonde guy grinned back. “Sure has, brother.”
Blane turned and continued into the cathedral compound. His goal was to bypass it, curl around to the left and enter the Grotto. He’d memorized the map they’d created, although he was already seeing that it was imperfect.
A shout came as three postulants dropped to their knees, then prostrated themselves on the ground.
Blane turned and observed the Black Bishop and Rook striding out of the Grotto from about a hundred yards away. Postulants threw themselves to the ground in their wake. Blane caught himself watching and almost missed the fact that they were coming right for him. He panicked, looked for an exit, but the only thing available was the Cathedral. He made a beeline for the door, then went in.
Which was the last thing he should have done.
The Cathedral was filled to bursting and was standing room only. He scooted to his left, putting as much distance between himself and the door as possible. He was able to elbow his way to a spot beside a marble pillar thick enough to hide him from view if necessary.
He’d seen pictures of the inside of the Cathedral, but actually being here was stunning. The Cathedral hadn’t changed during the blinding and the earthquake. It had always been this grandiose, hearkening back to something that could have been built in Paris during the 1600s, with its flying buttresses and floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. His eyes were drawn to these as he saw nothing he recognized from the bible. These were not Christian representations, but images from the life of the Black Bishop, ranging from self-mutilations to what could only be torture. It hurt his eyes to look at the images. Rather than look away and bring attention to himself, he closed his eyes.
He heard the door open and the communal rush of breath as the Black Bishop and Rook entered. He heard them stride across the marble floor, down the aisle and take the dais.
Blane opened his eyes and saw the Black Bishop standing regal in his razor-sharp metal mitre. Beside him and one step down stood Rook, stark in his white suit. The Black Bishop greeted those attending and began to speak, his words a damnation of the normal liturgy.
Blane was aware that he could solve much of their problems by self-detonating at this very moment. He’d take at least fifty people with him. If he somehow managed to make a run for it and get to the middle of the church, he could kill twice that many, including the two highest value targets standing not twenty meters from him.
But he couldn’t do it.
There was a morality embedded in the use of this sort of weapon. An indiscriminate detonation went against everything he’d ever believed in. No, he’d have to wait for another time.
So while he stood and tried not to listen, he allowed himself to scan the crowd. There were no novitiates in the audience. Instead it was mostly filled with the monks, harlots, and Rook’s followers. He noted that there seemed to be more of the latter than the former. Glancing over at Rook, who stared blankly out at the crowd, Blane wondered if there might be a takeover going on.
What was the man’s purpose anyway?
Sebastian had said that he was a sort of representative from the entity that was causing all of the change. If so, he might just be a greater threat than the Black Bishop. They knew his goal and his methods. But this Rook was another evil creature altogether.
He continued scanning. Inside the Cathedral the monks had removed their masks. For the most part their backs were to him, but he could see the faces of those along the sides. The mutilation had been merciless.
But it was worse for the harlots. He counted several who had no arms or legs and were merely torsos with a head, hung from slings in wooden and steel contraptions. All of them were bald and all of them had their tattooed and branded heads uncovered.
Among so many of them he began to feel sick. Their devotion was everything wrong with the universe. They were ruined human beings whose desire was to ruin everyone just as they’d been ruined. But then he reminded himself that most of them, perhaps all of them, were the stolen. Children ripped and ruined by the Black Bishop.
A thought struck him.
Why hadn’t he been looking for Mandy? All of this time and all of his opportunities—this might be the only time when all of the monks and harlots were in a single place at a single time. He began searching again, this time taking more time. His eyes were drawn to a
monk twitching beneath his robe, but he looked away, seeking a harlot instead. But then he was drawn back to the figure. The way the monk’s shoulder hitched when his arm twitched. He’d seen that before. He recognized those movements.
Johnny Spaz!
It had to be. The boy from his own school taken when he was a kid. Blane pictured the kid’s eager face, blonde hair with bangs that hung in his eyes, Coke-bottle glasses, freckled nose and lips a little too full.
The monk suddenly turned as if he could feel someone staring at him.
Blane directed his gaze to the ground, but not before he saw the face. Whoever it was, it could have been Spaz, but with all the remapping, no one would ever know.
Blane sighed.
The idea of finding Mandy was ridiculous. He’d never be able to—
A harlot was staring at him. She still had her arms and legs, but her face had been re-ordered. Where her nose had been there was only a hole covered by a circular silver cap. Her eyelids had been removed, as had her lips. Her tongue was split into three sections. There was nothing recognizable except for maybe her piercing blue eyes that took him in even as he took her in. The wrinkles around the edges of her eyes could have been an emotion, but it was hard to tell, especially with all the freckles. She had so many that her skin took on a reddish hue.
Just like Mandy.
Just then her eyes narrowed. Whatever emotions he couldn’t read before, he recognized the hate beaming from her eyes. Yes. Pure an unadulterated hate bordering on rage. Then she turned and beheld the Black Bishop. The same hate and rage lived in her twin orbs as when she’d looked at Blane.
Mandy, a harlot of the Black Bishop.
Blane closed his eyes, feeling guiltier than he had any time in his long pathetic life. He stayed that way until the Black Bishop finished and left. His eyes remained closed and he tried to find darkness, but wherever he looked, those eyes shined hate down upon him.
Chapter Thirty Two
Berdoo Canyon. Hide Site.
CODENAME: TRAVESTY
Flight Sequence N/A
CLASSIFIED TALENT KEYHOLE
UAV Narration: Sgt Frank Spann
UAV Mode: N/A
…0 flights.
Frank was getting desperate. He felt like a junkie going cold turkey. He had to know what was going on but he had no means to find out. There’d been a time when he’d known about every movement in the Grotto. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He couldn’t stop pacing. He wanted to smoke constantly but fought against it. Add to that the bone-gnawing worry that the fusiliers were going into harm’s way and he’d been the one to send them there. It was his intelligence that indicated it would only be a company-sized force. A message on the last UAV to return had stated that they were going to ambush the cutters somewhere south of Morongo Valley.
Jesus Christ on a crutch but he needed eyes in the sky.
He glanced at the walkie talkie and considered calling Dieter again, but knew that every second the German engineer was talking to him was a moment he wasn’t working on the Hunter.
Screw it. He needed a cigarette. Glancing at his watch, he noted it had only been six minutes since the last one. He cracked open the door and checked for the creature. He didn’t see it, so he climbed down a few steps and sat on the stairs, leaving the door open just in case.
He lit his cigarette, willing his nervousness to subside. He knew it was doing him no good. He just couldn’t seem to not think about it.
He was about halfway through his cigarette when he spied the chupacabra that had been stalking him. It had been moving slowly in the brush, crawling on its stomach like it was sneaking up on him. In fact, it was sneaking up on him. He gauged that it was twenty feet away, which was too close.
When the chupacabra noticed that Frank had seen it, it paused. Its eyes blinked intelligently in an oddly simian face. The muscles along its body twitched and jerked. The muscles of its back legs bulged with stored energy.
Frank took a toke and stared through the cloud. He could either get up slowly, or he could do it fast. Either way, he needed to move. Seeing that it was ready to uncoil sent a spike of fear through his heart.
He counted to himself.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then he stood and dove backwards into the trailer in one awkward move. As he dove, he saw the creature spring towards him. Frank landed hard on his back, the breath leaving him in a gush. Still, he had the wherewithal to kick out with his legs and shut the door. Only it wouldn’t shut all the way. He kicked out again and again and again, but something was wedged in between the door and the jamb and no matter what he did it wouldn’t close.
Frank launched forward, shoving his shoulder to the door. If something was in the way, it could only mean one thing.
And that one thing growled.
Razor blade shivers sliced across his spine. This thing had been stalking him for so long, the cat and mouse had seemed like a game. If this was a game, it was a game of death.
Suddenly the walkie talkie sprang to life.
“Frank, this is Dieter. The craft is ready.”
Frank pushed with all of his might but still managed to roll his eyes. Timing. Everything was about timing.
“Frank, are you there?”
“I can’t talk to you right now, Deiter,” Frank said to the door. “I’m too busy trying not to get eaten.”
Even as he strained against the door, he knew he lacked the strength to close it. In fact, he could feel himself being pushed back millimeter by millimeter. He glanced to the ammo can sitting on top of the mini fridge. Inside was his Army issued Berretta 9mm pistol. Could he let go of the door, get to it, open it, pull it out, and fire before the creature got to him? Damn, but it seemed like a lot of steps. Had he even jacked a round into the chamber? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d held the pistol.
“Frank, this is Dieter. I thought we were in a rush.”
“I’m a little busy here, Deets,” Frank growled, his shoulder pushing the door, his feet beginning to slip. “Should have done more PT, Frank,” he said to himself.
Then he let go, pushing off and leaping towards the ammo can. But whatever graceful athletic maneuver he’d planned was destroyed when his knee hit the chair. The chair was on wheels and once he hit it, it skittered to the side, sending him falling face first onto the metal floor of the trailer.
His face burned with pain, but he scooted himself past the chair.
The door was wide open. The chupacabra stood in the doorway, framed by the outside light. It was impossibly huge.
Frank kicked out at the chair and sent it rolling towards the beast. Luckily, it had been preparing to jump, so whatever move it had planned on making was destroyed by the untrustworthy chair, just as Frank’s move had been destroyed.
The chupacabra fell to the ground.
The walkie talkie crackled. “Frank, is everything okay?”
Frank lunged for the ammo box, knocking it to the ground. He scrambled to open it, failing at first, then snapping the lid free.
Pain shot down his left calf as the creature swiped at it with a paw.
Frank reached into the ammo can and saw that the magazine was out of the pistol. He pulled his legs as close to him as he could, managing a fetal position. He slapped the magazine into the 9mm, then jacked back the slide, loading a round into the chamber. Not a second too soon, he pulled the trigger, catching the beast as it dove on top of him. Frank continued pulling the trigger a total of nine times.
The creature whined once, then fell dead on top of him.
“Frank? Please respond,” crackled the walkie talkie.
Frank lay there for a time, unable and unwilling to move. His calf screamed at him. The beast weighed a ton. His heart was going two hundred beats a minute, and he was out of breath. It was at that a moment that he swore that he’d smoked his last cigarette.
Finally, he reached up and grabbed the walkie talkie.
“How’
s it going, Deets?”
“There you are. I was worried something had happened.”
“Nope. Everything’s okay. Just waiting for notification. Is it ready for launch?”
“It’s all set up and ready to go. And oh, good news. I think I can fix the other one in a matter of minutes, now that I know how to trade out the circuit boards.”
Frank sighed. “That is good news. Thanks, Deets.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?” the German said like it was a question.
Frank couldn’t remember the last time he’d said it, but now seemed like a good time to start.
He managed to push the creature to the side, then climbed to his feet. His leg was bleeding, but he didn’t have time to fix it. He leaned over his control panel, beamed his pre-recorded warning message into the Hunter, then launched it.
He’d have to monitor it until it hit the fog bank. Normally he’d use GPS, but the satellites weren’t responding, so he had to fly on an azimuth and count on the video feed to help him find the fusiliers.
He limped heavily to the door just in time to see Jenkies pull up.
She rolled down her window.
“Come on, let’s go. They’re on to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“They not only shot down your UAVs, they compromised the Committee.”
He cursed under his breath. He started down the stairs, but realized he didn’t have his cigarettes on him. He knew that he’d promised himself that he’d quit, but it just didn’t seem like the right time. He found the pack on the ground beside the beast, partially crushed. He reached down and grabbed them. Then he straightened and gave the beast a kick. But it was with his bad leg, and the pain sent him hopping.
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