“Don’t call me dumb! I am Cratos!” He looked at the rifle in Franks’ hands as they both judged the too short distance between them. The huge Nemesis demon grinned. “Little gun won’t do no good. Now I hurt you like you hurt me!” Cratos bellowed and charged.
Franks stepped on the halberd shaft. The spike lifted. Cratos’ red eyes widened with realization just before it impaled him through the chest. His weight and momentum drove the big blade right through his center of mass.
“You should pay more attention.” Letting the rifle hang from its sling, Franks took up the shaft in both hands and drove Cratos back, smashing him through the sheet metal of a machine, and then wrenching the spike out in a spray of blood. For being so damned big, the demon was still incredibly fast, and was already tearing himself free, so Franks smashed his face in with the halberd shaft. Cratos bit the wood in half. Franks stepped back, looking at the splintered ends of the hard wood. “Impressive.” Then he planted the ax blade deep into the center of Cratos’ forehead.
Cratos shrieked and got up, flailing about, trying to adjust to having the hemispheres of his brain forcefully separated. Franks stepped aside as he thrashed and lashed out. A solid hit from this monster could possibly render Franks combat-ineffective, so he needed to end this quickly. Supposedly these things were based on him, which meant that no matter how much traumatic brain injury they received, the backup systems along the spine would keep all of the basic systems functioning and the body alive. There was one way to test if that was the case . . .
Franks dodged a wild, uncoordinated swing, got behind Cratos and clamped one hand onto the demon’s neck. His other hand caught hold of his belt. Franks couldn’t believe how much Cratos weighed, but he still hoisted the thrashing demon up, arms fully extended, until he was extended far over Franks’ head. By the time Cratos realized what was happening, it was too late, but it was hard to think clearly with a chunk of steel cutting your brain in half. With a roar, Franks hurled the demon’s back down against his knee.
Satisfied the spine was broken, Franks rolled him onto the floor. Cratos flopped and twitched for several seconds, and then he stopped moving, lying facedown in a puddle of slime.
That works.
Judging by the flashlights and gunfire, his men had followed Cueto’s instructions, and gotten to a more defensible position. Too bad this place was still crawling with demons. He still had a lot of work to do. Franks shook one of his new arms out. He’d torn muscles trying to lift that stupid demon, and his internal organs were overloaded. Taking more Elixir so soon was dangerous, but Franks hurried and took another swig of glowing liquid pain. If he continued to push at this pace, death was the most likely outcome, but that was an acceptable mission parameter.
His radio chirped. “Go for Franks.”
“This is Archer. There’s a plane coming in. It’s a large military transport.”
“Stricken’s reinforcements,” Franks muttered.
“Looks like a combat landing.”
Curious. If Stricken had brought in the military, there was no point in ordering his men to fight them, because they wouldn’t. “Stall.”
“Roger that. There’s a . . . We’ve got incoming! Nemesis on the—” The channel turned to static.
“Archer. Come in.” There was no response. Nemesis had hit his people topside. Kurst was up to something. Worse, the rookie was up there. “Damn it. Cueto, did you get that? There’s a transport landing on the airfield. Nemesis is attacking us above.” There wasn’t an immediate response. Cueto was either occupied or dead.
Extremely loud footsteps rang against the metal above. “Hello, Franks.”
Franks returned the greeting as his night-vision-capable eye struggled to focus. All he could make out was a gigantic, misshapen form. “Kurst.”
“That aircraft is our way out of this place. It is remarkable what you can arrange on such short notice when you have all of Stricken’s authorization codes. We will start over, away from the mortal’s prying eyes. A place has been prepared where we will grow in number.”
“You’ll never make it. They’ll shoot you down.”
“None of these humans will be alive long enough to warn the others.” Kurst walked down the stairs. Other than being bipedal, there was nothing recognizably human left about his form. He made Cratos’ mutated body seem tiny in comparison. Kurst had to be at least eight feet tall, with skin stretched so tight over powerful muscles that it had split apart in places, and the sides of his skull had grown into a twisted forest of horns.
“What happened to you?”
“I have temporarily molded this form to be more to my liking. Don’t worry. I can change back in order to blend in with the sheep when necessary.” Despite speaking through an elongated mouth full of sharp teeth, Kurst’s voice remained unchanged. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen better.”
“That Gift I spoke of earlier? I had to use most of it on myself to be able to achieve this form, but it is worth it.”
“You always were greedy.”
Kurst laughed. “We are the third of the host, Franks. Greed is our way. Have you pretended to be human for so long that you’ve forgotten that? You disgust me, brother. You were the fiercest amongst us, but now you are His dog, groveling beneath the table for whatever scraps the mortals will give you.”
“You talk too much.” Franks reached down, grabbed the broken halberd, and wrenched the ax blade from Cratos’ skull. “Let’s go.”
* * *
If Heather had known that she wouldn’t be able to fully transform into a werewolf yet, and also that the Nemesis soldier she was supposed to fight was going to suddenly grow spines like a damned puffer fish, she would’ve told Stricken to shove that PUFF exemption up his ass.
She was swatted to the ground again, but rolled out of the way before the monster could stab her. Heather sprang to her feet, and with no better option, slugged the monster in her twisted face. Even in human form a werewolf was still extremely strong. The thing’s face was harder than it looked, but spongy beneath. Something gave beneath her fist.
“Ah! Gross!” Heather wiped her knuckles on her shirt as she backpedaled.
The impact had caused the monster’s face to split open, like cracking a crab shell, and ropey tendrils of meat were hanging out. The red mass was slurped back into its head. “Is that the best you’ve got?” The Nemesis soldier seemed to be enjoying itself.
Ducking, Heather barely managed to avoid having her head torn off. The monster was terrifying, like a bunch of children’s nightmares all smashed together in one bucket, but that disfigured body was clumsy, and probably slower than it should have been. That was keeping Heather alive, but without claws and teeth, she’d not been able to hurt the thing. All she could do was buy some time.
Stricken had used Heather’s distraction to climb out of the hole and get to the door. He punched in a code, but nothing happened. Stricken immediately tried again, but his only reward was a red flashing light.
“You forgot the code!” Heather cried out as she narrowly kept from being eviscerated. “Idiot!”
But Stricken didn’t respond. He tried the code again. The red flashing continued, but now it was joined by a warning buzzer. Renfroe crawled out of the hatch, saw what Stricken was doing, and shouted, “Stop! One more and the system will lock us out.”
Stricken stepped away from the keypad. Heather had never seen him appear emotional and out of control before. “The numbers he gave me don’t work! Fix it!”
Bubble gum and spider webs . . .
“That’s not Stricken. He set us up—” The monster dove and crashed into Heather, driving her back against the wall. Needles and spines sank into her arms. She screamed.
“Son of a bitch!” Renfroe shoved the fake Stricken out of the way and put his hand on the keypad. His flesh began to glow. The red warning light turned green.
Heather slipped and fell. The thrashing monster was on top of her, snapping at her f
ace with multiple mouths. Desperate, Heather got hold of the thing’s arms and tried to keep the viciously piercing tentacles away from her body. She squeezed so hard that the monster’s skin ruptured and blood poured out around her hands. “Get us out of here!”
“On it,” Renfroe answered, distracted and concentrating.
The Nemesis soldier had grown a horn from the center of her face. The head lifted, rising on extra vertebrae, until the point was aimed right between Heather’s eyes. You’ve got to be kidding . . . The horn fell.
Heather jerked her head to the side. The horn sliced her cheek wide open and embedded itself in the concrete. “Cheating bitch!” Heather let go of one of the monster’s arms, swung her elbow and broke the horn clean off. The monster shrieked, and the hot mass rolled off of her. Heather grabbed the horn, ripped it out of the floor, and stabbed the monster through the head. While the thing lurched back, Heather used the opportunity to get up.
Stricken’s secretary—Heather had never gotten her name—had a very hopeful look on her face as she crawled through the hatch. That look vanished as soon as a hand shot out of the hole and grabbed onto her ankle. She screamed as the Nemesis soldier dragged her back into the dark. So much for the other survivors. Heather looked at the screaming, angry monster, trying to pull its own horn out of its eye socket, and then back to the hatch.
With nothing to lose, Heather got a running start and kicked the monster in the back. It stumbled toward the hole . . . only to catch itself on the edge of the hatch.
“Oh, come on!” She kept stomping the monster, but it wouldn’t do her the favor of falling three stories and taking its friend with it. Fake Stricken was still standing there, useless. “A little help?” she gasped, but whatever was wearing the Stricken mask didn’t budge.
“Got it,” Renfroe shouted. There was a loud metallic clang as the bunker door unlocked. “There’s an MCB agent on the other side.”
She never thought she’d be glad to hear that the MCB was here, but despite her pummeling the hell out of it, the Nemesis monster was getting up. Her limbs were burning, she was short of breath. “Die already!” Desperate, Heather grabbed the end of the stuck horn, and wrenched it around, pushing hard until the monster’s neck snapped. That seemed to do the trick, as it lost its slimy grip and tumbled down the shaft.
Heather watched it fall until it hit something unyielding, bounced against the side, and disappeared into the darkness.
There was another Nemesis soldier hanging onto the ladder. This one still looked human, but he was fast. He surged forward as Heather kicked the hatch closed, but he still managed to get one hand through the gap. She slammed the hatch down hard against the bones, and when he still didn’t let go, she climbed on top of the hatch and began jumping up and down on it.
There was a pop as the hatch closed all the way. The severed hand flopped on the ground, fingers still clutching wildly. Too bad it locks on the other side. But she barely had time to finish that thought, as the monster smashed the hatch wide open, flinging Heather on the floor.
Renfroe pulled the massive door; it groaned and barely moved, but a sliver of daylight came through the crack. “Almost there!” Then somebody on the other side hit the door with such force that Renfroe was knocked down as it flew open.
A lone man was standing there, a dark silhouette in the sunlight. He stepped into the room, wearing MCB armor and a face mask, with a very large tank on his back and a flamethrower in his hands. Over the strong smell of napalm and impending doom, another familiar scent hit Heather, and she almost couldn’t believe her nose. “No way.”
The one-armed Nemesis soldier was climbing through the broken hatch. The man stepped forward, shoved the nozzle right into the soldier’s face and set it off.
Heather dove to the side as the flamethrower ignited. Fire rolled down the shaft. The small room was instantly flooded with unbearable heat. The Nemesis monster screamed as he was engulfed. He let go of the ladder and dropped, trying to escape the destroying flames.
The trigger was released and the fire died. The masked man saw Stricken making a run for daylight. “You’re not going anywhere, jackass,” he said as he smoothly drew a stainless steel revolver and fired a single round into Stricken’s back, dropping him at the end of the tunnel.
“I can’t believe it!” Heather sprang up and ran to him.
The man pulled off his mask. “I warned Stricken not to let anything happen to you,” Earl Harbinger said as he shrugged out of the shoulder straps and dumped the pressurized tank on the floor. “Not how I pictured our reunion. Anybody else down there?”
“Nobody I wouldn’t mind blowing up.”
“Good.” Earl took out a grenade, shoved it into the straps, and pulled the pin. He shoved the flamethrower over the edge and kept the spoon. “Move!”
Renfroe had already run for his life. Earl was the last one out. He closed the vault door behind them and left the STFU bunker to burn.
CHAPTER 19
A Binding Contract of Perpetual Alliance, offensive and defensive, entered into between the being Franks and the United States in Congress assembled.
Recognizing that the hordes of Hell are a threat to all the establishments of man and the United Colonies of North America, let it be recorded that the Mission of Franks is
to protect the People from the predations of the Unearthly. Franks does solemnly swear before these witnesses to protect this land from all inhuman forces who may threaten
its citizens and their property and wellbeing. Franks shall henceforth fulfill this duty to the best of his abilities including the sacrifice of his liberty and life. In return, by all Rights, Laws, and Privileges, the being Franks shall be considered as a living man.
Both parties have agreed to the following stipulations.
The continued secrecy pertaining to the Unearthly, being necessary for the liberty and sanity of all men, the Congress shall establish a special committee of learned men pertaining to the Unearthly Forces, to be convened in secret.
Franks shall abide by the laws and limitations set upon him by the Congress, provided said laws do not clash with his mission as stated. The trial of all crimes committed by Franks in pursuit of his mission shall be by the special committee.
Franks shall not engage in acts of offensive war with any Nation, Nations of Indians, or Other Worlds without Consent of the Congress.
In exchange for the protection and services provided by Franks, the Congress will provide him with physical repairs, body parts of suitable quality, and any supplies necessary so that he may remain effective in battle against the hordes of Hell. All expenses incurred shall be defrayed from the Common Treasury.
Regardless of any alchemical or scientific knowledge gleaned from the study of the physical form of Franks, no attempt must ever be made to replicate the work of Konrad Dippel in order to create a physical body like unto that of Franks or this contract is immediately rendered void. In consequence Franks shall levy total war upon the parties responsible.
In Witness whereof we have hereunto set our hands on the first day of January in the Year of our Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred and Seventy-Six.
* * *
As Franks ran forward, he lifted the SCAR with one hand and began firing at Kurst. The demon lunged behind a steel girder.
Franks slid behind a large machine, shoved the halberd handle through his belt so he could have his hand free, and reloaded the rifle. Another agent had taken cover in that same place earlier, but something had ripped his head off and left his body there leaking. Seeing the corpse just made Franks even angrier. He was going to destroy Kurst. Even with a body like that, Kurst would have physical limits. He just needed to be pushed beyond those limits, and Franks had a lot of practice at that sort of thing. One of Myers’ favorite sayings had been old age and treachery beat youth and skill. Kurst might have a stronger form, but he was still learning how to use it. Hopefully that would be enough.
Franks dropped the bolt, shouldered the
rifle, and came out shooting.
Kurst leapt out from behind the girder, and in one mighty leap covered the entire distance between them. He landed in front of Franks, claws skidding across the slick floor. Bullet holes puckered across Kurst’s chest and ruptured out his back, but the wounds didn’t slow him. He swatted the rifle from Franks’ hands, then slammed one big fist into Franks’ torso.
Franks flew back twenty feet and crashed through a workstation. He sat up to discover there was still a fist-shaped dent in his chest plate. Kurst was strong. Fast too, since he was already on top of him. The demon hit him with a blow to the head so hard that a regular human’s skull would have burst like a balloon. Franks was rattled. Spit hit him in the eyes as Kurst shouted, “You have sinned against the host. That was a mistake, Franks!”
Franks grabbed hold of Kurst’s horns and yanked down hard. “My only mistake was listening to you fools to begin with!” He curled his other hand into a fist and slugged Kurst in the mouth.
Claws hooked through his improvised bandolier and Franks was violently hoisted off the ground. Their hands flashed back and forth, trying to knock each other aside for a moment before Franks gave up. The demon was just too strong. Before Kurst could throw him again, Franks clicked the buckle and dropped free, leaving Kurst with nothing but a handful of pistol belt and pouches. Franks crawled away.
Kurst followed him. “Running won’t save you. Do you really think you’re that clever?”
“Yes.” Franks held up the pin he’d pulled from one of his grenades, then he rolled beneath a heavy table.
“Hmm . . .” Kurst looked down at the pouches in his hand and then at the grenade spoon that had fallen a few feet away. Realization dawned a split second too late to do anything about it.
Shrapnel blasted through the thick wood Franks was using for cover. The frag was slowed, but he was close enough that some of it still tore through and injured him. The pressure wave left his ears ringing. A quick inventory confirmed blood loss, but nothing vital hit. Franks stuck his head out. The demon had gotten it far worse. The blast had flung Kurst away. The demon was sitting up, stunned, looking at his mangled hand. Most of that arm resembled hamburger more than anything else, but Kurst appeared more angry than hurt. Franks scowled. That would have turned most living things into red mush. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.
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