by David Drake
“You saw him?” Ben’s voice was suddenly sharp, the hunter scenting prey.
Lorne shook his head. “I just felt him. But he was there, baby.”
“Just like before they shot us down,” the policeman said quietly. “You squeezing my arm and shouting over the damn engines ‘They’re waiting for us, they’re waiting for us!’ And not a fucking thing I could do—I didn’t order the assault and the Captain sure wasn’t going to call it off because my machinegunner said to. But you were right, snake.”
“The flames…,” Lorne whispered, his eyes unfocused.
“And you’re a dumb bastard to have done it, but you carried me out of them. It never helped us a bit that you knew when the shit was about to hit the fan. But you’re a damn good man to have along when it does.”
Lorne’s muscles trembled with memory. Then he stood and laughed into the night. “You know, sarge, in twenty-seven years I’ve only found one job I was any good at. I didn’t much like that one, and anyhow—the world doesn’t seem to need killers.”
“They’ll always need us, snake,” Ben said quietly. “Some times they won’t admit it.” Then, “Well, I think I’ll waste some more gas.”
“Sarge—” The word hung in the empty darkness. There was engine noise and the tires hissing in the near distance and—nothing else. “Sarge, Mrs Purefoy was on her porch a minute ago and she didn’t go inside. But she’s not there now.”
Ben’s five-cell flashlight slid its narrow beam across the porch: the glider, the wing-back chair. On the far railing, a row of potted violets with a gap for the one now spilled on the boards as if by someone vaulting the rail but dragging one heel.…
“Didn’t hear it fall,” the policeman muttered, clacking open the car door. The dome light spilled a startling yellow pool across the two men. As it did so, white motion trembled half a block down Rankin Street.
“Fucker!” Ben said. “He couldn’t jump across the street, he threw something so it flashed.” Ben was back in the car.
Lorne squinted, furious at being blinded at the critical instant. “Sarge, I’ll swear to God he headed for the church.” Lorne strode stiffly around the front of the vehicle and got in on the passenger side.
“Mother-fuck!” the stocky policeman snarled, dropping the microphone that had three times failed to get him a response. He reached for the shift lever, looked suddenly at Lorne as the slender man unclipped the shotgun. “Where d’ye think you’re going?”
“With you.”
Ben slipped the transmission into Drive and hung a shrieking U-turn in the empty street. “The first one’s birdshot, the next four are double-ought buck,” he said flatly.
Lorne jacked the slide twice, chambering the first round and them shucking it out the ejector. It gleamed palely in the instrument light. “Don’t think we’re going after birds,” he explained.
Ben twisted across the street and bounced over the driveway cut. The car slammed to a halt in the small lot behind and shielded by the bulk of the old church. It was a high, narrow building with two levels of boarded windows the length of the east and west sides; the square tower stood at the south end. At some time after its construction, the church had been faced with artificial stone. It was dingy, a gray mass in the night with a darkness about it that the night alone did not explain.
Ben slid out of the car. His flash touched the small door to the right of the tower. “Nothing wrong with the padlock,” Lorne said. It was a formidable one, set in a patinaed hasp to close the church against vandals and derelicts.
“They were all locked tight yesterday, too,” the patrolman said. “He could still be getting in one of those windows. We’ll see.” He turned to the trunk of the car and opened it, holding his flashlight in the crook of his arm so his right hand could be free for his drawn revolver.
Lorne’s quick eyes scanned the wall above them. He bent back at the waist instead of tilting his head alone. “Got the key?” he asked.
The stocky man chuckled, raising a pair of folding shovels, army surplus entrenching tools. “Keep that corn-sheller ready,” he directed, holstering his own weapon. He locked the blade of one shovel at 90° to the shaft and set it on top of the padlock. The other, still folded, cracked loudly against the head of the first and popped the lock open neatly. “Field expedients, snake,” Ben laughed. “If we don’t find anything, we can just shut the place up again and nobody’ll know the difference.”
He tossed the shovels aside and swung open the door. The air that puffed out had the expected mustiness of a long-closed structure with a sweetish overtone that neither man could have identified. Lorne glanced around the outside once more, then followed the patrolman within. The flames in his mind were very close.
“Looks about like it did last night,” Ben said.
“And last year, I’d guess.” The wavering oval of the flashlight picked over the floor. The hardwood was warping, pocked at frequent intervals by holes.
“They unbolted the old pews when they moved,” Ben explained. “Took the stained glass too, since the place was going to be torn down.”
The nave was a single narrow room running from the chancel in the north to the tower which had held the organ pipes and, above, the chimes. The main entrance was by a side aisle, through double doors in the middle of the west wall. The interior looked a gutted ruin.
“You checked the whole building?” Lorne asked. The pulpit had been ripped away. The chancel rail remained though half-splintered, apparently to pass the organ and altar. Fragments of wood, crumpled boxes, and glass littered the big room.
“The main part. We didn’t have the key to the tower and the major didn’t want to bust in.” Ben took another step into the nave and kicked at a stack of old bulletins.
White heat, white fire—“Ben, did you check the ceiling when you were here last night?”
“Huh?” The narrow Gothic vault was blackness forty feet above the ground. Ben’s flashlight knifed upward across painted plaster to the ribbed and paneled ceiling that sloped to the main beam. And—“Jesus!”
A large cocoon was tight against the roof peak. It shimmered palely azure, but the powerful light thrust through to the human outline within. Long shadows quivered on the wood, magnifying the trembling of the policeman’s wrist as the beam moved from the cocoon to another beside it, to the third—
“Seven of the fuckers!” Ben cried, taking another step and slashing the light to the near end of the room where the south wall closed the inverted V of the ceiling. Above the door to the tower was the baize screen of the pipe loft. The cloth fluttered behind Mrs Purefoy, who stood stiffly upright twenty feet in the air. Her face was locked in horror, framed by her tousled white hair. Both arms were slightly extended but were stone-rigid within the lace-fringed sleeves of her dress.
“She—” Lorne began, but as he spoke and Ben’s hand fell to the butt of his revolver, Mrs Purefoy began to fall, tilting a little in a rustle of skirts. Beneath the crumpled edge of the baize curtain, spiked on the beam of Ben’s flashlight, gleamed the head and foreclaws of what had been clutching the woman.
The eyes glared like six-inch opals, fierce and hot in a dead white exoskeleton. The foreclaws clicked sideways. As though they had cocked a spring, the whole flat torso shot down at Ben.
An inch long and scuttling under a rock it might have passed for a scorpion, but this lunging monster was six feet long without counting the length of the tail arced back across its body. Flashing legs, flashing body armor, and the fluid-jeweled sting that winked as Lorne’s finger twitched in its killer’s reflex—
Lorne’s body screamed at the recoil of the heavy charge. The creature spun as if kicked in mid-air, smashing into the floor a yard from Ben instead of on top of the policeman. The revolver blasted, a huge yellow bottle-shape flaring from the muzzle. The bullet ripped away a window shutter because a six-inch pincer had locked Ben’s wrist. The creature reared onto the back two pairs of its eight jointed legs. Lorne stepped sideways for a cle
ar shot, the slide of his weapon slick-snacking another round into the chamber. On the creature’s white belly was a smeared, multi-brancate star—the load of buckshot had ricochetted off, leaving a trail like wax on glass.
Ben clubbed his flashlight. It cracked harmlessly between the glowing eyes and sprang from his hand. The other claw flashed to Ben’s face and trapped it, not crushingly but hard enough to immobilize and start blood-trails down both cheeks. The blades of the pincer ran from nose to hairline on each side.
Lorne thrust his shotgun over Ben’s right shoulder and fired point blank. The creature rocked back, jerking a scream from the policeman as the claws tightened. The lead struck the huge left eye and splashed away, dulling the opal shine. The flashlight still glaring from the floor behind the creature silhouetted its sectioned tail as it arched above the policeman’s head. The armed tip plunged into the base of his neck. Ben stiffened.
Lorne shouted and emptied his shotgun. The second dense red bloom caught like a strobe light the dotted line of blood droplets joining Ben’s neck to the withdrawn injector. A claw seized Lorne’s waist in the rolling echo of the shotgun blasts. His gunbutt cracked on the creature’s armor, steel sparking as it slid off. The extending pincer brushed the shotgun aside and clamped over Lorne’s face, half-shielding from him the sight of the rising sting.
Then it smashed on Lorne’s neck brace, and darkness exploded over him in a flare of coruscant pain.
* * *
The oozing ruin of Mrs Purefoy’s face stared at Lorne through its remaining eye when he awoke. Everything swam in blue darkness except for one bright blur. He blinked and the blur suddenly resolved into a streetlight glaring up through a shattered board. Lorne’s lungs burned and his stiffness seemed more than even unconsciousness and the pain skidding through his nerve paths could explain. He moved his arm and something clung to its surface; the world quivered.
Lorne was hanging from the roof of the church in a thin, transparent sheath. Mrs Purefoy was a yard away, multiple wrappings shrouding her corpse more completely. With a strength not far from panic, Lorne forced his right fist into the bubble around him. The material, extruded in broad swathes by the creature rather than as a loom of threads, sagged but did not tear. The clear azure turned milky under stress and sucked in around Lorne’s wrist.
He withdrew his hand. The membrane passed some oxygen but not enough for an active man. Lorne’s hands patted the outside of his pockets finding, as he had expected, nothing with a sharp edge. He had not recently bitten off his thumbnails. Thrusting against the fire in his chest, he brought his left hand in front of his body. With a fold of the cocoon between each thumb and index finger, he thrust his hands apart. A rip started in the white opacity beneath his right thumb. Air, clean and cool, jetted in.
“Oh, Jesus,” Lorne muttered, even the pain in his body forgotten as he widened the tear upwards to his face. The cocoon was bobbing on a short lead, rotating as the rip changed its balance. Lorne could see that he had become ninth in the line of hanging bodies, saved from their paralysis by the chance of his neck brace. Ben, his face blurred by the membrane holding him next to Lorne, had been less fortunate.
Ten yards from where Lorne hung and twenty feet below the roof beam, the baize curtain of the pipe loft twitched. Lorne froze in fearful immobility.
The creature had been able to leap the width of a street carrying the weight of an adult; its strength must be as awesome as was the rigidity of its armor. Whether or not it could drive its sting through Lorne’s brace, it could assuredly rip him to collops if it realized he was awake.
The curtain moved again, the narrow ivory tip of a pincer lifting it slightly. The creature was watching Lorne.
Ben carried three armor-piercing rounds in his .357 Magnum for punching through car doors. Lorne tried to remember whether the revolver had remained in Ben’s hand as he fell. There was no image of that in Lorne’s mind, only the torchlike muzzle blasts of his own shotgun. Slim as it was, his only hope was that the jacketed bullets would penetrate the creature’s exoskeleton though the soft buckshot had not.
Lorne twisted his upper torso out of the hole for a closer look at Ben, making his own cocoon rock angrily. The baize lifted further. The street light lay across it in a pale band. Why didn’t the creature scuttle out to finish the business?
Brief motion waked a flash of scintillant color from the pipe loft. The curtain flapped closed as if a volley of shots had ripped through it. Lorne recognized the reflex: the panic of a spider when a stick thrusts through its web. Not an object, though; the light itself, weak as it was, had slapped the creature back. Ben’s bright flashlight had not stopped it when necessity drove, but the monster must have felt pain at human levels of illumination. Its eyes were adapted to starlight or the glow of a sun immeasurably fainter than that of Earth. “Where did you come from, you bastard?” Lorne whispered.
Light. It gave him an idea and he fumbled out his butane lighter, adjusting it to a maximum flame. The sheathes were relatively thin over the victims’ faces to aid transpiration. At the waist, though, where a bulge showed Ben’s arm locked to his torso, the membrane was thick enough to be opaque in the dim light. Lorne bent dangerously over, cursing the stiffness of his neck brace. Holding the inch-high jet close, he tried to peer through Ben’s cocoon. Unexpectedly the fabric gave a little and Lorne bobbed forward, bringing the flame in contact with the material sheathing Ben.
The membrane sputtered, kissing Lorne’s hand painfully. He jerked back and the lighter flicked away. It dropped, cold and silent until it cracked on the floor forty feet below. Despite the pattern of light over it, the curtain to the loft was shifting again. Lorne cursed in terror.
A line of green fire sizzled up the side of Ben’s cocoon from the point at which the flame had touched it. The material across his face flared. The policeman gave no sign of feeling his skin curl away. The revolver in his hand winked green.
Lorne screamed. His own flexible prison lurched and sagged like heated polyethylene. Ben was wrapped in a cancerous hell that roared and heaved against the roofbeams as a live thing. Green tongues licked yellow-orange flames from the dry wood as well. Lorne’s cocoon and that to the other side of Ben were deforming in the furnace heat. Another lurch and Lorne had slipped twenty feet, still gripped around the waist in a sack of blue membrane. He was gyrating like a top. The loft curtain had twitched higher each time it spun past his vision.
The bottom of Ben’s cocoon burned away and he plunged past Lorne, face upward and still afire. Bone crunched as he hit. The body rebounded a few inches to fall again on its face. The roar of the flames muffled Lorne’s wail of rage. His own elongated capsule began to flow. Flames grasped at Lorne’s support. Before they could touch the sheathing, the membrane pulled a last few inches and snapped like an overstretched rubber band. The impact of the floor smashed Lorne’s jaw against his neck brace, grinding each tortured vertebra against the next. He did not lose consciousness, but the shock paralyzed him momentarily as thoroughly as the creature’s sting could have done.
Bathed in green light and the orange of the blazing roof panels, the scorpion-thing thrust its thorax into the nave. It walking legs gripped the flat surface, dimpling the plaster. The creature turned upward toward the fire, three more cocoons alight and their hungry flames lapping across the beams. Then, parti-colored by the illumination, its legs shifted and the opal eyes trained on Lorne. The light must be torture to it, muffling in indecision its responses, but it was about to act.
A small form wrapped in a flaming shroud dropped to thump the floor beside Lorne. His arms would move again. He used them to strip the remaining sheathing from his legs. It clung as the heat of the burning corpse began to melt the material. Something writhed from a crackling tumor on the child’s neck. The thing was finger-long and seemed to paw the air with a score of tiny legs; its opalescent eyes proved its parentage. The creature brought more than paralysis to its victims: it was a gravid female.
Green
flame touched the larva. It burst in a pustulent smear.
The adult went mad. Its legs shot it almost the length of the nave to rebound from a sidewall in a cloud of plaster. The creature’s horizontally-flattened tail ruddered it instinctively short of the fire as it leapt upward to the roof peak. It clung there in pale horror against the wood, eyes on the advancing flames. Three more bodies fell, splashing like ginko fruits.
Lorne staggered upright. The fire hammered down at him without bringing pain. His body had no feeling whatever. Ben’s hair had burned. His neck and scalp were black where skin remained, red where it had cracked open to the muscle beneath. The marbled background showed clearly the tiny, pallid hatchling trying to twist across it.
Lorne’s toe brushed the larva onto the floor. His boot heel struck it, struck again and twisted. Purulent ichor spurted between the leather and the boards. Lorne knelt. In one motion he swung Ben across his shoulders and stood, just as he had after their helicopter had nosed into the trees and exploded. Logic had been burned out of Lorne’s mind, leaving only a memory of friendship. He did not look up. As his mechanical steps took him and his burden through the door they had entered, a shadow wavered across them. The creature had sprung back into the loft.
Lorne stumbled to his knees in the parking lot. The church had been rotten and dry. Orange flames fluffed through the roof in several places, thrusting corkscrews of sparks into the night sky. Twelve feet of roof slates thundered into the nave. Flame spewed up like a secondary explosion. There were sirens in the night.
Without warning, the east facade of the tower collapsed into the parking lot. Head-sized chunks of Tennessee-stone smashed at the patrol car, one of them missing Lorne by inches. He looked up, blank-eyed, his hands lightly touching the corpse of his friend. Of its own volition, the right hand traced down Ben’s shoulder to the raw flesh of his elbow. The tower stairs spiraled out of the dust and rubble, laid bare to the steel framework when the wall fell. On the sagging floor of the pipe loft rested a machine like no other thing on Earth, and the creature was inside it. Tubes of silvery metal rose cradleform from a base of similar metal. The interstices were not filled with anything material, but the atmosphere seemed to shiver, blurring the creature’s outline.