Ibenus (Valducan series)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Dark steam belched from the rubble, the cloud so thick he couldn't even see his own feet. He choked on the stench, struggling not to vomit.

  "I'm out!" Luiza shouted.

  Matt kept crawling backwards, tears running down his face. He slid over the greasy remains of one of the screamers Luiza had killed, smearing it down his back.

  "Look out!" Chaya yelled.

  Matt kept kicking his way backwards. Clattering came from behind him, but he couldn't turn his head to see. Luiza was yelling something, and then blue flickering light filled the tunnel.

  Matt pushed himself further and the ground seemed to vanish beneath his shoulders. He was out! The compass fell from beneath his chin as he twisted around and pulled himself from the hole, nearly falling to the floor.

  Panting, he looked up. Luiza was standing above a six-foot insect encased in icy blue fire. Flames dripped from Akumanokira's blade as she looked around.

  "Here," Chaya said helping Matt to his feet. She clutched her scimitar in one hand, the other on her pistol. Four more black and rubbery screamer corpses littered the floor, each spewing their vile stench.

  "Where's the other one?" Luiza asked, her head swiveling around.

  Matt fetched his bottle from the floor. The bead pointed beside them, but there was nothing there, nothing but a wall. "I don't know."

  "How did they get behind us?" Chaya panted, shining her pistol's light down the trough tunnel.

  "I don't know," Matt said. "The demon moved around and they were there." He looked at the compass again. The red bead was moving. The range was shit through solid rock, so it had to be close.

  "There should be a tunnel here." Luiza motioned her sword at sealed passage like the one before. "The other end of the hallway stopped at a bone-filled pit.

  "Where did this one come from?" Chaya searched her light across the ceiling.

  In the blue fire of the burning demon, Matt noticed the tiny footprints from screamers across the dusty floor. They ended at the sealed wall. Tiny trenches, like scuff marks extended at the very edge. "What the hell?"

  He stepped closer. The wall appeared no different than the dozens of other sealed passages. Matt touched the ancient mortar. It gave slightly. He scraped a fingernail and a sliver flaked off like dried snot. Son of a bitch.

  Matt brought his boot up and kicked the wall. It gave a hollow thud and crack like the sound of breaking Styrofoam. He kicked it again, and one of the stones fell inward.

  "Here!" he shouted, breaking more rocks free. The wall was thin, no more than a hand-width thick. He pulled one of the loosened stones and the whole wall shifted under the strain, hinging off the top before the rock came free.

  "What is this?" Luiza shined her light through the hole Matt had torn.

  He gripped the edge of the hole and pulled. The entire wall moved with a crackling groan, pivoting upward like a dog door. There must have been a counterweight of some kind, allowing it to swing so easily. Matt was able to lift it three feet before it wouldn't go any further. "Like a trapdoor spider."

  Chaya and Luiza shone their lights down the hidden passage beyond.

  Matt caught the faintest hint of vinegar beneath the stink of the steaming bugs behind him. He peered up at the gooey mortar along underside of the door, some kind of hardened mucus. He wondered if a black light would have helped in spotting it. Too late now.

  "We need to tell the others about this," Luiza said.

  The blood bead was still moving in the bottle, away from them. "We need to kill that demon. If it warns the others, they might bolt. We'll never find them."

  Luiza's sucked her bottom lip. She looked at the door, then back down the passage. "Then let's go get it."

  Chapter Twenty

  The day that Thomas Doershuk's life had changed was the day he first tried amphetamines. Twenty years old, believing he was invincible and ready to conquer the world, Tommy's life took the surreal twist from promising musician to resistance leader in the secret war by way of addiction. How it was, Tommy was in a band with his best friend Aaron Lemming. Together, they embarked on a cross-country adventure from Danbury, Connecticut to LA, playing gigs along the way. Aaron introduced him to meth and, by the time they made it to California, Tommy was masterfully versed in the ways of addiction.

  Addicts develop a hyper-evolved set of skills that only those helplessly obsessed with illegal drugs can possess. Skills that allowed you to look at a room of strangers, instantly gauge who might be in the know and the courage, that only real addiction grants, to approach this complete stranger and try to score. An addict's life is also about networking. Once you have established those connections, you must maintain them, grow on them, diversify in case one link gets pinched or runs dry. This skill, prized by businessmen, is second nature for a truly proficient addict. Finally, the addict knows when those rare and unexplainable strokes of luck come by that you must seize them without hesitation.

  Tommy and Aaron had believed that was the case when a hot brunette had invited them back to her friend's, who was a cook. The friend was supposedly away and she knew where the stash was hidden. But when they arrived, they got the drugs and the little hottie got in the mood. She'd taken Aaron to the back, leaving Tommy to snort rails and promised to take care of him next. They'd been gone all of two minutes when tweeker-bladder kicked in. Tommy went looking for a place to take a piss and came across Aaron. That little brunette with her short hair and shorter skirt, was now tall, seven feet, hairless and gray, her baby blue crop-top hanging from her emaciated frame. Aaron's throat was torn out, blood everywhere. His pants were around his ankles and the monster was eating his leg like a turkey dinner. Seizing the junkie's power to act on luck, Tommy got the fuck out of there.

  The monster chased him, running on all fours behind Tommy's old Honda, its pale eyes reflecting the red of his taillights. It nearly caught him, but the little four-cylinder finally got enough speed to send him racing away on the desert highway, his heart hammering louder than the engine. Tommy never touched meth again. And while the chemical addiction was long gone, Tommy never forgot the skills it had given him. He had a new addiction: hunting monsters.

  "Light's going off," Gregorie said around his cigarette.

  Tommy looked up from his laptop to the pillar of black plastic boxes stacked on an olive metal shelf. A green LED quietly blinked from the one labeled "9." Something was moving. Was it them? None of the other sensors had gone off. He glanced to the other stack, the six labeled with letters instead of numbers. The lights were dark. Nine was near trap C. Would it take the bait?

  The motion sensors were crude but had good range down here. He wasn't able to get radio cameras, nothing as nice as the Valducans had. But cameras required more battery, more bandwidth, and were much harder to hide. All he had were game cameras, which required physically going to them and downloading any videos they'd made. Crude, but they worked.

  Gregorie sucked a hard drag off his cigarette. "You want to check it?"

  "Let's give it five minutes," Tommy said.

  The Frenchman nodded and blew a long stream of smoke. The blue-gray haze floated lazily up, then was sucked into a rusted pipe extending down from the ceiling. The pipe had served as a chimney for resistance fighters during the Second World War. They'd hidden down here in their bunker, far below the streets, plotting their bombings and assassinations while navigating the subterranean highways below the Nazis' feet.

  Tommy had installed a fan at this end to cycle the air. Its hum echoed in the steel tube, creating a steady, ghostly tone. It was Gregorie who had run the power down in the form of a heavy gauge extension cord, the bright yellow of its bulbous head masked beneath a patina of grime. But Tommy didn't complain. He'd slept in far shittier and far less exotic places than this twelve-by-nine stone room.

  Finding Gregorie had been a godsend. Tommy knew his addict's intuition had led him to the notorious and near mythic cataphile. Gregorie didn't do interviews. He
didn't lead vacationing college kids on illegal tours. He prowled the catacombs like a ghost, his tag marking every corner of this hidden world. It graced the wall beside him, a stenciled stick figure, its head a curving G with a little googly eye. Above that, a meticulously carved Croix de Lorraine, the double cross of the French Resistance.

  Knowing to never pass up a stroke of luck, Tommy offered him five hundred Euros a week to be his guide and to help him procure…difficult supplies. Items like a gun.

  That gun had saved Tommy's ass and brought him even more treasures. He patted the wood grip of the kris dagger at his belt. More of a short sword, really. Victoria had told him that the weapon was centuries old, though in its perfect condition he wouldn't have believed it. But Tommy had seen the blade move with his own eyes. He knew it was magic, but it still hadn't moved for him. Victoria had said that the monster hunters, these self-proclaimed knights, bonded with their weapons for them to work. So Tommy had spent every day wearing it, waiting for his energies or whatever they were to align and unlock this amazing power.

  It had been sheer chance that he'd even encountered the demon hunters. Using the profile he'd built, many of the gaps filled in by his little spy, he'd noted likely places the Valducans might access the tunnels. There were far too many to watch them all. So Tommy just made a habit of swinging by any while he was running errands topside. Pure luck he'd happened on the two vans. He'd seen two figures through the window tinting and knew, just knew, it was them. Not one to pass up a stroke of luck, he checked it out. Now he had a second gun, a silencer, some weird ammunition with gemstone tips, and an honest-to-God holy weapon.

  Shooting the German and Allen wasn't planned, but they deserved it. Their silence had killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people. But more than that, they'd tried to quash him, make him look the fool, just another raving madman. One on one he'd taken them both. If they could kill monsters and he could kill them, then he was the real apex predator down here. And he was going to tell that to the world.

  Tommy smiled. This was going to be bigger than anything. Bigger than the moon landing. The supernatural was real. Magic was real. Once the world knew, everything would change, and his name would forever be linked to that. How many lives would he save? How many lost souls, unable to believe in anything any more, would find faith? His chest tightened at the joy of what he was going to do.

  "The other light is on," Gregorie said.

  Tommy swung his head. Trap C's receiver blinked green. Got one.

  None of the other motion detectors had activated. No telling how long it might be before another came. Tommy closed his laptop and stood. Gregorie hadn't believed in monsters, though he did claim the tunnels were haunted. Finding the rave site and phone footage had made convincing him easy enough. It was time his newest convert saw a monster with his own eyes. "Let's go."

  Gregorie pulled his greasy tangle of hair back and slid the Russian infrared goggles on. The cataphile had protested wearing them at first, but five hundred a week had changed his mind.

  Tommy loaded his laptop into his pack. It'd probably be safe here, but the old junkie in him knew better than to leave anything valuable unguarded. They couldn't lock the door from the outside. He strapped the jammer onto his belt, but didn't turn it on. No need to jam his own sensor network. He pulled on his own high-end goggles and electronic shooting muffs and flipped them on.

  Gregorie twisted the wheel set in the rusty iron door. It resembled an old-fashioned vault or submarine hatch. Dark shiny grease caked every moving portion. It opened with a heavy groan.

  Crackled plaster coated the outside of the door. Whether it had originally been painted to match the limestone walls or if decades of dust had colored it, Tommy couldn't tell. It was far from a perfect camouflage, but still effective against a passing glance in poor light. Stepping through, he navigated the short, crooked passage leading toward trap C.

  They walked in silence. Gregorie wasn't much one for talking, and that was fine by Tommy. After several more turns, they came to a passage wide enough to drive a car through. A cluster of crusty pipes ran along one edge. Tommy's gaze moved along it, noting sensor four hidden up there. Even with night vision it was difficult to spot.

  "This way," Gregorie said, turning at a side tunnel Tommy had passed.

  Tommy hid his embarrassment behind a cough. Mistakes showed incompetence, made others doubt his judgment. He hated being doubted. He'd endured it far too long.

  The passage wound through a web-work of tight turns around empty chambers. They passed sensor eight, its plastic dome peeking from a pile of rocks.

  A shrill whine echoed somewhere in the distance.

  Tommy threw up his hand. "Shh."

  Gregorie stopped and looked at him, his expression unreadable beneath the goggles.

  "I heard something." Tommy rolled the dial on the hard plastic muffs. In addition to dampening loud noises, they amplified fainter sounds.

  There it was again. Crying. A hot surge of exhilaration welled in his chest. He turned his head slowly, allowing the microphones to catch it. The sounds were definitely ahead. "Okay." He touched the kris' handle. "There's one ahead."

  Gregorie frowned, the first real hint of actual fear. Tommy had insisted Gregorie carry a gun and the cataphile drew it from his waistband.

  They moved cautiously forward, the child-like wails growing louder.

  "I hear it," Gregorie whispered, his lips tight.

  "Shh."

  Eventually they reached a narrow side hall from which the sounds emanated.

  Tommy drew the blade and peeked around the corner.

  The side tunnel extended only eight feet. On the floor in the back, a pale bug thrashed and screamed from inside a clear box. Its spidery legs pounded against the walls as it hopped about. Holding the blade out front, Tommy moved in and locked the box trap's twin door latches.

  The monster screamed again, attempting to turn, but couldn't in the confined space.

  Carefully, Tommy lifted it up by the handle and pulled it out from the alcove. "Look."

  Gregorie took a sudden step back as Tommy swung the box into view. The screaming bug lunged at the walls, banging so hard it nearly came loose of Tommy's grip.

  "It's safe." Tommy's dad had taught him how to make the traps when he was ten, assembling his first out of scrap wood. These were bulletproof glass with steel hardware. Setting it down, Tommy flipped up his goggles and clicked on his headlamp. "It can't get out."

  Blood and fur smeared the back wall and the insect's porcelain doll's face, remnants of the rat they'd used as bait. Pincers quivering, it unleashed a furious scream.

  "Hey there, little guy." Tommy tapped the glass and the bug rammed into the side to get at him. "You're going to be famous."

  "I don't believe it," Gregorie breathed. He'd taken off his own goggles and stared, but still refused to approach.

  "Believe it." Tommy held the kris before the angry insect, running the point along the inside of one of the air holes.

  The creature backed away, black eyes locked on the magic blade. The twin pincers folded and withdrew into its bristled mouth slit.

  "Yeah, you know what this is." He rattled the tip and the bug flinched. "So be quiet."

  "That fucking thing understands you?" Gregorie hissed, his voice rising.

  "It's not stupid." Grinning, Tommy slid the blade back into its wooden scabbard. "You want to help me carry it?"

  "Fuck that." The cataphile cocked his head to look at him without shining his headlamp in Tommy's eyes. "You want to bring that thing in the bunker with us?"

  "I told you. It can't get out."

  "How you know?"

  "Because it can't."

  As if in response, the bug rammed into the side with a solid thump. The creature staggered back, then giggled.

  "I don't want it in there with us," Gregorie said. "Fucking evil."

  The creature's giggles grew louder, welling into a wei
rd, shrill cackle. It began bouncing, its claws clacking against the acrylic bottom.

  "Shut that thing up!" Gregorie hissed.

  Tommy slapped the top of the box, but the bug kept jumping. The laugher growing into a scream. Tommy drew the knife and poked its tip into one of the holes, but the thing just kept screaming.

  "Shut it up!"

  Continuing its cries, the creature looked directly at the cataphile in dead, expressionless defiance.

  "Quiet." Tommy pounded the top again. He wanted to shake the box but couldn't risk injuring his prize. Gritting his teeth, he stood and flipped his goggles back down. "It'll tire. Let's get back."

  "I don't want—"

  "I'm paying you."

  Gregorie's lip curled back from nicotine-stained teeth. He resignedly shook his head, pulled on his goggles, and killed the headlamp.

  Tommy lifted the heavy cage like some industrial cat carrier. "Come on."

  Somewhere behind them, a baby screamed. Faint, but distinct in the muffs' amplified audio.

  Shit. Tommy's balls tightened. He turned back, but the passage was empty. "We need to go. Now."

  Gregorie in the lead, they started back. The bug continued hopping, jarring the box, but Tommy held tight. Behind him, a second infant's wail joined the first.

  "Hurry." Tommy slid the dagger away and took the trap in both hands. The bug poked its legs through the tiny holes, jabbing his palm. "Shit!"

  The box fell and tumbled to the ground, landing on its side. The bug clattered and kicked, pausing its screaming.

  Gregorie turned as if to help, but froze. "You hear that?"

  The other wails were louder now. Closer.

  "We need to go." Tommy took the handle and gripped the bottom where there weren't any holes.

  "Jesus!" Gregorie ripped the revolver from his pants.

  Tommy turned. A doll-faced monster scuttled quietly along the wall toward them.