Full Moonster

by Nick Pollota

  Keeping close to the concrete, I turned my head slowly so as not to experience vertigo. “Raul, stay here on rear guard."

  Raul nodded. “Natch."

  “And if the worst happens, can you do a prismatic shield over the whole plant?"

  “To hold in an atomic steam cloud?” The wizard made a face as if digesting a brick. “Ah ... yeah. Maybe. If I paint runes."

  Always ready, Jessica handed him a crayon. “Then start drawing. If we fail, you erect a shield."

  “With you guys trapped inside?” he blinked, pocketing the marker.

  Snapping the huge clip loose, I checked the load on the Barret. “Please do as requested, Marnix."

  The use of his real name shocked the Belgium mage. After a moment, he glumly nodded. Real aristocracy always knew when to shut up.

  As we started inside, I saw Raul using the crayon to hastily write mystic symbols on the smooth concrete, take a sidestep, do another, and step again. Smoke poured from his shoes and the crew was rowing frantically. However, if the wizard had a whole plant to surround with those runes, he'd better hurry. But then, we had better, too.

  The inside of the tubular hole was silky smooth and dotted with the ends of flexible black iron bars, gray lead plates, and bright white cadmium sheeting. Our watches were still silent. Or maybe the thumping of my heart covered their telltale warnings.

  Stepping forward, we found ourselves a meter above a metal lattice catwalk that encircled the dome at several levels. Probably for inspections. There was a low humming noise that permeated the air and vibrated softly in the walls and floor.

  Below lay an impossible maze of pipes, conduits, ducts, T-joins, condensers, and just assorted stuff. Occasionally a hiss sounded, or the dull cluck of an automatic value closing. The place resembled a car engine from an ant's perspective.

  Marring the angular perfection of the technological jungle gym was a pattern of pipes bent or crushed aside to accommodate something much larger than human. Yep, our boys had been here. If it ain't ours, break it, that was their philosophy.

  “Kathi, stay here and try to repair the hole in the concrete,” I ordered brusquely.

  She nodded and went to work. Good woman.

  Sword in hand, Mindy took the point and dropped silent to the catwalk. The rest of the team followed as best we could. Our first indication that we were getting close was another dead technician, this one impaled on a manual release wheel. Not the shaft, but the wheel itself. Mindy scrutinized the disgusting corpse for a whole second.

  “Ogre,” she declared, and we moved on.

  Soon, a grinding sound started to make itself heard above the balanced hum of the reactor and turbines. In the distance, partially obscured by pipes and mist, was a bullet-shaped metal construct with thick conduits connected to every side. The pressure chamber of the nuclear reactor. The grinding noise was coming from a shuddering machine held in the hairy paws of a gang of creatures. Supported by a sling, a roaring diesel engine was pouring out black smoke as it powered a whirling cone covered with concentric teeth.

  The ancient DeTalion drill bucked and shuddered as the monsters forcibly held the reluctant tool against the heat-slick covering of the core. Already, the outer wall of the chamber had been segmented and pried out of the way. Chunks of thermal insulation and interlocking slabs of graphite lay discarded on the lattice flooring. And like a chainsaw doing wood, this mining machine was chewing a path into the final wall. Beyond which was only superheated steam, hard radiation, and certain death.

  “Can't risk using the flamethrower in here,” Donaher said, tucking the steaming hot barrel into his insulated belt and stroking the pump action on a Remington shotgun. “Might finish the job for the Scion."

  “And no time for finesse,” George said grimly, checking the feeder mechanism of the Masterson. “Let's just kill them."

  Sheathing her sword, Mindy pulled out her bow and notched an arrow. “At last, a battle plan I like."

  “Routine one,” I agreed, leveling the mighty Barret on a frosty horizontal pipe. “On my mark."

  In the Starlite scope, I got a clear view of a werewolf directing the drill; then I relocated the crosshairs onto the drill itself and squeezed the trigger. Ba-doom!

  Torn from its grip, the ruptured diesel spun away, spewing oil as it clanged off the reactor and plummeted downward.

  With slack jaws, the Scion turned, and then we cut loose. The deer slugs from Father Donaher's shotgun punched a hole in one monster big enough for Mindy to feather the ogre behind him with a silver-tipped arrow. Both monsters seemed incredibly surprised. Jessica hosed them with a stream of 9mm Parabellums from her Uzi, and I blew a fourth to pieces. Body armor didn't mean crap to the Barret and our new plasma rounds. Why hadn't I gotten one of these sooner? Would have made a splendid birthday gift.

  To difficult to wrap. Shaddup.

  Although rattled by our appearance, the remaining fur-faces rallied to the fight. Two flank wolves trained their MAC-10 machine pistols at us, sending a hail of .22 bullets zipping our way. Meanwhile, the rest of the beasts insanely started stuffing blocks of a sticky clay-like material into the nearly finished breach. It was C3, I realized, a high explosive plastique.

  I held my breath to facilitate aiming. Thunder sounded. A headless werewolf jerked backwards, the fistful of detonators in her paw falling among the complex piping.

  “Here!” Jessica ordered, handing a copper bracelet to Mindy.

  Fast, the martial artist tied the metallic band to an arrow with a strip of cloth, pulled, aimed, released.

  Streaking fifty feet past me, the pipes, and the Scion, the arrow jammed itself into the thin strip of exposed insulation edging the puncture in the reactor casing. Grabbing her necklace, Jess stared. With a flash, the gash was gone. The outer shell had become as smooth and perfect as the day it had been forged.

  Gleefully bracing for the recoil, George triggered the Masterson. In short controlled bursts, he sprayed the support legs of the platform the Scion agents stood on. And with a screech of stretching metal, the flooring tore free from its mounting. The werewolves tumbled downward, bouncing and slamming off the maze of pipes like hairy pinballs.

  “After them,” I commanded, shouldering the Barret. “We want a captive!"

  Angling to the side, the team headed for the walkway and stairs. There was a convenient airshaft close by, but we ignored that. I'd fought my share of monsters in airvents and didn't care to repeat the experience. They had the advantage that I was trapped, but I had the advantage that they couldn't dodge my bullets. So it equaled out. I hated that. Nothing worse than a fair fight with monsters. Because neither of us really fights fair.

  “Didn't know you could trigger a spell from a distance."

  If nobody is wearing the bracelet, of course.

  Interesting.

  An explosion sounded from below, and a siren began howling.

  Incensed, I smacked my forehead with a palm. Idiot! The Scion, detonators, and the C3 had each dropped to the ground floor. Re-united, the werewolves were back in business. Chicago wasn't safe yet.

  Options came and went like cars on the freeway. Then a beauty screeched to a halt. Frantically, I looked around. Where the hell was it? Ah-ha!

  Behind an incredibly thick window of bulletproof plastic was the reactor control room. Terrified technicians stared at us. Every inch of every wall was jammed with meters, dials, knobs, and switches. A circular bank of control consoles fronted the status board, which monitored conditions inside the core. How could anybody learn to operate this thing? It made my VCR seem simple.

  “Jess, tell them to do a shutdown!” I ordered.

  They can't. The main computer is crashed, and the auxiliary doesn't respond, and they aren't leaving the control room to operate the manual overrides with those monsters running amuck.

  “Then tell them to get clear!"

  That she relayed, and the men and women dropped out of sight.

  Leveling the Barret, I aimed
at the distant cluster of control panels and fired. Ba-doom! The muzzle blast was deafening when reflected by the metal pipes, and my eyes stung from the glare of the yard-long lance of flame stabbing from the barrel. But in response, the shatterproof window shattered into a zillion pieces.

  Riding the recoil, I worked the bolt and fired once more. Ba-doom! Pieces of electrical console sprayed into the air like technological trash, throwing off showers of sparks. Crackling short-circuits crawled everywhere. After a third round from the Barett, the muted rumble in the floor died away.

  Satisfied, we moved on. It was an obscure piece of information I had once read in a scientific journal that if the control room of a nuclear reactor receives significant damage, an independent sub-system seizes control of the core and does a priority shut-down. I.E., shoot it and it breaks. Advanced technology is so primitive.

  Scampering down the stairs, I kicked open a locked wire-mesh door and ducked as a ricochet went past my head. Shotgun in one hand, flamethrower in the other, Father Donaher gave suppressing cover as the team regrouped on the ground floor. We took cover behind a stack of steel drums used for who-knows-what in this place. Maybe clam dip for the boss.

  Ten meters across what resembled a loading bay, the werewolves had established a workable redoubt by ramming a forklift into a pile of pallets. Having found their MAC-10 machine pistols along with the plastique, two wolves were wildly spraying us with small caliber bullets, firing non-stop, without any consideration for ammo reserves. A good tactic that just might work. We were at a serious disadvantage since we still didn't want to hurt the reactor behind them. Melt-down had been made impossible, but if breached, the boiling radioactive water inside the core would kill everybody here. Then again, maybe that was their new plan, to take us with them. Okay, time to get clever.

  Getting her attention, I displayed three fingers to Kathi and waved them around. She nodded and relayed the message to the team.

  Clutching his throat, Donaher gurgled in pain and dropped behind the barrels.

  “Damn!” I cried real loud. “My gun is jammed!"

  “I am out of bullets!” Mindy added, tucking away the bow and drawing her sword.

  “My leg!” Jessica gasped, kneeling expectantly.

  Grinning like fiends, the werewolves charged. What shmucks. Still somewhere in the rafters above, George cut loose with the Masterson Assault Cannon, angling his shots to make damn sure he did not hit the reactor shell.

  Their bodies jerking wildly, the Scion agents did a little dance of death as the caseless, armor piercing, high explosive, and now silver-tipped mini-shells blew them to hell in nine pieces. Jessica did mop-up with the Uzi, Donaher set them on fire, Mindy cut off everybody's head with her sword, and my Magnums blasted anything that seemed healthy or hairy. No sense wasting the Barret on dead fish in a barrel.

  “Die!” Jessica throated, holding her glowing necklace, and empty air filled with a dead werewolf turning visible.

  Amazing. How had she found him?

  Bad breath.

  I laughed. Lack of flossing saves America. Film at eleven.

  Black blood dripping off a flaming paw, the largest werewolf pulled a small velvet bag from his tattered flak jacket and tossed it at us. We braced for an explosion, but nothing happened. The team pointed an arsenal his way.

  “Alive for questioning!” I cried.

  Reluctantly, the weapons drooped.

  “Sic ... ‘em....” he commanded and then died.

  Sic ‘em? Expanding, the velvet bag tore apart as out stepped one mother-ugly monster: fifteen feet tall, with four skinny legs, six muscular arms, and a bulbous head made entirely of tentacles lined with suckers filled with teeth, and tipped with long claws. A weresquid? Would silver kill a weresquid?

  Shoot it and see.

  I placed my last four shots from the Barret into the pulsating chest of this thing, and I'm not sure it noticed. Okay, silver meant doo-doo to the Wiggling Wonder.

  Stepping in close, Father Mike butt-stroked the beast in the face with the wooden stock of his shotgun. Wood affected a lot of supernaturals. A whipping tentacle slammed the big priest aside. Donaher crashed into a tool locker and went limp on the floor, blood flowing from his face. A no go on the wood, then.

  Her wrist jerked, and Mindy buried a knife into its body. Then she added a couple of throwing stars. Nada. Jessica peppered it with assorted 9mm rounds, but lead, steel, wood, silver, and phosphorus had no noticeable effect. Except maybe slow it down a bit with all that weighty metal tucked inside.

  “Cadillac Seville!” George announced, flipping the Masterson to full auto. But the fiery stream shells merely vanished into the body of the weird aquatic beast.

  Scrambling to the moaning priest, I pulled open his cassock. Strapped around his chest was a bulky vest made completely of pockets, each numbered and containing a shotgun shell. Since we were fighting were-creatures, Donaher had requisitioned a full bane collection. Good move.

  These shells did not contain lead pellets or steel shot, but every known type of natural substance which had a negative effect on evil supernaturals: wolfbane leaves, dragonbane bark, salt, silver filings, garlic powder, thorns from a wild white rose, sawdust, mandrake root, minced bat wing, dried dodo droppings, essence of newt, powdered thulium, shredded income tax forms, and instant coffee. The real stuff. No decaf. That didn't do anything to anybody.

  Mindy cut off a tentacle. The bodiless limb wrapped itself around her torso and started to squeeze.

  In a flat pocket was a tiny booklet, and I fast read the enclosed bane chart: shrew, skunk, Shriner, oh hell, octopus was the closet we had to a squid. Was an octopus a relative of a squid? What was a squid anyway? A mollusk? Isn't that in the clam family? Only one way to find out.

  Flamboyantly pulling the pin with his teeth in total disregard for good oral hygiene, George threw a thermite grenade at the wiggling monstrosity. But it caught the sphere in a tentacle and threw the grenade back. Surprisingly fast for a man of his bulk, George dove out the way, and a time clock was engulfed in searing flames. No loss.

  Then the water sprinklers came on, a fire bell started clanging, and a calm voice began telling us to walk, not run, to the nearest exit.

  Dripping wet, I frantically rummaged through the mess of shells until I found the huckleberry-bush ashes picked by a left-handed virgin and burned on an even day of the week.

  Avoiding a whipping tentacle, Jessica dropped her Uziand tasered the thing in a leg. Nothing.

  I thumbed in the only anti-wereclam shell we had, turned, and triggered the weapon. As the gun exploded, the beast screamed in pain and began clawing at the bloody ruin of its mighty chest. Yes! The solo tentacle dropped off a gasping Mindy, and in ragged stages the beast collapsed to the ground. Slowly, its form softened, blurred and reformed into a ... little ... tiny ... goldfish?

  I dropped the gun. What the hell was this? Some kind of demented joke? Taking inventory of the enemy, I could only gasp when I saw they were dogs and cats. None of them were human. Then the answer came to me like fist in the dark. We had been tricked!

  The clock on the wall loudly went tick.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Quickly, I recovered my aplomb. “Jess, call in Raul and Kathi! George, check Donaher. Mindy on guard.” They moved.

  Grabbing a hold of the amulet around her neck, Jess scrunched in concentration, and with a flash the mages appeared. Wands sparking with power, they searched for danger.

  “Hey, it's over. We won,” Mindy said, with a lopsided grin. “Praise Buddha!"

  Buddha? “Like hell we won,” I snapped fingers for attention. “Horta, I need HQ now. Full contact."

  “Why-o-mino, pal-o-mino?” Raul asked, tilting his head. “The danger is over, isn't it?"

  “Do it!"

  “Okay, okay. Don't get you panties in a bunch,” the mage said with a grunt. Marking a spot in the air with the glowing tip of his wand, Raul drew a floating square. Chanting under her breath, Kathi reac
hed out to twist a bit of nothingness, and with a loud click the phosphorescent square cleared into a view of the War Room with Horace Gordon shouting orders to people. Neat! I wondered if we could get free HBO this way?

  “Hello, Mountain Top,” I reported. “This is Manhattan. We've been tricked! These aren't the genuine articles, but cheap copies!"

  “Code isn't necessary,” Henderson said. “This is a secure, scrambled, magic television."

  “Copies? You sure, Alvarez?” Gordon demanded. One second later, his image mouthed the same words. Little time lag here.

  Tugging on a sleeve, Henderson gestured, and Horace turned to face us directly. In the background, some bedraggled Thunder-Bunnies were donning fresh clothing, and the wall maps were blinking with warning lights.

  “These perps were not humans,” I reported furiously, “but animals bitten and turned into intelligent were-creatures!"

  “Then why was the goldfish in a bag?” George asked, pouring a healing potion over Father Donaher. The wounds and bruises washed away like dirt stains.

  Bracing a thumb on her scabbard, Mindy sheathed her katana. “Heck, magic can only up your IQ so far. Dogs and cats are naturally smart. Any angler knows that fish are only animated vegetables."

  “Too true."

  Horace Gordon rubbed a hoary hand across a grizzled chin. “Animal agents, eh? The crafty bastards."

  I heartily agreed. “These attacks have only been a diversion to keep us from...” And there my line of reasoning ran out of steam. To keep us from doing what? Where? There had to be a method to this madness. So where were the real Scion members, the mage, and that blasted telepath!

  10:45pm. Tick-tick.

  “Sir,” Kathi asked, giving a curtsy. “What was at museum?"

  “Um? Oh, yes, that caught my attention also. The robbers were more were-animals—and some hired guns from Wisconsin."

  Ah ha! The best mercenaries were always farmers. Strong, diligent, and incredibly patient.