Full Moonster

by Nick Pollota

  It's just a ballpoint pen.

  Close enough for government work.

  Actually, she's making a pentagram.

  Natch. Oddly, there didn't seem to be anything blocking the door, but I had a sick feeling in my bowels, and the back of my teeth ached. That could only mean a single thing.

  “A death barrier?” I guessed, kneeling beside my friends.

  Busy sketching, Kathi grunted yes. “Bad one. I can get cancel, but will take while.” Without further preamble she began mumbling and gesturing at the doorway.

  As we waited, I gave a shiver remembering what a Death Barrier could do. Several years ago, while in Haiti dealing with some voodoo spies, a witch doctor had imprisoned us inside the foul thing. While our old mage Richard Anderson and Raul frantically composed a counterspell, I had witnessed a squirrel run by. The moment the animal crossed the barrier it had ceased to live, but the momentum of its dash kept the body moving. First the fur vanished, then skin, muscle, internal organs, bones, and finally a tiny squirrel ghost screamed in unnamable agony as it faded away.

  When the wizards finally broke the magical trap, none dared question why I shot the witch doctor using 57 bullets, set fire to the corpse, dynamited his juju hut, and relieved myself upon his car. Why 57 bullets? That was all the ammo I had.

  Stopping the protective litany, the Russian gripped the empty blackness and pulled her hands apart, straining with the effort. At first, nothing seemed to happen, then the air miraculously cleared and the wizard started crawling forward.

  “Move quickly,” she ordered. “This last only a few seconds."

  In close order, the team scurried across that all-destroying boundary. Safe on the other side, I turned to spit at the foul barrier. The globule of saliva vanished in a crackling display of sparks.

  Past the death barrier, I could see that this was not a regulation hotel door securing the roof. Composed of a hundred different pieces of metal, interlocking like a jigsaw puzzle, the bits were held together with steel bands, closed by a ceramic disk bearing the impression of the moon with silver daggers stabbed through it. The mark of the Scion. Just looking at the disk made my eyes hurt.

  “Can't get in this way,” Katrina stated flatly. “Soul seal. It would take more magic than a dozen mages to nullify."

  “Damnation,” Father Donaher snarled in frustration, and he slammed his fist against the seal. Under the Herculean blow, the disk crumbled into dust and sprinkled to the floor. The steel bands disengaged and swung away with a creak.

  We shared a grin. Can't argue with success.

  Borrowing a hairpin from one of the ladies, I picked the lock on the real door, and we entered. What we should have seen was a dingy stairwell leading to a service elevator.

  What we did see was a small swatch of floor that ended in ragged tiles over an endless vista of swirling clouds that stretched into forever. Dotting the mist were a million pieces of aerial debris and huge floating chunks of masonry. The individual floors of the hotel. Some were dripping with jungle growth. Others were trapped in a swirling hurricane. Some danced with fire, two were upside down, another was cocooned, and one was inverted—but it was hard to tell with hotel rooms.

  Gulp. Well, now we know why the Scion had brought along the whole hotel. It wasn't an armored attack fortress. They most likely just couldn't find the person with the rock! This was going to be much more difficult than originally expected.

  Worse, Jess sent.

  “Incoming!” George cried, and we crouched low.

  Scuttling forward came a werewolf astride a winged tarantula. He held a red wizard's staff in one hand, but the other was extended toward us.

  "Die!" he screamed as a greeting and sent a lightning bolt at us.

  Whew. Even Dale Carnegie would have shot this guy.

  Palms outward, Kathi deflected the bolt with a mystical shield. Then she raced off the ledge mouthing words of power. Trapped on the ledge with no distance weapons, we were unable to do anything but watch.

  Plowing straight in, Kathi made a fast series of finger movements, and a dazzling beam lanced out at the enemy mage. But at the last moment, a swirling pattern of energy appeared about the man to deflect the ray. It struck a floating marble pillar, vaporizing a chunk of stone.

  “Goodbye, child,” the fellow sneered, and the fight began in earnest.

  Fireballs and laser beams were tried at first, but such simple tricks were soon discarded. Transformations were stopped by reality checks. A shrinking spell was countered by a growth incantation. A death barrier hummed into existence and was nullified by a jump start. The air itself about the gesturing mages crackled with the discharge of mystical energy.

  It was a battle royale between the mages. Supremely confident, the werewolf was in his home, with friends on the way. Sans her staff and spell book, Kathi was at a serious disadvantage. Only her massive reserves of magic gave her any hope.

  Above the mages, translucent figures of their astral forms wrestled for supremacy. Scintillating daggers of light constantly thrust and jabbed, searching for any opening large enough to reach the all-too-mortal bodies of the antagonists. Fire and water elementals danced about the wizards, roaring into gouts of steam when they touched. Flesh eating plants erupted through the stonework of the ledge. We backed up. Spectral lawn mowers cut them down in a spray of green. We advanced again. The clouds rained thousands of scorpions, which instantly curled up and died as poisonous yellow gas fogged the sky.

  Wearing NASA jetpacks, a squad of armed werewolves rose into view, went stiff, and dropped dead. So much for hecklers.

  Getting tough, Kathi switched tactics. Maintaining a shimmering shield with her left hand, the Russian leveled her right arm, and a massive power beam erupted from her fingers. Hungrily, the disintegrate conjure tried to consume the red staff of the enemy mage; to burn, boil, or bore its way in. But her foe grabbed the Seal of the Scion about his neck, and the staff resisted stiffly. A stream of vitriolic gold splashed against the immaterial barrier of shimmering blue. The sky was awash in lethal vibrations of the silent battle.

  The entire hotel shuddered under the iridescent by-products of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object in a dazzling pyrotechnic display. I glanced at my bare wrist.

  Staring at the opponent mage, Jessica made a fist about her amulet, but nothing happened. The psi shield was stronger than ever inside their headquarters. Then I did a double-take—the pendant! Somehow she had made it through the death barrier with it. Maybe it didn't register as a weapon. Our good fortune.

  “We have to leave before more defenders arrive,” I ordered. “If Kathi wins, she'll rejoin us. If not, then we don't want to be anywhere near Bug Boy unprotected. And we still have a rescue to accomplish."

  The team made grumpy faces. Sure, it made tactical sense, but was damn unsettling. Desert a comrade in a fight, was the world worth this? Well, maybe Chicago, at least. Defeat would mean the end of decent pizza.

  Reaching for my Bureau sunglasses, I cursed, remembering they were gone. Nearby, Father Donaher was using a pair of folding binoculars to scan the different hovering floors. With only naked vision, I couldn't see any numbers, or anything which resembled a convention hall.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  Explosions, sword clangs, and blinding coronas of energy came from the mages. The tarantula was dead, but Kathi was dripping in sweat, and the haughty werewolf mage seemed amused.

  Touching her forehead as she used to, Jessica hesitated and then pointed towards the floor covered with jungle. It would be.

  “Routine four,” I declared. Separate and converge was our only hope. Maybe a few of us would get through to reach the floor and find the moonrock. I only hoped it was the correct one.

  Father Donaher said a quick prayer before we activated our fly bracelets and took off, leaving our pal to fight alone.

  Tick, tick.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Human missiles, we streake
d through the sky.

  As the battling wizards disappeared behind us, we separated and took diverging routes towards Jungleland. From this new perspective, it was easy to discern that the other hotel sections were orbiting the tropical rainforest.

  Several machine guns chattered at me from a chunk of building covered with ice and snow. Already at max speed, I did a few Immelmanns and banked away to befuddle their aim. Then a rocket whooshed by me. Yipes! Whether it was a LAW, Armburst, or HAFLA, I had no idea. Trouble comes in many shapes. But it was definitely not a Rapier or Amsterdam, because I lived to tell the tale.

  Another rocket flashed by, then an arbalest arrow, followed by more machine gun fire, this time with tracer bullets. Fast, I did a Hammerstall to build speed and barreled straight in towards my goal. Speed was my best defense now.

  The target floor loomed before me, rapidly increasing in size. A full tropical jungle overflowed the hotel piece, vines and creepers hanging over the edge. Just floating in the air like that, it resembled an Amazonian plateau, without the plat.

  Swelling in dimensions, the greenery became individual trees, the growth cleared into bushes with leaves, and I crashed in going head over heels. Roll, Alvarez, roll! It'll help cushion the impact. Didn't help when you hit a tree, though. Ow!

  Extricating myself from the brambles, I found my bottle of healing potion and took a swig. The pain diminished. Ah. Now, where was the gang?

  Over here! Ten meters towards the volcano.

  The what? Oh, there it is. Wow.

  Hurrying, I found them in a small clearing of bare ground, with a matching set of chairs and sofa surrounded by lush vegetation.

  Already hard at work, George had a long stick that he was frantically trying to sharpen a point on with a jagged rock. Nimble fingers busy, Father Donaher was tying his ceremonial purple sash around three stones to fashion a crude bola. Jessica was plucking leaves off a vine already knotted into a garrote. Way to go, Tunafish! We were down, but not out.

  Removing my shoes, I knelt and filled a sock with dirt. Called a tap, cosh, persuader, blackjack, sap, whatever, it was one of the oldest weapons created by humans, but it was still here because it worked so well. Totally silent and reusable, a sap hit like a sledgehammer and could kill in trained hands. Mine.

  Testing a swing on a palm, my flesh stung from the mild impact. Cracking open a skull and pulverizing the brain should slow down even the strongest werewolf. Hopefully.

  “Okay, standard search pattern,” I said. “But this time we stay together. Double coverage. Me and Jess, George and Mike."

  “Hold,” Jessica whispered urgently. “There's something out there."

  We moved into a defensive posture. Straining vision, I could dimly perceive a misshapen thing moving through the jungle, circling our position. We could clearly hear the steady tap of multiple feet.

  “What is it?” George asked, peering against the darkness of the trees.

  “Another tarantula?” Father Donaher guessed, starting to swing his bola. The stones clicked once and soft as the noise was, the creature instantly scuttled forward in our direction.

  “Manticore!” Jessica shouted as the monster burst from the foliage.

  The silver-blue illumination from the magical sky highlighted its bloated hairy body. Ugly bugger. Part-spider, part-scorpion and part-cockroach, the very name of the demonic insect meant death in several dimensions.

  As it came near, George heaved his makeshift spear and missed. Mike threw the bola and hit, but with no effect. Before the rest of us could move, a stream of brackish liquid squirted from the mouth of the monster and hit George in the face. With a hideous gargle, the man fell, clawing at his smoking flesh.

  The manticore vomited a second stream of death at me. I ducked as Donaher leapt upon the back of the beast and buried his cross into its mottled hump like a dagger! Poison blood squirted across the glowing crucifix and ignited as Mike dove for the bushes. In a juicy crackle, the mutant bug burst into flames. Bleeding fire, it charged into the bushes. A moment later we heard its death scream fading into the distance. Downward.

  But congratulations for the victory were put on hold as we sprinted to our wounded friend. Biting his tongue not to scream, George clawed feebly for his canteen. Pushing the hands aside, I poured a full bottle of healing potion on his face. There was a violent hiss and he relaxed. As the fumes dispersed and his countenance became visible, we tried not to gasp in horror.

  Looking worse than a week-old corpse, George's face was a ghastly greenish yellow, the flesh puckered into ravines of gnarled skin. But even worse, his eyes were featureless orbs of solid white.

  “Will I live?” he croaked.

  I gave it to him straight. “Yes. But you're blind."

  He took the bitter news stolidly. “Healing potion?"

  “Tried already."

  Gingerly, the man fingered his face. “How bad is it?” George asked in a small voice.

  “Oh, I've seen worse,” I lied. “Makes you look sort of like Broderick Crawford."

  He flinched. “Never play poker with me, Ed. That terrible, eh?"

  Trapped, I told him yes.

  Gamely, the soldier stood. “Come on, we still got a world to save."

  Stout fellow. With Donaher on guard, Jessica was already busy. Holding a forked branch by the ends, she walked around in circles searching for a secret door, hidden entrance. Maybe even the elevator. That would be nice.

  Fat chance, bucko. She stopped. “We dig here."

  Using our hands, we scooped aside the loose soil until we reached concrete. Guided into place, George slammed the steel-reinforced heel of his Army boots onto the material. After a few tries, it started to crack. Pieces came loose and, bending low, we pried them aside. Below was a hotel corridor.

  “I'm staying here,” George said, crawling to the nearby bushes and pulling branches loose. “I'll cover the hole and try to sidetrack any werewolves."

  Blind and armed with a stick. I would add the name George Renault to the heroes roll call of Horatio, Audie Murphy, and Ken Saunders. George and I shook his hand, Jess gave him a hug, and we dropped down inside.

  We found ourselves near a curtained window at the end of a hallway lined with doors. The carpet was decorated with party favors, and every door had a dining tray loaded with plates and liquor bottles, plus women's underwear hung from the doorknobs. These occult conventions must be pretty wild.

  There were no numbers; each door had a brass plate and was named after a President. Yep, this was the convention floor. I tried a knob and found it unlocked. Peeking inside I saw the ocean. Donaher cracked a door and confronted a desert plain. Jess peered at the Alps. A goat wandered by.

  We closed the doors. How many dimensions and places was this poor befuddled building occupying at the same instant? Tick, tick.

  As the doors would lead us nowhere, we advanced down the corridor in a triangle formation, ready for attack. This deep in the enemy citadel, anything could happen.

  Turning a corner, we encountered an elderly woman with white hair and a cane.

  “You!” the gnarled oldster and Jess gasped in unison.

  My wife grabbed the amulet around her neck as the elderly woman extended a fist adorned with a huge signet ring. Motionless, they stood there locked in silent battle. It was only specks at first, then glowing sparks started swirling about the two telepaths, and soon they were encased in a vortex of static discharges from the awful load of mental energies unleashed.

  Father Donaher started to reach for them, but I stopped him.

  “Don't,” I warned. “It'd kill you in a microsecond."

  Frowning, Mike touched the empty shotgun holster on his belt. A single 12 gauge round would have ended the matter, and I would have given anything for the big priest to have a load for his weapon.

  “Come on,” I said and forced myself to take that first step away from my wife.

  Two floors away we ran straight into a pair of werewolves. They were in flak j
ackets and carrying M-16 machine guns.

  Moving fast, we stepped close to the monsters. Now standing behind the muzzle, the guns could no longer harm us. It was apparently a trick the Scion agents had never heard of, as their jaws unhinged. In grim satisfaction, I swung my cosh and Mike smacked the other in the face with his armored Bible. Bones crunched in stereo.

  Reeling backwards, the wolves stumbled to the floor. We pounded them again for a while until they stopped moving. Quickly, we stripped them of flak jackets, pistols and ammo clips. They even had one grenade apiece. How nice! Old WWII-style pineapples loaded with blasting powder and gelinite, but serviceable nonetheless.

  Sprawled on the carpet, the werewolves were already starting to moan back into life. It takes more than a simple beating to kill a were. But hey, no problem, Bureau 13 agents are most obliging.

  Dragging the bodies around a corner, we jammed them into a closet. Then Donaher and I each stuffed our grenades into their mouths, pulled the pins, slammed the door and ran. Thunder and flame filled the hallway in our wake, but we kept going. Let's see how quickly they heal with no heads.

  As we raced along the corridors, I checked the load on a clip. U.S. Army-issue regulation 5.56mm perfectly imbalanced tumblers. Nasty bullets that enter a shoulder and ricochet around, chewing the major organs to mincemeat, and then exit from the opposite hip. I had been hoping for phosphorus tracer rounds, or mercury-tipped explosive bullets. Might as well wish for the blessed silver. Still they were something.

  At the elevator bank, a sign on an easel announced the times and locations of numerous convention functions. There was no listing for the moon rock.