Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  Albert spat, “When was the last time any of you served a turn during the days after a killing moon? Sure, you’re only too happy to help when everyone’s high on adrenaline and fear, but the long week after, when we fight like hell to save the worst cases? You vanish. I haven’t seen any of you around then, when our beds are full of people dying from demon bites, or mysterious fevers, or just a damned broken leg that we can’t fix.” He seared Amy Delacroix with a glare, then let his eyes slide to the still form of Wesley Yarnell. Somehow, the shadow of Colvin Watley had insinuated himself into the meeting and forced Amy Delacroix to wonder how much spying was going on in New Madrid. She massaged her temples and wished silently for Harriet’s miracle recovery, before dousing that thought with cold reality. Harriet would be dead in a month and, if French didn’t return from that entrance to hell, they were all going to die.

  “Albert.” Amy’s voice was placating and tired. “Albert, please. Robin? Jeyne?” She addressed the midwife for the first time with her plea. Jeyne Vanson was in her thirties with brown eyes and black hair, and would have been pretty if the simple rigors of caring for every infant in New Madrid hadn’t sapped her vitality. Still, Jeyne smiled sadly and motioned for Delandra to continue. The midwife was a pool of calm in the rising storm of the hall.

  “I’m not here to tell you what you’re doing wrong, because that would be poor form and incorrect,” Delandra began. “I am going to tell you the truth.” She regarded the room with a level, competent gaze, and held up a hand. “Point one. I’m a surgeon and, unless I miss my mark, none of you are. Is that correct?”

  Albert muttered, and Jeyne remained still.

  “I perform some surgeries,” Robin said by way of refutation.

  Delandra nodded carefully. “Invasive or corrective?”

  She was silent, then said, “Corrective. I don’t have the facilities.”

  Jeyne added, “We don’t have the experience, either.”

  At that, Delandra raised a second finger. “Because all of your patients fall into two categories, either catastrophic injuries or minor issues, right?”

  “How did you know?” This time, Robin’s tone was curious.

  Delandra smiled grimly. “I’ve been a doctor since I was a teen. I’ve been in a combat zone since birth. We’re fighting demons. They either kill us, or leave us for dead. The victims we don’t see are presumed eaten. Sound about right?”

  Albert grunted. Jeyne and Robin gave small nods. They were all sharing memories of every killing moon, and finding the common thread was uncomfortably close to what Delandra described.

  “I can help, but I need all three of you, two dragons, and a long day. We can arm ourselves, go to what was Trinity, and carry the bulk of our surgical and med wards back here. With your engineers, we can have a working surgical unit in two days. That leaves us time enough to stock it and get ready to receive casualties. We don’t have to lose everyone. We can save people, but I need your help to do that, and I’ll require you to consider me your commander when we’re in the surgery. I don’t care about politics or posturing”—she flicked a glance at Wesley Yarnell, who stiffened—“but I want to spare your city what happened to mine.”

  Shannon Stera, a big, rangy man with a weather beaten face and bald head, stood and fixed his blue eyes on Delandra. “Why are we here?” He jerked a thumb at Lewin Alexander, who might have been is twin if not for having black eyes and a stubble of brown hair.

  “Ahh, my fisherman are here. Well, I need your particular skills in order to make this entire system work during the killing moon,” Delandra said.

  Open surprise spread over both men’s faces, but Stera spoke first. “Our skills?”

  “You’re good with knots, I assume?” Delandra smiled at the men, whose fingers twitched at the simple mention of knots.

  “Of course,” Stera said honestly. “What do you need?”

  “Gentlemen, you’re both about to become my surgical assistants.”

  Realization dawned on their faces, and they laughed. It was an excellent idea. Shannon Stera bowed slightly to Delandra, saying “It will be a pleasure to sew up something that isn’t going to be torn apart by sharks.” Lewin Alexander imitated the bow, and both men sat down to a quiet conversation.

  “In fact, I can use people from nearly every division of New Madrid, if you’ll let me,” Delandra said.

  Amy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I don’t see why not, especially with such a clear goal in mind. What divisions will you need most? We can’t spare any shooters, and we certainly can’t peel any of our primary defense away.”

  Delandra rubbed her hands together while grinning. For a woman of her beauty, it seemed to transform her into a gleeful child. “Let’s start by who I won’t need to pilfer. Your smokehouse staff, or the farmers. I won’t need any of your militia, nor will I request anyone from the millers or mechanics.” She drew in a breath, and began to point. “I’ll need several of your brew masters and distillers. We’re going to have pure alcohol on hand for sterilization, and I need their whole production capacity. We’re going to distill everything you have down to pure alcohol, or something rather close. I’ll need ten fishermen and twenty of your best cloth workers to cut bandages. I want a dozen carpenters, five engineers, a plumber or three, some builders, preferably 100 at minimum, and at least a dozen cooks and bakers.” She paused to let the people taking notes catch up.

  Jeyne raised a hand, asking “Why bakers?”

  “I need bland food and purified water on hand for the survivors. We can’t expect them to eat smoked fish and survive with a gut wound, and the cooks will work with the bakers to carry out my instructions for hospital dietary requirements.”

  At that, Jeyne nodded, and more than a few brows went up among the crowd. Delandra’s foresight was impressive, and many attendees quietly concluded that Trinity’s loss was their gain.

  “The carpenters and other construction staff are going to build my surgical unit. I have plans, and we need clean water plus drainage, power, and ventilation. This is a huge task, and when we return from Trinity, we’re not sleeping until it’s done. Is that clear?”

  When she sensed the room was completely hers, Delandra finished, “Pick the best of each division and have them ready. There are three copies of plans; I confess to being no artist, but they should be clear enough to begin construction immediately.” She handed the folded sheaf to Amy, who nodded once for her to continue. “I’ve already asked two dragons to carry us with all speed. Lurvy and Windy are going, so is Rae on Spellbound. They can carry a ton of equipment each, and we’ll bring all of that and more.”

  “Can we do anything else for you?” Asked Bettina Laswell, a middle-aged brunette who worked in engineering. Her husband, Lynn Prestagaard from agriculture, sat next to her, nodding thoughtfully. His blue eyes twinkled at the thought of such an organized effort. A lifelong farmer, Lynn prized efficiency above all, save his wife.

  “Not yet. But I’m no queen, despite my tastes. You’re welcome to introduce anything that might help,” Delandra said to a ripple of laughter. “And yes, for those of you that know me, I will be, ah, salvaging some clothes, my wine collection, makeup, and a favorite surgical bag. I’ll also be getting my custom holster for my .45. It’s been with me since my sweet sixteenth.” She smiled at Amy’s jaunty salute. There was precious little to cheer about in a world gone to dust, but Delandra’s devotion to personal grooming was a charming anachronism that the women of New Madrid found oddly intriguing. Curious looks greeted this announcement, to which Delandra responded with a cheery grin. “You may not understand it, but I am, after all, a Texan. I have standards.”

  15

  Underneath: The Ascent

  “Hell’s own pipe organ,” Saavin said. French stood next to her, stricken with the kind of commonplace awe they’d experienced on a daily, and even hourly, basis. Before them sprawled a series of tubular openings spanning nearly a mile of open cavern. The rims were fouled with detritus, a
noxious cloud hanging in the air. Low mushrooms bloomed across the slimy swamp covering a cave floor of moist, unseen composition. The city lay behind them, and the companionate presence of the still sea was gone from their sight, lost to the downward curve of their descent. A pulsation wafted past all of their senses, like the earth itself was breathing.

  “Do you feel it?” French asked. His shoulders were tense with preparation.

  Saavin nodded with grim admission. There was something in the tubes. Something alive, they decided, and the potential sense of death pushed past the periphery of their senses to blare in open warning.

  “I count four major openings . . . and at least five minor, if you can call those minor.” Saavin noted the vast openings. The smallest of the nine was nearly 100 yards across. The cavern air was wild with changing drafts of toxic breezes, each new wind surging forth from distinct tunnels. Scents of rot and demonic life competed with the stench of age and mystery. Every nerve in their bodies went on high alert, as Saavin and French recognized what spread before them. This was the throat of hell, and the cave they left behind had been little more than a warning. Curling to their right, they found a well-worn area that was more a game trail than road.

  “Does that ascend?” Saavin pointed up the path, hope flooring her voice.

  “That’s our way out, but I’ve got to decide how to—” French stopped. He held the sheets of C-5 with quiet delicacy, his big hands poised like an artist’s clutching a brush before the first stroke of paint.

  “What is it?” Saavin flicked the beam of her light toward his stare. A fault line ran up the wall to spread branchlike into the gloom. Water trickled from the cracks intermittently, causing small areas of darkness where the lichens had lost their purchase. In the near distance, a shaft of light pierced the darkness to break apart in spangles of silver and gray.

  French squatted, deep in thought. “Let’s get closer to that light. I think we have a problem.”

  “Another problem? Or our original problem?” Saavin asked as they walked toward the shaft of golden light. Motes of mold and dust danced cheerily in the beam, ignorant of the surrounding malice.

  In moments, they’d scrabbled their way up a heap of talus to approach the landing spot of the sunlight. Under their feet lay an old, enormous trash pile. Metal cans, bottles, and odd cases of various machinery had accrued over unknown years to form a mountain that stopped mere feet from the surface. The brood pigs left no doubt as to their point of ingress; their repulsive discharge covered every surface to a depth of inches.

  French patted the C-5 ruefully. “We go with a different plan, then.” His anger was palpable.

  “Where does this come out?” Saavin craned her neck into the light. She could smell clean earth and sunshine.

  “I’ll show you.” French wrestled an old refrigerator into position, then placed a hollow stump on it to make a ladder toward freedom. “You first.” With a mild boost, he pushed Saavin’s long frame up into the blissful joy of open sky. With a single pull, he jerked himself up and out right behind her.

  “Whatcha doin, French?” The girl was no more than ten, holding a brush up that she had been using to industriously scrub a pair of whisperskin boots.

  “Hi, Molly,” French answered evenly after fighting to see her through the glare. His eyes watered freely, and he sneezed three times in violent succession. Saavin kept her own eyes closed tightly, but waved in the general direction of Molly’s voice. The sensory overload was nearly total, and she hoped the girl was in that general direction.

  “Where are we, French?” Saavin asked through her own sneezes.

  There was only silence, but he finally spoke with the voice of the damned, “Next to the river, where the kids play. We’re inside New Madrid. The brood pigs have tunneled right into our gut.”

  16

  Ruins of Trinity

  Emerging from low cloud cover, they smelled Trinity before it was visible. Wheeling wing to wing, Spellbound and Windy expertly dropped in a tight spiral to hover over what had been a thriving city days earlier.

  “Gods above, what is that stink?” Lurvy shouted above the whoosh of dragonwing. Both Rae and Lurvy looked sickened, while Delandra seemed to inhale even more deeply than normal. On Windy’s back with Lurvy rode two big herdsmen named Washburn and Copas. They were used to the various odors of farm life, but both of them looked to be on the edge of losing control. The drafts of hot air rising from the ruins brought tears to everyone’s eyes for more reasons than one; it was an invasive declarative of Trinity’s death.

  Rae spoke over her shoulder to Delandra, “Where are all the people?”

  Trinity wasn’t just dead, it was empty. There were no corpses, no sign of life anywhere, but the destruction was clearly visible. Every other building slumped downward at crazed angles. Walls collapsed into detritus, and bricks were strewn from the violent collapse of structures with no pattern whatsoever. Since it was cloudy, there were few shadows but, after a moment Delandra pointed to three buildings tightly huddled against the interior defensive wall. Two of the foundations had slid into unseen holes, but the middle frame stood.

  “Land there, but be prepared to take off immediately. Weapons at the ready.” Delandra snapped, her finger directing the enormous dragons to a clear area between the outer defensive wall and the central medical building. Her .45 was in hand, and she looked more soldier than doctor in that grim moment.

  Rae made two gestures to Lurvy, and the dragons spun downward, back winging to land with a light touch. The stink was nearly unbearable, and Washburn did lose control then, spewing onto the ground before he’d gone five steps from the heaving flank of Windy. Even the dragons were discomfited, their nictitating membranes flickering back and forth in a vain effort to clear their stinging eyes.

  “Where are my friends?” Spellbound asked with a plaintive note that was incredibly human. Dragons were so lethal, to see them exhibit vulnerability was disconcerting. Rae put a hand on his muzzle, shaking her head.

  “I don’t know, big guy. There’s slime everywhere.” She shuddered, then said quietly, “Maybe they were eaten.”

  Windy slammed a leg down with crushing force, causing everyone to flinch and point weapons in alarm. His following growl was long and vicious. “I will remember this smell.” He dragged a talon through a viscous trail climbing the wall of the remaining medical building. Something had crawled across the frame, dissolving wood and stone with apparent ease. The oily sheen on Windy’s claw glistened in the diffuse sunlight as he brought the sample to his nostril. After a comparatively small sniff, he flung the mucosal fluid away with disgust. “Demons,” he hissed, and Washburn turned whiter at the malignant tone of the dragon who was ten feet away.

  “We’ll remember. Promise,” Lurvy stated emphatically, then began directing the herdsmen to open the door to the clinic with great care.

  Both Delandra and Rae covered the opening with their weapons, but the inside was dark and still. With a nod, the riders entered in a staggered pair, splitting to left and right with the practiced ease of part-time salvagers. When you raided dead cities for trinkets of the forgotten world, you learned not to linger.

  “Clear!” Rae’s bark was heavy with relief. A psychic toll was growing by the minute on the former residents of Trinity. It wasn’t the stench, or the emptiness. Nor did the random collapse of their homes push the women to silent contemplation.

  “Washburn, Copas. I need some muscle,” Lurvy called.

  The two burly men shouldered hesitantly through the door, but they were seasoned workers, and they saw a task at hand that could be done. Without a word, they began to execute Delandra’s orders. Though only one building was completely safe, it was full of critical gear. They loaded massive cases of bandages, medicines, and surgical tools, even wrestling a small working autoclave onto a wooden palette.

  “How do you want to haul this?” Copas asked, gesturing at the disjointed shapes.

  Rae pointed her chin at the sea. �
�I’ll have Spellbound grab two fishing nets from a boat. Well double them if necessary, but they’ll serve as disposable cargo lugs. We can adjust the load and rest along the way but, mark my words, even if we have to fly in the dark, we’re sleeping in New Madrid tonight.”

  A responding clatter of industry rang from within the clinic, and Rae smiled knowingly. They’d make that mark easily, given the enthusiastic grunts issuing from around the door.

  Delandra squinted against the sun’s heat, saying, “We’ll proceed with care into the other clinics but, judging by the smell, demons have ravaged both buildings. I’m not even sure it’s wise to save anything if we can.” With a sour glare at the tumbled walls of her beloved surgeries, she turned to the distant clump of residences that ran along the inner defensive wall. “I’m going to what’s left of my house. Have Spellbound hop over to help?”

  Spellbound responded, having used his excellent draconic hearing from a distance. “Grab a leg, I’ll jump over and you can save a few steps. I don’t want you going in on your own, either,” the dragon cautioned, turning a gimlet eye to the gray and blue façade of Delandra’s former home. The door was canted at a rakish angle from the partial collapse, and both windows were shattered.

  He was rewarded with a stare from the doctor, who thumbed the safety from her .45 with a pronounced click. “Anything in there better be worried about me coming home, Spellbound.” Delandra favored the dragon with a wintry smile. “But I accept your gesture. Now, shall we?”

  17

  Dragons

  “Someone told me there was a wing of British dragons fighting their way down the coast. How they got here, I couldn’t imagine, at least not at the time. Of course now everyone knows about their fighting advance over the flotilla of the civilian ships. That was bloody, even by our standards. I think even the dragons needed a breather when they hit the beaches of Bimini, not to mention the civvies who managed to survive the endless predation. I’m told by the time the flotilla hit American waters, they were fighting at knife range with water demons straight out of a nightmare. They earned a rest, even if was a half-starved charge to high ground on the beaches of Carolina.