The Beasts Of Valhalla m-4

by George C. Chesbro

  "You mean you stole it."

  Brother Luke didn't much care for that. "Everything belongs to Father," he said, scowling.

  "It's just that a knife seems like a strange gift to bring to Father. After all, who'll need weapons in the Great Time?"

  Brother Luke flushed, turned to the girl. "He doesn't understand," he said tightly, then wheeled and walked stiffly away.

  One down, one to go.

  Where was Garth?

  "There's no need to be rude, Brother Boris," the girl said reprovingly. "The offerings are only symbolic."

  "Of what?"

  "Our love. It's suggested that new Children bring certain kinds of offerings, tokens of affection and commitment. The practice is said to please Father and members of His earth family greatly."

  "It wouldn't surprise me." Whatever happened to the rest of the world in Great Time, I thought, the Loges would be going into it with quite a collection of loot, some of it, undoubtedly, of considerable value.

  "Brother Luke's offering has created a lot of excitement around here. It's so perfect."

  I started to ask why it was so perfect, but the words stuck in my throat.

  "You look very strange, Brother Boris," the girl said. "Are you all right?"

  No, I was most definitely not all right-and, as I watched Garth stagger through a door and fall to his knees in a bright circle of light at the opposite end of the hall, it occurred to me that neither my brother nor I might ever again know what it felt like to be all right. The left side of Garth's face looked to be swollen to about twice its normal size, and he was bleeding from his mouth and nose. Every instinct cried out for me to go to him, but I somehow managed to stay where I was, staring stupidly off into space as Sister Esther gasped and backed away to join the other Children, who had retreated to stand against the walls.

  Suddenly the hall was silent as-well, a grave.

  Mike Leviticus, Reverend Ezra, Brothers Amos and Joshua came into the hall, took up positions in a semicircle around Garth, who was struggling to get to his feet. Reverend Ezra's frizzy locks were plastered to his forehead with nervous sweat. Leviticus's gloves were off, and in the bright light it appeared as if the sides of both hands were sheathed with blades of polished, bare bone that was actually growing out of the flesh.

  Which, of course, was impossible.

  Leviticus pulled Garth to his feet, shoved him toward me. Garth staggered, then recovered his balance and walked fairly steadily the rest of the way.

  "Well done, Mongo," Garth said in a low, thick voice as he stopped in front of me. "They still don't know that you can see."

  "How badly are you hurt, Garth?"

  "It probably looks worse than it is. I lost a couple of teeth in the back, but the jaw doesn't seem to be broken. Brother Mike has a curious set of hands, and he definitely knows how to use them. We're in the shithouse, brother. We're now officially certified as servants of Satan."

  "That much I surmised. Did you find out anything?"

  "Nope. I no sooner let myself out a window than I ran into the side of one of Leviticus's hands. It took me this long to wake up."

  "Satan isn't going to like this," I said in a loud voice. "I have a good mind to turn everybody black."

  An alarmed murmur rose from the Children ringing the hall, and Garth grinned through his swollen lips. "I was sent to get you. Should we go quietly, or make a beau geste and let them beat the shit out of us?"

  "Do you think they mean to kill us when they get us outside?"

  "There's always that possibility, but I tend to doubt it. After all, Siegfried Loge finally got back to the Reverend, and I wasn't killed outright. No matter what other avenues of research those crazy fuckers are pursuing, it seems the two live Frederickson brothers are still considered the keys to Valhalla."

  "Then let's save our energy," I said, reaching out for Garth's arm.

  21

  "Shit," Garth said when the others had finished nailing some kind of barricade over the door of our improvised holding pen and left.

  "My sentiments exactly," I replied, removing my smoked glasses and looking around.

  "Where the hell are we?"

  "Your marvelous nose doesn't tell you?"

  "A supermarket deli section?"

  "Close. A cheese-processing shed."

  Although it would be pitch dark to Garth, I could see quite well by the faint moonlight spilling in through vents left open under the corrugated steel eaves of the shed. There was a space heater. I plugged it in, and Garth, shivering, came over and squatted down next to the warming cherry glow.

  "You want me to turn on the lights?" I asked.

  "What's to see?"

  "Three stainless-steel curdling vats and a lot of rubber hosing."

  "It sounds depressing; you look at it."

  "For now, it seems we're still the apples of Father's eye," I said as I began slowly making a circuit of the area, looking for a ladder-anything-that could get me up to one of the vents that looked to be at least eighteen feet overhead. "That situation may not last much longer. The Loges have got themselves some raw breeding stock; these people-and, presumably, the other communes, as well-send their babies to Father."

  "Oh, Jesus," Garth murmured. "The sons-of-bitches are experimenting directly on humans."

  "Yeah," I replied, completing my search of the shed and coming back to squat next to Garth. I'd found nothing. "How's your face?"

  "It smarts. The edge of that big prick's hand is as hard as bone." "It is bone," I said. Now that I'd had time to think about it, I knew what I'd seen. "It's collagen."

  "Collagen?"

  "A while back some researchers at Harvard Medical School came up with a technique for growing bone, without rejection, virtually anywhere in the body."

  "A bone graft?"

  "It's not really a graft. They extract collagen from any bone, mix it with a few other nonorganic materials into a paste, then spread it over an area where they want new bone to grow. The paste has the effect of stimulating the surrounding cells into producing bone tissue. Siegfried Loge must give his Warriors' hands the collagen treatment when they complete their training. I'm sure it impresses the hell out of them."

  "It impressed the hell out of my face. It sounds like Loge is still playing Sorscience."

  "Yep. He's a real gamester, that one."

  "You think Leviticus was told the real reason the Loges want us?"

  "No. Leviticus is here because he's a member of the belief system, and they wouldn't tell him anything that would conflict with his beliefs. This place is sealed off. The only information they get is over the phone, and Siegfried Loge is on the other end of the line."

  "Other Warriors will be coming to get us."

  "Sure."

  "You think it would do any good to try and reason with Leviticus, tell him what's really happening?"

  "You tell me, Garth. You're the one who said he smelled of religious ecstasy. You think he's going to listen to two servants of Satan?"

  "Sorry. Getting hit by bone-hand must have knocked my brains loose. Incidentally, I really hated to lose those back teeth; I just had a root canal job on that side."

  "Feel like having a seizure? You can bang the door open."

  "Hey, I wish I could. Unfortunately, I don't have any control over the damn things. We could be paste ourselves, smears under a Loge microscope, before I have another one."

  "That's what I call a really comforting thought. How about if I tickle your feet?"

  Garth laughed. "That would probably get me pissed at you, but it wouldn't bring on a seizure. Sorry, Mongo." He paused, looked down as I stuffed my glasses deep into the pocket in his robe. "What are you doing?"

  "Putting my glasses in a safe place. I'm splitting."

  "You walk through walls?"

  I pulled Garth to his feet, guided him across the concrete floor to a position against one of the corrugated steel walls. "Look up."

  "The vent? You've got to be kidding. Have you got
suckers on your fingertips to go with your snake eyes?"

  "I've got a strong brother. You're going to toss me up there."

  Garth lowered his gaze, shook his head. "The hell I am. You're fucking crazy."

  "You like the idea of ending up paste?"

  "You'll end up paste now if you miss and fall back on this concrete. I can't see to catch you. Even if you do get up and through, it's still a twenty-foot drop to the ground."

  "You seem to forget that you're talking to none other than Mongo the Magnificent. I used to do tougher shit than this for a living."

  "Those were your circus days, and they were a long time ago."

  "Squat, and cup your hands between your knees. I'll get a running start to work up a head of steam. You'll hear me coming. When you feel my foot hit your hands, it's launch time. Don't hold back on the horsepower."

  "No. We'll bide our time, wait until we're picked up. There'll be other chances to make a break. This stunt's too dangerous."

  "Come on, Garth," I said, pacing to the opposite side of the shed. "We're wasting time."

  Garth sighed in resignation. "Mongo," he said quietly, "if you do get out of here, I want you to keep going. You can't get me out; they've got the door nailed shut."

  "Thanks, Garth. That's what I was going to do, anyway. I'm glad you'll understand."

  "I'm serious, Mongo. You have to take your glasses."

  "I'm serious, Garth; squat!"

  He did so, and I lit out across the shed. "Now!" I shouted as I leaped off the floor and planted my right foot in the pocket of his cupped hands.

  Garth didn't hold back in the muscle department. Up, up, and away I went-as if I'd been shot out of a cannon. A split second after Garth threw me I knew that making the eighteen feet to the vent was not going to be a problem; catching hold of the edge of the wall on the way down after I'd banged into the roof was the problem. I twisted in the air, absorbed the force of impact against the tin roof with my right shoulder and hip. I bounced with a mighty clang that I hoped couldn't be heard too far away, stretched. My fingers caught the sharp edge of the wall, and I squeezed. My grip held, and my body banged into the corrugated steel.

  "Mongo?!"

  "Uh, just a tad too much exuberance there, brother," I managed to say as I gasped for breath.

  "Mongo, I'm sorry! I was afraid- "

  "I'm all right, Garth," I said quickly, looking down. Garth, stricken, was squinting up into the darkness, silver tears running down his cheeks. "Really; I'm not hurt. However, I think it only fair to warn you that the next time there's something like this to be done, you're the one who gets thrown."

  "Anybody outside?" Garth asked as he wiped away the tears and shook his head with relief.

  "I don't know; I haven't looked yet. Let's hope not."

  "Look, you little smart-ass bastard," Garth said, looking up at me and shaking his fist, "you'd damn well better find a good way of getting down from there, because if you fall-or you get caught-I'm going to be very pissed. You hear me?"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've got no more time to hang around here, brother. I'll drop in later to see how you're doing. Ciao."

  Sucking in a deep breath, I flexed my shoulder muscles and pulled, at the same time swinging my right leg up. The heel caught, and I scrambled up and over the wall, hung down on the other side. At the moment the moon was obscured by clouds, making the green-robed dwarf hanging off the side of the commune's cheese-processing shed a bit less conspicuous; that was good. The raw metal edge was cutting through my palms, making them bleed and hurt like hell; that was bad.

  For a few moments I considered taking the fast way down, dropping eighteen feet and taking my chances on a good break-roll. I thought better of it. Garth was right; the circus had been a long time ago, and there was a definite risk that I'd break more than I'd roll. Hanging first from one hand, then the other, I grabbed the hem of my spacious robe, used the material to cushion my palms. That took care of the pain and bleeding problems, but it made my grip on the edge considerably more tentative. The act was going to have to be speeded up.

  Overhanging eaves prevented me from climbing up on the roof, which left me a choice of going to my left or right. I went right, swinging and sliding in the direction of another building which looked to have been built very close to the shed.

  The muscles in my hands, arms, and shoulders were burning by the time I'd covered the twenty or so yards, but the trip had been worth it; in the narrow alleyway between the two buildings, the walls were no more than three feet apart. I went around the corner, crossed one hand over the other and flipped around so that I was hanging with my back against the corrugated steel wall of the cheese-processing shed.

  I'd already lost one sandal; now I kicked off the other, stretched out my leg and planted one foot against the wall of the opposite building. Pressing hard with my shoulders against the shed wall, I firmly planted my other foot, then released my grip. With my body braced between the two walls, I easily "walked" down the narrow shaft to the ground.

  22

  The door to Reverend Ezra's office was open, and there was nobody home. The first thing I did after closing the door behind me was to hop up on a windowsill, huddle in my robe, and plant my thoroughly frozen feet directly on the metal shield of a radiator. I'd grown seriously concerned about frostbite, but after about five minutes sensation returned to the toes. I rewarded myself for good behavior by letting my feet toast for another minute or so, then got down and began to search the office.

  There was nothing in the Reverend's desk drawer but two well-worn Bibles, dozens of bizarre religious tracts which looked like they'd been run off on a mimeograph machine, and two sticks of Juicy Fruit gum. It was all very depressing; there were no letters, no letterheads, and no address book. So far, all Garth and I had managed to accomplish by infiltrating the commune was to get caught; even if we escaped now, our enemies had been alerted to the fact that we were alive. There were going to be a lot of men in brown uniforms with bony hands scouring this part of the country, hunting for us. We desperately needed to mount some kind of an attack, and to do that we needed an address.

  It didn't help my mood to find a toilet behind the door under Siegmund Loge's portrait. I tried the door under Jesus, and barely suppressed a whoop of delight. It looked like the Big Bingo-a room used for the temporary storage of "offerings" brought for Father by new commune members. In the center of the room was a table apparently used for sorting and repacking; on it were a number of battered boxes and bags, and a variety of articles. There was a built-in shelf running along one wall; packing boxes, strapping tape, and a postal scale. Above the scale, taped to the wall, was a large card with neat, block-printed letters.

  RAMDOR

  RFD RTE. 113

  CENTRALIA PA

  Somewhere, I'd heard or read something strange about Centralia, Pennsylvania, but I couldn't recall what it was. I didn't care; having the address was all that mattered, and I was doubly pleased to find our clothes piled on the shelf, next to the postal scale. I discarded my robe, quickly dressed, then walked across the room, went up on my toes and looked out the window.

  Parked behind the building were our car and the Willys.

  I allowed myself the luxury of humming a few bars of the Hallelujah Chorus.

  All that remained was to spring Garth, and to do that I needed a claw hammer or a crowbar.

  Fat chance.

  I might have been able to find something in one of the cars, but, having come this far, I was unwilling to risk recapture by being in the open any longer than I had to be. Instead, I began to rummage through the items on the table, looking for anything that might be used to pry loose the boards that had been nailed across the door to the cheese-processing shed.

  Under a pile of Styrofoam blocks used for packing, I found a long, heavy case covered with fine-grain, beautifully tooled cordovan leather. I snapped open the case, found a huge knife in a leather-and-chrome scabbard inside. I lifted the knife out of th
e case, pulled it from its scabbard.

  Shhh.

  Whisper.

  The Anvil Ring had delivered themselves of a beautiful piece of work, all right. The blade itself, almost half the size of a broadsword, was in the shape of a Bowie model. The color of the steel was an odd, very pale gray and, when viewed from a certain angle, displayed a rippling pattern of parallel lines; at first I thought the lines had been engraved into the steel, but when I ran my finger across the flat face of the blade I found that they were a part of the metal itself.

  The handle was extremely heavy-black stone, probably onyx or obsidian, reinforced with steel bands, decorated at both ends with rings of diamond chips.

  It was a hell of a thing to have to use for prying boards loose-Damascus steel or no, I wondered how much pressure the blade could take. However, it was the only thing on the table or in the room that looked even remotely useful, and so it was going to have to do. I slipped the knife back into its scabbard, slipped myself back out into the night after picking up Garth's clothes.

  "Hey," I said, rapping lightly on the door with my knuckles. "Did you wait there like I told you?"

  "Mongo?" Garth's anxious whisper was clearly audible; he'd been waiting by the door.

  "You guessed."

  "Did you get an address?"

  "Sure did. I wish I could tell you it was in Florida, but it's not. We're going to Centralia, Pennsylvania. It looks like one of the Loges-maybe both of them-is holed up there."