The Devil's Colony

by Bill Schweigart

“I’m sorry, my dear. These roads—these roles—we’re locked in.”

  “We don’t have to be.” She was so tired, she felt like she could sleep for days. But she leaned forward and placed her saucer on the desk. She grasped his hand in both of hers. “We can just…walk away.”

  He stared at her hand for a moment, surprised. He offered a sad smile and placed his other hand on top of hers.

  “I’m sorry, Lindsay. There is no walking away for either of us. You were marked the moment you arrived, the very first time I cupped your hand in mine.”

  He met her eyes, which were now finding it hard to focus.

  “You all were, every refugee here, when I shook their hands or squeezed their shoulders or slapped their backs. That was the moment you crossed the Rubicon. You just didn’t know it.”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. The thing in the woods. Why it was so hell-bent on her and Ben, and only cared about Davis when he blocked it from them? The connection gave her heart another dash of adrenaline. She withdrew her hand, and without him holding it, she felt like her arms were spaghetti. She knocked her saucer and teacup to the floor, where they shattered.

  “The Banamine was a nice touch, but it tipped your hand just a bit. Speaking of chemicals, that,” said Drexler, letting his eyes drift to the shattered teacup, “was propofol. Don’t worry though. It’s just enough for a little nap. Until all the players are on the stage.”

  Chekhov’s tea, she thought ruefully, then her thoughts became murky. She tried to grasp the arms of her chair, but her hands weren’t responding to her commands. Nothing was.

  “I appreciated your resourcefulness from the start, but I never expected to care for you as much as I do.”

  The room took on a forty-five-degree list as she slid from the chair to the floor.

  Lindsay was looking up at Drexler now as he loomed over her.

  “Sleep well, child.”

  She fought it, but her eyelids drooped. Her vision constricted. It resembled a receding circle of light, like falling down a deep, endless well. Like the earth itself was trying to swallow her whole. When the light was but a pinprick, she opened her mouth to scream, but the well swallowed her sound too.

  Drexler stood over the sleeping form of Lindsay and sighed. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but this is a kindness. What’s coming…you don’t deserve it.”

  He heard a faint sound then and cocked his head in its direction. A hum at first, then it distinguished itself as a rhythmic beating of the air, getting louder with each moment. A helicopter approaching.

  He straightened and smiled.

  “Right on cue, old friend.”

  Chapter 39

  “Come on, Breaux,” said Ben. “Talk some sense into these guys…”

  “Thing is, I have eyes everywhere,” said Breaux. “Even out there in Sherwood Forest. And my eyes saw you duck out, but you sure came back with a quickness.”

  “Were you timing me? That’s a little creepy even for this place.”

  “Maybe he’s a two-pump chump,” said Anson.

  Breaux laughed and Ben smiled hopefully.

  Keep them laughing, he thought. Keep them talking. “Sex is a race to see who finishes first and I’m undefeated.”

  A few of the others chuckled as well, but Felix just stared at him with his odd, cold eyes. Anson looked from his leader to Ben.

  “Maybe I’ll show her a real man,” said Anson.

  Ben bit his tongue and focused on Breaux.

  “Look, Breaux. I found that biker’s head in my tent and I brought it here instead of bringing it to you. That was dumb, but…I don’t know…I thought it was some sort of test or something. Can you guys give me a little margin of error here? This was literally my first severed head, all right? No one else knows, man.”

  Breaux looked at him with his calm, hooded eyes and let the mirth slowly drain from his face.

  “I don’t know nothing about a head. But once you were past my gaze, you could have been home free. Why’d you turn back?”

  Ben let his chin drop to his chest, shaking his head. He tried to avoid eye contact as he racked his brain for an answer.

  Breaux waggled his finger in the air at him, like Ben was a naughty schoolboy, then turned to Felix. “Young Drexler, if you were ever in a situation where you needed a cover story, did you know that it’s best to keep things simple? Don’t get too fancy. Oh no. You want to mine as much of your own personal history as possible. When you’re under, you’re already telling one big lie, so it’s best not to compound it with a bunch of little ones that can trip you up. Tweak as little as possible. Take your name, for example: Drexler. You wouldn’t change it to Hoffman or Smith, you’d change it to Drexel or Dressler.”

  Ben looked up and found Breaux smiling down at him.

  “Isn’t that right, McKelvie?”

  Fuck me, thought Ben.

  “Who are you?” said Felix.

  Ben took a deep breath, then straightened in his chair. He looked around the room, pausing on every face. “My name is Ben McKelvie and I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  Felix looked at Breaux. “We have to kill him.”

  “I am not a special agent with the FBI.”

  “Relax,” said Breaux to Felix. “I know who he is. He’s a nobody.” He turned back to Ben. “I just don’t know why you’re here. And this is your last chance to be straight with me or I turn these guys loose on you.”

  Ben weighed his options. There was only one left.

  The truth shall set you free.

  “All right. It’s going to sound weird.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m sort of a…paranormal investigator.”

  The room fell silent. A smirk crept up one side of Breaux’s face and he began to chuckle.

  “Kid, either you are crazy or you got some pair of stones on you,” said Breaux. He nodded imperceptibly to Hendrix. “I could listen to you spin this golden bullshit all night, but we’re on the clock.”

  Hendrix squared down in front of Ben with a big smile on his face. He held up his left hand and looked at it, making odd shapes, and trilled like a bird. He looked like he was trying to make a hand puppet. Ben looked at it and Hendrix’s other hand shot out in a crushing jab. It landed right under the eye and his head snapped back. He felt tiny bones give. The orbital socket. The room spun. Not spun, but tilted. His chair went backward and he landed on his own hands, which were lashed behind his back. He felt a finger snap on his right hand, two on his left. His legs kicked involuntarily at the lightning pain of it. Just as quickly, the room tilted again as two men—Ben couldn’t see who—lifted the chair off the ground and set it right again. Like it never happened. Just the knifing pain in his broken fingers and an eye already swollen shut.

  “You were saying?” said Breaux.

  Thoughts tumbled helter-skelter in his throbbing head. He didn’t know where to begin, but this was the only course he had left, beatings or no. “Not…bullshit. Cryptids.”

  “What’s a cryptid?” said Anson.

  “Couple years ago…something chewed up my neighborhood in Arlington, Virginia. Killed a lot of people. People said it was an animal attack.” He shook his head. “It was a creature out of folklore. A shapeshifter.”

  Felix cruised in for another shot.

  “It’s the truth!” said Ben, bracing.

  “Let him finish,” said Breaux.

  “A few months ago, a bunch more attacked a town in Minnesota. Destroyed it. Tried to do the same in another town in Wisconsin. We stopped it.”

  “I heard something about that,” said Breaux. “News said it was hyenas.”

  Ben shook his swelling head. “No. It was an invasive species.”

  “From where?”

  “From here.”

  “Välkommen?” asked Breaux.

  “In my neighborhood, the woman who set the first beast free said something about a limping man. In Wisconsin, one of the first men killed was a man by the name of Nix H
ealey. He was affiliated with that biker gang. Every weird thing that’s happened points back to this place.” He was talking to Breaux but dared to look at Felix for a moment, who looked back at him with a thin haze of curiosity over the heat of his hatred. “This place was established by Felix’s grandfather, who worked for the science and research arm of the SS, more specifically in its folklore division.”

  Drexler’s son advanced on him again.

  “And there’s something in the woods,” said Ben.

  “Wait,” said Breaux.

  Felix stopped, fist cocked.

  “You want to know why I’m back? Something chased me. The rumors are true. Something is out there. It was huge, it was dressed in some strange garb, like some creature out of a fairy tale, and bullets didn’t stop it. Nothing stopped it. It probably cut that biker’s head off. Probably killed Mitchell too, and God knows who else. I don’t know what it is or who’s pulling its strings, but that’s the God’s honest truth. I swear.”

  All this time, strapped to a chair, getting beaten, the riddle about the thing in the woods still itched the back of his brain. Like a word on the tip of his tongue. Davis, who had perforated the thing, was just a nuisance to it—it wanted Ben and Lindsay and that was it. They were marked somehow, only he couldn’t puzzle out how. Even if he could, what could he do about it now? If only he’d had the time to talk to Lindsay. He tried to picture her, warm and safe, sitting in Drexler’s office. Hoping against the odds that the man really was clean in all of this, that he and the Black Cadre would protect her from these animals. That escape was still possible for her.

  Ben looked at Felix now. “Your grandfather had been up to some bad shit. I think your father—”

  Felix lunged, punched him in the mouth. “You don’t talk about my family!”

  Ben felt his lip split and blood flow down his chin. Ben tried to roll with the second punch, but as he was strapped to the chair, all he could do was lean and fall to the side instead of backward onto his hands again. His head bounced off the concrete floor and it stunned him.

  His thoughts were calm and detached. Like he was already disconnecting from his body.

  This is how I die? I’ve faced legendary creatures and impossible odds. But this? Strapped to a chair in a garage? In the middle of the Pine Barrens? Getting pummeled by a bunch of racist psychopaths and wannabe terrorists? Mob hits have more dignity. Some blaze of glory.

  The kicks to the chest and stomach brought him back around.

  He struggled against his ropes, but they didn’t give. He thrashed and began to scream then. He had tried lying, bluffing, and finally the truth, and now his bag of tricks was empty. He knew it wouldn’t help, that it would probably prolong his suffering, but his mounting rage was like a buzz. He couldn’t help himself. Brush fires of pain had erupted all over his body. One eye was swollen shut and throbbing. Blood filled his mouth and he counted at least two loose teeth with his tongue. His broken fingers, snapped and jutting at sickening angles, were electric with pain. Ribs were giving way.

  The worst part, what really stung, was that he had spent the last few days of his life kowtowing to these human monsters, immersed in their hateful, twisted world, and feeling like he had compromised every bit of himself to do so. And in the end, they were going to kill him. They were going to win. And he was utterly helpless. It was too much to bear.

  After an eternity—or a moment, Ben could no longer tell—the kicks and blows stopped and someone righted him again. His head swam. The room spun. When he looked up, Breaux had his arms wrapped around Felix from behind. The smaller man was thrashing, but it was still easy work for the larger chief of security.

  “Anything else to say, bitch?” yelled Felix.

  If I’m going to die, he thought, it will be with a clear conscience and without regret. Even strapped to a chair, he could go out standing for something.

  Ben spit. “Stevie Wonder is a national treasure, you worthless piece of shit.”

  Breaux cackled. He flung Felix violently to the side. Drexler’s son stumbled and fell, and when he got to his feet, his chest was heaving. He swept his hair back and stared between Ben and Breaux with naked malevolence, but he did not advance.

  Breaux was doubled over, laughing. When he straightened up, he was wiping the tears from his eyes. “Oh my God, kid. You. Are. Too. Much.”

  He strolled to a case on top of a tool bench and opened it, looking over his shoulder.

  “I gotta admit, you are funny. But me? I’m more a practical joker…”

  He held up a strange tool. The tip of it gleamed. With one eye swollen shut, Ben had difficulty seeing in the low light of the garage. It looked like an unwieldy pencil.

  “I couldn’t help but notice, some of your tats look a little faded.”

  Ben began to thrash, but someone from behind put him in a choke hold and pulled backward, tilting the chair on its back legs, thrusting Ben’s face skyward. The sudden fluorescent light made his open eye water. Then slowly, Breaux loomed into his field of vision.

  “Let’s freshen them up, shall we?”

  Chapter 40

  For a moment, Severance floated. He could see nothing and no one could see him, responsible to no one and nothing at all. He was alone in the cabin, with Erica up front, concentrating on the instruments of the $7 million Eurocopter Mercedes-Benz EC 145 and likely loving every minute of it. He had bought the thing years ago with the intention of getting his pilot’s license and learning how to fly it himself. But that was during that long stretch after Henry and Alex, and before Ben and Lindsay. When he was aimless, casting about for a purpose and finding none. Nothing ever really interested him as much as myths and legends. His head was always in the clouds, his parents had told him, without affection.

  I guess they were right, he thought.

  They hovered just above the dark canopy of treetops. Above, clouds were gathering on what had been, up until an hour ago, a clear evening. A low ceiling, Erica had told him. He peered through the open door, the wind whipping at him. Their payload had vanished. “All clear,” he said into his headset.

  He rolled the door closed and they ascended rapidly.

  Erica’s voice crackled in his headphones. “You sure about this, boss?”

  He flashed her a megawatt smile, but up front she couldn’t see it, so he made sure she could hear it.

  “Let’s go collect our zoologist and her…what does young McKelvie do for a living again?”

  “Annoy me?”

  “Well, let’s collect him anyway. I have a very attractive, very angry woman waiting to tear me to shreds when we return and I’m quite looking forward to it.”

  Once they reached altitude, the nose dipped for a moment as the helicopter gathered speed and punched forward. His smile faded. In seconds they were over the site and he peered through the window to the camp below. He could make out a large clearing, rimmed by small, bright lights.

  As they descended, the tents came into view, the buildings, the main house, and he saw then that the lights were torches. He fought a shudder.

  With the slightest nudge, they were on the ground.

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and before removing his headset, said, “As soon as I’m off, climb. Get above the clouds. Don’t come back until you get the signal.”

  “What’s the signal?” said Erica.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  He pulled the headset off and dropped it on the leather seat. He opened the door and hoped the crowd would be so curious at the helicopter’s touchdown that they wouldn’t swarm it. As soon as he disembarked, he slammed the door closed and smacked the side hard. He took a step back, the rotor wash blasting his hair, and watched it rise.

  He smoothed his hair, buttoned his jacket, and as the helicopter disappeared from view, he saw people pouring out of their tents, the Quonset huts, and the low buildings. As they got close, the smell hit him. Like Woodstock, he imagined. Same hygiene, minus the peace and love.

 
He heard a commotion behind him, or rather a sudden lack of commotion; a quadrant of the crowd pressing in on him had grown quiet. The crowd parted for a tall, mustachioed man with hooded eyes. He was accompanied by a half-dozen men dressed all in black and one of the men Severance remembered from the diner, the one covered with curling tentacles that gave the illusion his head was perched on them.

  “Evening,” said the mustachioed man.

  “Evening,” said Severance. He nodded toward Hendrix and his tattooed face. “You’re looking well.”

  “Nice ride,” said the mustachioed man. “EC 145?”

  “It’s German,” said Severance. “I wanted to blend in.”

  “I’m sorry, wherever are my manners?” said the man with an easy drawl. He offered a wide, winning smile, the smile of a Cheshire cat, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Duncan Breaux, head of security.” He offered his hand.

  Severance looked at the open hand but did not offer his own. “I’m afraid to tell you, you have blood on your hand, Mr. Breaux.”

  “As do you, Mr. Severance.”

  The men regarded each other evenly. The crowd shifted and began to press in closer, its curiosity of the man who fell from the sky curdling into suspicion and hostility. It was like he and Breaux were in the eye of a hurricane. A few skinheads began to dislodge themselves from the crowd and careen across the small open space, brushing against him like flying debris.

  “I love a good mosh pit as much as the next guy, but I was really hoping to speak with the man of the house,” said Severance.

  “Well, I’m afraid we’re already entertaining,” said Breaux, gesturing around the crowd, making sure Severance got a good look at his bloody hand. “I’ll have to ask you to state your business.”

  “I’m here to parley.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Breaux. He reached out and clapped Severance’s shoulder, leaving a bloody print on his jacket. “Then you won’t mind bringing your shooter in.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Come now, Mr. Severance,” he said, removing a smartphone from his pocket. “I wasn’t at the diner that day, but I heard all about it. And just a couple of minutes ago, Camera 223 went dead, which would put him just about”—he gestured to the northeast quadrant of the woods with the flat of his hand, like a lazy karate chop—“there.”