City Of The Damned: Expanded Edition

by Stephen Knight

  CITY OF THE DAMNED

  Expanded Edition

  by Stephen Knight

  © 2011 by Stephen Knight

  PART ONE

  SEPULCHRE

  [Prehistoric man] knew that life was uncertain and sometimes short, that death was inevitable and sometimes abrupt. Every time he set out for the hunt he was aware that some day…the end would come with a slash and an outpouring of blood. It is not difficult to understand why…he should have come to the conclusion not merely that blood was essential to life, but that it was the essence of life itself.

  —ANTHROPOLOGIST REAY TANNAHILL

  1

  “Ellenshaw says he’s coming with us.”

  Mark Acheson looked up from the map he had spread across the Humvee’s hood. Four rocks pinned it to the sheet metal, preventing the dry breeze from carrying it away. Julia McGuiness’s eyes were unreadable behind her dark sunglasses.

  “Really.” Acheson wiped a hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat, which wasn’t surprising, given that they were in the middle of Bumfuck, Arizona. “Did he say why he wants to violate the rules of engagement?”

  “He just asked me to let you know he’s coming along,” Julia said.

  Cecil Hayes grunted and shuffled his feet. Rivulets of sweat ran down his bald head, making his black skin glisten in the hot Arizona sunlight. “Man should be in the TOC, havin’ himself a stay-cation.”

  Acheson pushed his sunglasses up on his thin nose, and glanced back at the big GMC RV that served as the team’s tactical operations center. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see anyone inside.

  “I’ll talk with him,” he told Julia. “Sharon, you continue with the brief.”

  Sharon Thompson nodded. “Roger that.”

  “Acheson walked away from the Containment Team and headed for the RV. His boots kicked up dry dust that was snatched away by a breeze so arid it could have come from a hair dryer. A large German shepherd trotted across the desert, and it bounded toward Acheson when he separated from the group. His tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he pranced about Acheson, sniffing and huffing. Acheson patted the dog’s head.

  “Keep cool, Zeke,” he said.

  Zeke huffed again, then bounded over to a nearby Saguaro cactus and baptized it with a stream of urine. As Acheson stepped into the RV’s shadow, the door opened.

  “Hello, Mark.” Robert Ellenshaw stepped out of the RV. He wore the same dun-colored Army battle dress utilities as Acheson. He closed the door behind him and looked out across the desert, squinting against the harsh light. He slipped on his sunglasses.

  “Did Julia give you my message?”

  Acheson nodded. “Yeah. You’re not coming with us, Robert. It’s against the ROE.”

  Ellenshaw smiled tightly and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I authored the rules of engagement, Mark. You don’t need to remind me of them.”

  “Apparently I do. I lead the containment team in the field, while you stay behind and monitor things from the tactical operations center.” Acheson slapped the side of the RV with one hand. “Right here. You don’t go any further.”

  “Things are different this time out.”

  Acheson gritted his teeth and turned away. He watched Zeke prance around the desert before Nacho Delgado, his trainer, called to him. The German shepherd ran toward Nacho, bounding about like a huge puppy without a care in the world.

  Acheson watched Ellenshaw from the corner of his eye. The older man looked out across the desert. Beneath the placid expression on his face, Acheson detected a core of tension.

  “Helena can feel him, even with the sun high in the sky. Can you imagine just how powerful he must be, Mark? Even the strength of daylight doesn’t seem to weaken him any longer.”

  “You’re not field personnel, Robert.”

  “I’ve gone through all the weapons and tactics training.”

  “That was years ago. I’m not going to risk a breakdown in unit cohesion. You’re staying here.”

  Ellenshaw smiled grimly. “Osric is the big game here, Mark. He’s eluded us—me—for years now, taking a human here, a human there, growing his clan. We don’t know how many vampires Osric has spawned, but he’s had the time to organize a small army. It’s imperative that we bag him.”

  Acheson snorted. “So at the end of the day, it’s all about you? Osric’s shown you up, so you want revenge?”

  “I just want to ensure the job is done right.”

  “And we can’t manage without you? Horseshit. If the tables were turned, would you let me go on the hump with you?”

  “That’s enough!” Ellenshaw snapped. “I have my reasons. All I ask is that you respect them.”

  “Don’t make me laugh!” Acheson fought to get his temper under control. He shot a glance at the rest of the team, still clustered around one of the Humvees. They all looked back at him, and Acheson knew they’d heard the harsh rebuke in Ellenshaw’s voice.

  Ellenshaw faced Acheson directly, not intimidated by his greater height or his acrimonious demeanor. When he spoke, his voice was clear and crisp, as if he were lecturing a classroom.

  “I’m the head of this division, Mark. In conjunction with Washington, I make the rules.” He smiled tightly. “You’ll have full tactical control, as always.”

  Acheson turned away from Ellenshaw and punched the TRANSMIT button on the radio transceiver at his shoulder. “Team, this is Two-Six. Fall back to the TOC for turnout.” As the team members radioed their acknowledgments, Acheson put his hands on his hips and gazed out across the desert.

  Zeke sidled up to his side. Acheson reached down and scratched him between the ears. The dog stood still as a statue and stared at the horizon.

  ***

  Acheson checked every team member’s weapon to ensure they were locked and loaded. Once satisfied all was in order, he turned to a hard-shell backpack. He opened it carefully and inspected the tapered cylinder within. It was just shy of three feet long and made of a durable gray metal. Two handgrips were bolted to either side, and at the wider end was a single pin. Attached to the pin was a red streamer printed with the innocuous legend, REMOVE TO ARM.

  Acheson patted the cylinder almost lovingly. Nothing like a little fuel-air explosive to brighten up your day.

  Once he sealed the FAE in its case, Acheson turned to Helena Rubenstein. Her pale blue eyes met his. Whenever he looked at her, Acheson got the impression she was a child trapped in a woman’s body. The fact she hailed from the cold metropolitan canyons of New York City was a source of amazement. With her strawberry-blonde hair and unblemished, tanned skin, she looked more like a waif from the San Fernando Valley. Acheson smiled at her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He knew she feared him on some basic level; her ability to see the true nature of a man revealed something to her that frightened her almost as much as those he hunted. More than once he had asked why that was, but she could not explain it. That he was used to dispensing violence as casually as she might order an alfalfa and vinaigrette salad was the closest analogy she had been able to draw.

  “What are you feeling, Helena?” he asked. He removed his sunglasses so she could see his eyes, so that she could see he was as human as she was, despite his skills.

  “Death is near,” she said. Acheson understood her to mean him, and he let go of her shoulder. Helena suddenly took his hand in hers. Her abruptness startled him; Acheson had never seen her move with such instinctive speed. She smiled at him.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” she explained. “I know you would never hurt me.” She looked away as her smile faded. “I can feel him, Mark. I can’t feel any others, because his signature
is so strong—it’s drowning them out, like white noise. All I get is… static.”

  “How close is he, Helena?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Acheson patted her hand. “Nothing to be sorry about. What you do isn’t exactly a precise science—”

  “Take care of Robert. I’m pregnant,” Helena blurted.

  Acheson blinked, totally caught off guard. “Uh—what…?”

  “I said I’m pregnant. You’ve got to take care of Robert.”

  Acheson was shocked. The thought of Helena having sex was something foreign, almost dirty, like sudden pedophilic urges. “Ellenshaw’s the father?”

  She nodded, looking away.

  “Well, ah… does he know?”

  Helena shook her head. “Don’t tell him,” she said. “That’s for me to do. Okay?”

  “I understand,” Acheson said woodenly. “I’ll make sure he stays here—”

  “No. This is his calling. This is why I haven’t told him. He needs to sanction Osric. To see it done. To take part in it.” Helena looked at him. “Don’t interfere with this, Mark. This is Robert’s… destiny.”

  Acheson sighed. He rubbed his eyes and slipped on his sunglasses. His head started to pound. “Okay, listen, Helena. You get in the TOC and button it up tight. George and Phil will take care of you. I’ve given them orders to vamoose at the first sign of trouble. You’re not to interfere with them if they try to leave the area, understand? If the TOC comes under attack, they’re to get the hell out of here—”

  “I know, Mark. I won’t interfere.” She held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes unblinking in the harsh sunlight. “You’ll look after Robert?”

  Acheson nodded. “Yes.”

  She smiled, childlike and trusting. “Then I know he’ll be safe. And once Osric’s been sanctioned, Humanity will be safe.”

  “At least from Osric,” Acheson muttered, turning away.

  2

  It began with the stories of El Cucuy, the Mexican equivalent of the Boogeyman.

  When the usual stream of illegal immigrants dried to a mere trickle in the Arizona frontier and the legends of El Cucuy were whispered more and more frequently—by illegals detained by the Border Patrol, even by the coyotes who smuggled them in—it served as a vector for the Group’s intelligence analysts. The poor wretches who were captured by the BP told grave stories of how El Cucuy set upon them, decimating them, littering the landscape with their corpses. No bodies were recovered, but the Border Patrol was quick to rationalize the rumored violence as cartel-related, though sometimes American groups such as the Minutemen were fingered as potential culprits. It was those veiled accusations which elevated the story into a newsworthy item, as Minuteman spokespersons vehemently denied involvement in the murder of illegals.

  But it was the rumor of El Cucuy which sealed the deal.

  If ever there was such a thing as the boogeyman, Osric was it. And so Containment Team 6 deployed to the deserts of southern Arizona, where the inhospitable landscape might possibly serve as a hiding place for one of Mankind’s greatest enemies.

  The road leading to the Santa Clarita copper mine had fallen victim to the elements decades ago after being abandoned in the 1920s. The annual monsoons had swept the remainder of the road away, leaving only jagged ruts and gullies behind. These were so extreme the team was forced to abandon the Humvees two miles from the mining area. They had no choice but to continue on foot, in the oppressive heat, carrying their gear on their backs.

  Even foot travel was difficult. Zeke ranged ahead with Nacho, scouting out the territory. Cecil was next up, cradling the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon across his barrel chest. Acheson trailed him, his AA-12 held at port arms, the FAE secure in the hard pack on his back. Chiho Hara, Julia McGuiness, and Robert Ellenshaw walked twenty meters behind him. Sharon Thompson played rear guard, holding her MP-5 with both hands. They marched across the hot Arizona landscape, counting on Zeke to provide the necessary cues; the dog relied on senses beyond olfactory, something primal, an instinctive guidance system that nature had purged from man but left in some of the so-called lower life forms. Not for the first time, Acheson marveled at the irony of it. Most animals had some natural self-defense mechanism that clued them to a predator’s presence. Against the threat posed by Osric and his kind, mankind was as helpless as a babe.

  With the exception of Robert Ellenshaw and the group he had formed, that is.

  Nacho held up his right fist as he grabbed Zeke’s harness with his left hand. The dog’s demeanor changed, and he pulled against Nacho, straining to move forward.

  “Got a shake,” Nacho said over the radio.

  Acheson and Cecil hurried forward. Acheson tightened his grip on his AA-12; behind him, Velcro parted with stitching rips as the rest of the team drew their weapons.

  Ahead, three mangy dogs stood in a semi-circle before an open mineshaft, their ribs as prominent as stripes. They bared their teeth in a growling, mindless rage. Zeke snarled a reply, straining against Nacho’s grasp. Nacho spoke to him in soothing tones, but couldn’t put the dog at ease.

  The pack advanced, snarling. Acheson nodded to Sharon, and she raised her MP-5 to her shoulder. She took aim and fired three rounds in quick succession, the retorts choked into bare pops by the weapon’s long suppressor. Before the brass cartridges had even stopped tinkling on the rock, the three dogs were dead, each with a single shot to the right eye. Flies alighted on the corpses, drawn by the smell of fresh blood.

  Zeke continued growling, his dark gaze rooted on the mine’s entrance. And with good reason, Acheson saw; several pairs of human footprints led in and out of the shaft.

  Not that they were left by humans.

  He pressed the Push-To-Talk button on his transceiver. “Three-One, Two-Six, over.” Ellenshaw approached him, staring into the mine’s dark maw while pulling a hand-held GPS receiver from a holster on his belt.

  “Two-Six, Three-One. Go ahead,” said George Sanders, who sat in air-conditioned comfort back at the TOC.

  “Three-One, we’ve made initial contact. GPS coordinates are…” Ellenshaw held the GPS unit toward him, and Acheson read the position off its small liquid-crystal display. Sanders repeated the information back to him.

  “Roger, Three-One, that’s a good copy. Stand by. Two-Six out.” Acheson motioned toward the shaft. Sharon and Julia advanced, one on each side of the opening, MP-5s at the ready. Acheson took Ellenshaw by the arm and pulled him back a few meters; the older man kept his eyes glued to the mineshaft, but didn’t resist him.

  “They’re in there,” he muttered.

  “Zeke agrees with you,” Acheson said. “Chiho, get Zeke ready. Cecil, you’ve got security. Nacho, stand ready with a flash-bang.”

  Ellenshaw remained entranced by the mineshaft’s opening. Acheson let go of him as Cecil stalked past, the barrel of his SAW pointed into the darkness. Nacho held onto Zeke until Chiho arrived and took over, keeping one hand on the dog’s harness. Nacho moved to the left and pulled a tube-shaped concussion grenade from his belt. Acheson shrugged out of the heavy pack and set it on the ground beside him.

  Chiho worked quickly, her nimble fingers attaching a small video camera to Zeke’s harness. A fiber optic cable connected the camera to a hand-held video display unit clipped to Chiho’s belt. At her signal, Acheson led the team toward the shaft. At its boundary, where darkness and light mingled to create twilight, he paused and slipped on a pair of PVS-7B night vision goggles. The NVGs would augment the available light a thousandfold, allowing him to see in total pitch conditions. Grasping the shotgun’s pistol grip in his right hand, Acheson crossed over into darkness.

  The shaft was rocky and narrow. Old rails ran along the floor, twisted and rusting from the occasional floods that marked the Arizona monsoon season. Flies buzzed. The NVGs became increasingly efficient the deeper he progressed, revealing rock and rotting wooden beams that supported the overhead. Torpid scorpions meandered sluggishly
along the ground. Through the NVGs, everything was rendered a ghostly green-white. A dry breeze sidled past him, more inferred than felt.

  Riding the breeze was the fetid stench of death.

  The soles of his boots scraped against rock and twisted, pitted iron. With every step the shaft grew ever smaller. Not far ahead, Acheson could make out a jagged tumble of boulders—a cave-in. The gaps between the rocks had filled with sand and silt. At the base of the cave-in, another maw yawned, this one a yard in diameter. The smell of rot was strongest here. Keeping his weapon pointed at the aperture, Acheson knelt. He had never grown used to the stench, the fetid spoor of decay that surrounded his quarry like a cloak. For the longest time, it had made him vomit uncontrollably. Years of work in the field had hardened him to it, but his stomach still roiled. There were some things a human being was never meant to adapt to, and the smell of death was one of them.

  Acheson sidled away from the small grotto, never removing his eyes or his weapon from it. “Approach is clear,” he whispered into his headset. “Send in Zeke.”

  “Roger,” Sharon replied, her voice a distant whisper over the radio. A moment later, Zeke padded up behind Acheson, snuffling. Acheson marveled at how easily the dog seemed to withstand the olfactory assault. If the smell was enough to make him feel ill, then it should have been overpowering for the German Shepherd. Acheson reached over and checked the camera on Zeke’s harness. It was secure, and the fiber’s SC connector was snug.

  “Chiho, how’s the transmit quality?”

  “Very good, Mark.”

  Zeke stopped at the edge of the hole and peered into it. After a brief hesitation, he hunkered down and slinked in, trailing the fiber optic cable behind him.

  “Zeke’s on his way. Two-Six is outbound.”

  Acheson backed away from the hole, his jangled nerves sending phantom alerts to his brain. His dread did not diminish even when harsh sunlight from the Arizona sky overloaded his NVGs, blanking out the displays with white snow. He switched them off and pulled them from his face, allowing the goggle assembly to dangle from his neck by its elastic straps.