Debbi breathed harder through her nose to drown out the flinty noise.
"Ross," Chennault's voice came through her com, "I've got people out here. Three, no five. They're coming to the gate."
"Can you make them out?" Ross asked.
"Yes. Three men and two women. I don't recognize them. Wait. Here's three more coming down the street." Her voice dropped a few notches. "They've got a key in the lock and they're coming in."
"Weapons?" Ross asked.
"One man is wearing a pistol. That's all I see. Hold." She paused for a moment. "They're coming my way."
Debbi heard shuffling sounds through her com, no doubt as Chennault moved to a better hiding place.
"They're somewhere on the first floor of the abbey," Chennault whispered.
There was another long pause.
"Talk to me, Chennault," Ross said.
"I think they're coming out. Yeah, I hear them. Christ."
"What?" Ross asked intensely.
Debbi gripped her weapon as the silence lengthened.
Chennault said, "They're wearing robes and hoods. It's like Halloween back home."
"This is no joke," Ross snapped. "Are they all there?"
Debbi heard Chennault counting quietly and envisioned her pointing at each robed figure with her finger.
"Yes," Chennault answered. "Eight. Coming to the main entrance of the church."
The sound of droning human voices began to drift into the cathedral. Debbi shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. Her heart pounded and she felt a delicious flutter of adrenaline. She wet her lips eagerly and allowed a smile to break.
The first robed figure appeared in the portal of the church carrying a large black candle. The chanting of the procession drowned out all other noises, including the sound of the restless dead inside their tombs. A row of small candle flames weaved through the darkness as a line of hooded people streamed in.
Debbi couldn't recognize what they were chanting. The sound echoed and created a strange, atonal hum throughout the cathedral. It grew louder and louder as if the chanting was trapped in the confines of the building.
She whispered, "Stew. Is that Latin?"
"No."
"It's an anouk dialect," Ross answered. "Now shut up."
The solemn procession moved slowly down the nave of the church. It reached the crossing and circled the altar. Then, as one, the group turned and faced the bloody stone. They all stepped forward and placed their large black candles on the edge of the altar. The chanting continued, but in a subdued tone.
Two of the robed figures moved away from the altar and walked into the transept beneath Stew's position. They squatted and lifted a heavy iron grate from the floor. They then descended a staircase into the crypt.
The chanting went on for several minutes before a hooded head reappeared in the crypt entrance. Behind that figure followed a man, not robed, but dirty and wearing ragged clothes. His type was a common sight on the streets of Temptation, particularly down by the Depot. He was glassy-eyed. He stumbled while stepping out of the crypt and fell hard on his face onto the slick rock floor. His hands were bound behind his back. The second hooded figure emerged from below with a pistol in his hand. The two occultists hauled the bloodied prisoner to his feet and shoved him to the altar.
The group lifted their candles from the altar and stepped back. With a pistol pointed at him, the bound man was lifted bodily onto the stone where he lay on his back staring up listlessly at the dome above him. Then the two that had fetched the prisoner took their candles and rejoined the circle.
A single, robed figure stepped to the altar and placed his black candle above the head of the prone man.
Ross's voice crackled over the Ranger's headsets. "Okay, this ain't happening. Debbi, move down. Stew, get ready."
Debbi scrambled low and fast past the gallery arches. She padded down the twisting stone staircase until she was just a quick turn away from the transept door. She put her back against the cool, stone wall, resting her head on the smooth surface.
"Ready," she announced quietly.
The presiding occultist reached into his robe and removed a long black dagger. It was carved from tannis and it shone brightly in the candlelight. The chanting grew louder.
Debbi felt the sound reverberating in her head. She began to grow dizzy, and a twisting, nauseated feeling crept up the back of her neck. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. She pushed herself off the wall and took several deep breaths, her chin hanging to her chest. The sickening feeling began to subside.
"Now!" Ross called.
Debbi ignored her misery. She spun and stepped out onto the floor just as Stew appeared with his rifle in the arches above the north transept and Ross exploded out of the rubble in the choir.
Debbi shouted, "Colonial Rangers! Everybody on the floor! Now!" Her voice echoed about the chamber and only intensified the throbbing in her head.
Ross roared toward the altar and fired his scattergun into the air with a massive boom that shattered the web of vibrations that the chanting had weaved through the cathedral.
"On your faces!" he shouted. "Get down now or you die!"
The man with the pistol made a sudden move and a shot cracked from Stew's position above. The front of his robe blew out with the exit wound and he slammed against the altar and fell to the floor.
Two figures broke for the crypt. Stew fired, stitching a cracked pattern in the rock floor just in front of the crypt entrance. The two froze in their tracks and raised their hands.
The man with the dagger surged at the altar and brought the knife down into the prisoner—who managed to twist to the side. Ross was on him a split second too late. He grabbed the back of the man's hood and dragged him down to the floor. As the man fell, the hood dropped off to reveal Randolph Peck, the Caravan Administrator. Ross stared at him in disbelief.
The tannis knife protruded from the prisoner's shoulder. He screamed and rolled off the front of the altar where he landed heavily on the floor and laid writhing, unable to help himself.
Some of the robed figures held up their hands. Others just stood. Ross snapped back to attention. He battered one with his scattergun and dropped him. Then he shoved another roughly to the ground. "I said get down! Now!"
Several of the occultists slowly began to kneel on the floor. Debbi shouted, her head finally clearing. She grabbed one by the neck and pushed him down while she placed the barrel of her gun against another's back. Ross kicked arms and legs apart.
Debbi stepped over a prone figure and knelt next to the thrashing prisoner.
"It's all right," she said to him. "You're going to be fine. We're here to help you."
He suppressed his screams through gritted teeth. His eyes were wide and dilated.
Debbi pressed her comlink to call Miller for assistance. Suddenly, one of the occultists turned and raced down the nave to the front. Debbi glanced at Ross.
"We got it here. Go!" he said.
Debbi jumped to her feet and sprinted after the fugitive. Outside, she saw the robed figure racing down the stone steps. She fired into the air. "Halt! Colonial Ranger! You are under arrest!"
The figure's mad dash had flung back the hood to reveal a middle-aged woman. She glanced quickly side-to-side and then ran back between the cathedral and the abbey.
Debbi groaned and took off in pursuit.
Behind the abbey, the old burying ground filled several acres up to the town wall. The robed woman ran into the cemetery.
Debbi shouted again, "Halt! You've got nowhere to go!"
When the woman reached the headstones, she suddenly stopped and looked at the ground. Debbi felt relieved. Then the cultist threw out her hands as if steadying her balance. Chunks of dirt flew up from around her feet. Several headstones tilted to the side as the ground under her feet bulged.
The female Ranger slowed to an uncertain trot.
From the ground beneath the robed woman's feet, three long tendrils uncoiled. They
were mottled brown, rubbery and warty in texture, with an oily coating. They extended fifteen feet into the air on all sides of the woman as if she was standing among weird trees. The woman looked up at first with no comprehension. Then, to Debbi's surprise, she smiled and reached out. The heavy tentacles collapsed around her with a hard slapping sound and pulled her under the ground.
Debbi stopped dead.
The Ranger scrambled back as a furrow in the earth shot toward her. She turned and ran. She reached the passageway between the church and the abbey. She heard shots from above. Chennault was sniping at the thing from the roof of the abbey, but it seemed to do little good. The furrow continued to overtake Debbi with feverish speed. The ground cracked under her every step. She felt something probing her calves. She stumbled, her hand coming down hard. Staggering to her feet, she kept going.
On her right, the sturdy cathedral portico was seventy-five feet away. A tentacle shot up in front of her. It was a glistening two feet thick at eye level. Debbi veered right over uneven ground and raised her pulse rifle. She squeezed the trigger and held it. Shells popped into the quivering tendril and it dropped into the earth with a loud squishing sound. Another tentacle roared up to Debbi's right. She twisted again and fired. Something slammed into her back. Still on her feet, she lurched forward, coming ever closer to the church.
A few yards in front of her, a tentacle ripped up and fell flat against the ground. It began to sweep toward her, plowing up a layer of earth as it came like a rolling log. She leaped into the air and the thing passed under her. She landed, tumbled, and crawled onto the bottom stone step of the cathedral portico.
A heavy tentacle slammed down next to her.
Debbi rolled away across the hard-edged steps, then scrambled to her feet as another tentacle slapped against her side. She fell hard, impacting on the mercilessly rigid surface. The tendril slid over her body like a giant slug, searching for a hold and leaving a wet film, but not sticking. She struggled again to her feet and climbed to the portico.
Three tentacles, each twenty feet in length, swept back and forth across the empty, stone steps. Their tips were only a few feet short of reaching the long-limbed Ranger. Then they slithered back into the ground and there was silence.
Debbi staggered to the church door and leaned heavily against the jamb. Wearily, she looked inside.
The robed occultists were laid out spread-eagle on the floor near the altar. Ross stood over them. Stew tended the wounded man. He looked down at Debbi, who stood dripping slime.
Ross shouted, "Dallas? You get the runner?"
"Uh. No."
The veteran Ranger looked surprised and displeased. "You mean he got away from you?"
"I mean she got away from me. But she didn't get away."
"What the hell is all over you?"
"Slime, sir."
Ross muttered, "I don't think I'm gonna like what she has to say."
Chapter 17
Randolph Peck stared down at the St. Calixtus churchyard forty feet below his dangling shoes.
"This isn't right!" he cried. "Don't drop me, please! I'll tell you what you want to know!"
Ross pulled Peck back into the rear of the Stallion and threw him onto the bench. Peck cringed feebly, still wearing his gray robe. Debbi stood at the far end of the compartment, watching her boss manhandle the town leader.
Ross grabbed a handhold and stood in the open doorway. He had removed his duster, but his dark hair and clothes rippled in the wind. A spire of the cathedral and the top of the town wall were visible behind him.
"Okay, Peck," Ross snarled, "let's start with you telling me what you were doing down there."
"We were summoning a worhul."
"A worhul? That's what you call that thing under the churchyard?"
"Yes. It's an anouk term. It's an ancient creature from the wastelands. Its kind was old when the Skinny cities were new."
"So why are you summoning it?"
Peck put his head in his hands. "We had to."
Ross surged at Peck and grabbed him. "You had to? That ain't good enough! Now you tell me what's going on or I'll feed you to your pet down there, so help me!"
Debbi asked calmly, "Mr. Peck, how many people did your group kill in the cathedral?"
"Sacrificed." Peck flinched from Ross's upraised fist. "The worhul requires sacrifices. The chanting summons them. You see, the church is a perfect resonator. It's made of tannis. It was built right out of a tannis outcropping, like the old Skinny cities. You know, the old Skinny cities are all part of the tannis bedrock. That's how they did their magic."
"Get back to the sacrifices," Debbi said.
"To call them requires a blood sacrifice as well as proper resonance. And once it's here, it has to be fed. Otherwise it starts to hunt."
"How many people did you sacrifice?" Debbi repeated deadpan. Disgust was slowly scorching her patience and she was struggling to keep from pummeling this loathsome man herself.
"Four. Not including tonight. Did he die?" Peck looked almost hopeful.
"You better hope not." Ross sat heavily across from Peck and placed his feet on both sides of the prisoner.
Debbi asked, "So there is only one of those things down there?"
"Yes. We were calling more, but...well." He indicated Ross.
Ross asked, "Once you had a bunch of 'em, what?"
"I don't know. We just knew we had to summon them."
"How'd you know that?"
"The voices told us."
Ross rubbed his face in frustration. "So one night you get up from the dinner table, but instead of having a drink, you hear a voice telling you to call a group of friends and go off to a deserted church to start murdering people and summoning monsters. Is that it?"
"No. The group has been together for years. We call ourselves the Gray Ones. We're interested in magic. Particularly anouk magic." Peck dared to glower at Ross. "That's not a crime."
Debbi stepped between the two men as Ross sat up, slamming his feet to the deck, preparing to attack Peck again.
She held up her hand to Ross, prompting him to calm down. He sat back and fumed.
"Was that the whole group tonight?" Debbi asked Peck.
"Yes," Peck said quickly. "That's everyone."
Clearly that wasn't everyone. The members of the group, once unhooded, had all proved to be otherwise peaceful and notable citizens, although none was so highly placed as Peck. Debbi recognized a few of them and Ross knew them all, which fed his mounting outrage. While Debbi shared those emotions, she had not spent years protecting these people, greeting them in shops, attending meetings or even eating meals with them as Ross had. It was bad enough that tonight's sacrificial victim likely would not survive his knife wound; when the Rangers found three more prisoners bound in the crypt being held for future sacrifices, Ross looked as if he was going to kill Peck with his bare hands. Instead, he silently dragged the Caravan Administrator into the back of a Stallion that hovered over the church portico. Debbi instinctively leaped on board without invitation just as Ross ordered the pilot, Hiroshi Tsukino, to lift off.
Debbi asked, "How long have you been trying to summon the worhul?"
Peck answered, "Since the undead began to rise, or at least since it was safe to enter the churchyard. We started off discussing the undead, and what we could do to help. But then, we just seemed to know that we should summon the worhul. It was miraculous."
"These voices told you that?" Debbi asked. Peck's matter-of-fact manner made her physically ill.
"Yes."
Ross said, "And this voice told you to slaughter some innocent people so you could call these things to Temptation."
"Yes."
The veteran Ranger darkened. "So, what the hell, you had nothing better to do?"
Peck shook his head. "No, you don't understand. We were all about magic. It's what we do. The voice promised us knowledge, great knowledge that would help all of humanity here on Banshee. We were looking out for the future.
And beside, those people weren't citizens. I was very careful about that."
Ross shifted in his seat and muttered violent things.
Peck was lost in thought. "The voice was anouk. But I still understood it. We all understood it." He huffed a brief laugh. "That must mean something."
Ross growled, "Yeah, you stupid son of a bitch, it means you're a tool for some Skinny."
"No. The voice wanted to help us. We could control the worhul."
"You can't control anything. Once a Skinny is in your head, you're finished. You and all your dilettante friends are his meat now."
"That's not true! We know spells that—"
"I could write what you know about anouk magic on the nail of my little finger and still have room for your death sentence. Did voices tell you to raise the dead too?"
"No!" Peck shouted. "We were trying to stop those abominations! We were trying to help! Don't you see? The worhul is our ally in the battle against evil!"
Debbi intervened. "If you want to help, tell us how to drive that thing away. Or kill it."
"I don't know," Peck said. "You stopped us before we learned everything. It burrows through the ground. It will probably stay around the churchyard for awhile because that's where it's been fed." He almost smiled. "But even so, most of Temptation sits on bedrock and I don't think it can move through rock. Otherwise, it would have burrowed under the church and eaten the other sacrifices we were storing there. But the crypt is cut out of tannis. Right? So that's good."
Ross jabbed a finger at him. "Yeah, that's great. You better pray it doesn't hurt anybody before we kill it. Because for every person it attacks, it's gonna be me and you. Alone. And believe me, there is nothing any of your friends on the Town Council can do to help you. I'll kill you before you ever take a free breath again. Do you understand me?"
"I have rights," Peck stammered.
Ross surged out of his seat past Debbi and seized Peck by the robe. She grabbed Ross's arm, but he slammed Peck's head against the roof of the Stallion accompanied by an almost unintelligible stream of obscenities.
Banshee Screams Page 17