by Michael West
Alan chimed in, “So you’re sure Tellstrom doesn’t know where to find it — how to work it?”
“Like I said, my daughter Christine is the only one but me that knows about it.” Barbara turned onto the winding street that led up to the church. “I don’t think she’d tell him, but then, I never thought she’d run away. That’s why I want to go and move it. If Karl ever found it, he wouldn’t need to know how it works. It’ll help him.”
“You want to tell me what the hell that means?” Larry asked, worried more than ever for Peggy’s safety.
“We’re all the creators’ tools, each of us made for a reason. Karl, the other Charodons, and the Krakens, they’ve all been itching to fight, so has the weapon.”
“So,” Alan began, “this gun wants to be fired?”
Barbara nodded. “If Tellstrom finds it, it’ll show him how.”
Earl looked out the windshield. A white-painted steeple stood out against the velvet backdrop of night. As they drew close, his hand moved to his service pistol.
FORTY SIX
Peggy Hern knelt at Varuna’s feet, tracing the trident symbol with her claws. She dug at the seam, watched silt fly onto the temple floor in filthy showers, and the light reappeared; it pulsated, as if timed to the beat of her heart. The stone hummed, vibrations making her fingers and lower arms tingle. Then, as suddenly as they began, the light and the hum vanished in unison.
She had no idea why she felt so compelled to see what was hidden within this idol, just as she couldn’t explain her need to attack the book thieves. It was almost...instinctual. She cleared away the last of the muck, and her talons found purchase in the rounded stone cap. She pulled, amazed at her new-found strength, and the cork fell forward, struck the floor with a loud bang. She stared down at the stone, watched it roll back and forth on the ground, then her eyes rose slowly to the gaping hole she’d created in the base of the statue; something reflected the flicker of candlelight.
Peggy reached in with cautious fingers, found metal, very cold metal, and brought it out into the light. A golden sculpture, nearly a foot in diameter, an orb held in the clutches of a bizarre, six-fingered hand — exposed muscle and corrugated tubing, with fingers that resembled spinal columns, elongated tailbones forming claws. Where the wrist should have been, a pair of lips pouted. While bizarre, Peggy had to admire the artisan; there were no seams, no flaws, not a single chisel scratch anywhere.
As she studied it, the orb glowed in her hands; its golden surface burned away, replaced by blue-white luminance, and the sculpted mouth opened, revealing a hollow within. Peggy had the strangest urge to slide her hand into that gap, to fill the empty alien digits with her own claws and wear the object as a glove. She held out her hand to do just that, tracing the opening with the sharpened talon of her index finger, and her mind filled with a sudden glut of imagery, like surfing a million frequencies in the blink of an eye.
One vision burned itself into her.
Fire. Instantaneous...intense...searing...
Tiger-striped fingers reached down and snatched the device from her grasp.
Peggy blinked and stared up into a hellish grin.
“I’ll take that, Callisto,” the creature told her, its voice a menacing gargle.
She crawled backward, pressed herself against the altar, wondering how this thing had snuck up on her. “Who — ?”
“Karl Tellstrom,” it said. “I’ve been wanting to meet you...Peggy, isn’t it? We’ve all looked so forward to it.”
Panic forced the feeling from her body. This vicious looking monster was Karl, the one who sent the creatures to the hospital to find her, the one who wanted her dead. Her eyes shot to the lagoon at the far end of the temple, looking for a way to escape.
More animals crawled from the water. One of the faces in the crowd looked familiar: a glowing, transparent being with thickened lips like her own.
“Barbara?” Peggy asked, hopeful.
The woman shook her head; Tellstrom held out his hand for her and she took it.
“This is Christine, DeParle’s daughter,” Karl said. “You’ll find she doesn’t share her mother’s misguided notions about you.”
The sound of distant gunfire made all of them jump.
“Humans!” The voice came from the stone steps that led to the church above. “Humans are attacking!”
It was as if someone had yelled “fire!” Some of Tellstrom’s brood ran, others cried out, filling the chamber with a horrid wailing. Karl scanned the frightened mob, then his mouth opened in an ear-splitting roar that made Peggy wince. The crowd stopped in its tracks, every eye rushing to meet Tellstrom’s.
“What’s the matter with all of you?” he demanded. “You hear the sounds of battle and run for cover like minnows caught by a light? We are the children of Poseidon! We are the creators’ chosen race!”
Karl held up the golden sculpture Peggy had unearthed, held it high above his head for all to see; they stared at it agog. “I hold the power of the gods in my hand! Nothing is going to defeat us!”
Tellstrom stroked the sculpted lips with his tiger-striped talons; the relic opened, as if it longed for him to fill its vacant interior. Karl’s hand reached into the device until its wanton mouth was sucking at his wrist. The brilliant, blue-white fire returned, and a square of video static materialized in the air above it, a television screen waiting for a signal. It did not wait long. The visual noise diminished, replaced by a pixelized view of the cavern.
Karl smiled with delight. He moved his newfound toy around the room, and Peggy noticed that objects were being highlighted on the floating screen, ominous red Xs projected over them.
It’s a weapon.
She remembered the visions, fire...unimaginable fire, and shook her head as if to waggle the conclusion from her brain. “Oh my holy God.”
The reverberation of a muffled explosion filled her ears in reply.
FORTY SEVEN
“Stop the car!” Roger Hays yelled.
Horror Show slammed on the breaks and O’Shea and Carlo jerked forward.
Neil Shiva wasn’t with them. Roger had spoken to him in conspiratorial whispers. Horror Show hadn’t been able to hear their conversation, but when they’d finished, Neil removed the explosives from the trunk, moved them into Hays’ car, and drove off for ports unknown. Shiva was an expert at using fuses, chemicals, and other materials to make torch jobs look accidental, but he wasn’t right in the head. For Neil, it was all a power trip. The larger the explosion, the more damage it could do, the stronger he felt. Add to that the fact that Hays wasn’t thinking clearly either, and any possible result of their hushed conversation filled Horror Show with dread.
Off the road to the left sat an old wooden church, a Cordoba parked at its doorstep, doors opened, spilling passengers onto the lawn.
“That’s them,” Roger said, pointing. “Take us over there.”
The Cadillac rolled across the grass; the strangers heard its approach and turned their faces into its headlights. Quite a gathering: a tall, beefy black man; a young Asian woman, a frail-looking old lady, a middle-aged man with graying temples, and two other men in their late twenties to early thirties. They all appeared to be human...for now at any rate.
Horror Show brought his car to a halt, its headlamps still blinding the other party.
“Shut off the lights,” Hays commanded.
Horror Show did as he was told, brought darkness back to the scene, and the strangers unshielded their wondering eyes.
“Let me do the talking,” Roger said. “When I say,‘I’m full of surprises,’ you all get out of the car with your guns.”
Horror Show shook his head. Motherfucker.
Hays opened the door and rose from the car. “Good evening, Miyagi.”
The Asian woman squinted. “Mr. Hays?”
One of the younger men appeared shocked. “I see you made it out of the hospital.”
“And Neuhaus,” Roger said, amused. “Yes, you’ll find I�
��m full of surprises.”
Christ, Horror Show thought, there’s the cue.
They stepped from the car, weapons drawn.
The black man immediately brought a pistol into view.
“The nigger’s got a gun,” Carlo yelled.
Horror Show aimed his Beretta 9mm at the black man’s feet and fired a slug into the ground; a dust cloud rose from the impact.
Miyagi screamed, “For God’s sake, Preston, drop it!”
A split second of hesitation, then Preston tossed his pistol; it sank into the green sea of grass, leaving a shadowy dimple in the smoothness of the lawn.
“What the hell are you doin’, Hays?” Neuhaus asked.
“What the hell am I doing? Justice, my friend. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a fucking life.” He pulled the .45 from beneath his trenchcoat, then turned his attention to the chapel doors. “They’re in there aren’t they?”
“Who?”
“The creatures,” Hays snarled. “The things from the hospital. That’s why you’ve come up here.”
“We’ve come for a prayer meeting,” the old woman told them.
Hays laughed, still gazing at the wooden doorway. “I’m sure.”
Neuhaus stepped forward. “Look...Hays, my fiancé is in there. You remember Peggy? She was attacked, just like your son. They’ve infected her with something.” He pointed to the man with gray temples. “He’s her doctor. We’re here to get her, to help her.”
Roger’s eyes sparked. “They came after her last night.”
“Yeah, they did.”
Horror Show pointed to the group. “Whatcha want us to do with ’em?”
“With them? Nothing. I’ll cover them.” Hays pointed at the doors with his gun. “I want you to go in there. If you find the woman alone, I want you to bring her out —” His eyes went to Neuhaus. “— unharmed. Maybe they’ll come for her again. If she’s not alone, I want you bring me the head of the thing that looks like a shark.”
Horror Show’s eyes joined Roger’s at the church. “And if there’s more than one of ’em in there?”
Roger’s sadistic grin widened. “Make me a pile.”
Horror Show reached under his steering wheel and popped the trunk. “You heard the man.”
The three hitmen moved to load themselves down with weaponry, each grabbing their share of grenades in addition to their chosen firearm. O’Shea still held onto the Kalishnikov as if it were a safety blanket. Carlo grabbed a 10-gauge Winchester — a sawed-off, lever-action shotgun — and strapped a flashlight around the muzzle with duct tape. Horror Show went for the big gun: a CAR 15 assault rifle with night-scope and laser sight. He also kept the Beretta 9mm automatic as back up.
In his head, Horror Show could almost hear music building. This is the part of the flick just before the show down. The hero straps on all the weapons he or she can get their hands on and then goes off to kick some major ass. He smiled, saw that his men were sufficiently armed, and closed the trunk.
Carlo glanced down at his scorched hand; it still looked quite raw. “Let’s go erase these fucks.”
They moved away from the car, looking as if they’d just stepped from the pages of Soldier of Fortune. Hays smiled in their direction. The old woman fell to her knees in the tall grass, her eyes closed, her mouth moving in prayer. The others stood by in silent amazement, Preston’s eyes firmly on the gun in Roger’s hand.
At the door, Horror Show grabbed the wrought iron handle. “Ready?”
O’Shea nodded and Carlo switched on his flashlight.
They hustled inside, their ammunition belts clanking as they moved down the center aisle, Carlo’s flashlight illuminating their path. Slowly, as their eyes adjusted to the dark, shadowy pews became visible...and something else.
Glowing white, football-shaped blotches; cartoon eyes that blinked as they approached.
Carlo hit them with his flashlight, revealing their owner. The “eyes” were actually bioluminescent pouches on the creature’s cheeks. Horror Show had seen something similar on the Discovery Channel: glowing pockets that helped schools of fish stay together through the darkness of the ocean depths. The beast itself looked harmless enough; it was tall, slender, and black. A succession of multi-colored ribbons extended from its bald scalp like the plume of a tropical bird. Its lips were huge, bloated. As the animal came closer, the pouches under its eyes rotated inward, creating the illusion of “blinking.” Horror Show could’ve sworn he saw a pattern to this motion, a kind of Morse code, as if the animal was communicating something through the gloom.
“Is this the best they could do?” Carlo chuckled.
The beast, as if offended by the slight, opened its mouth to display a nasty set of fangs. It hissed in their direction, then lurched forward with outstretched claws.
Carlo squeezed the Winchester’s trigger, opened a hole in the animal’s midsection as large as a dinner plate.
The blast from the shotgun muzzle also served to light the interior. It revealed a room filled with hundreds of creatures, things that sat in the pews ready to pounce, things that didn’t shed any light to give away their position, things covered with spots and stripes, things with claws and teeth, all looking right at them.
“Fuck me!” O’Shea had seen the hidden army as well; he sprayed the tabernacle with rapid fire. Shells ripped through the surrounding horde. Their bodies fell over the backs of pews and littered the aisle.
Carlo joined him, blasting away, ventilating benches and animals alike, filling the air with wood splinters and viscera.
The monstrosities kept coming.
Horror Show stood amazed at their speed and agility. Unlike most sea animals, these beasts were neither helpless nor clumsy on land. For every one they took down, two more seemed to appear.
“Where the fuck are they comin’ from?” O’Shea yelled over the roar of weapons fire and attacking beasts.
Through the night scope of his rifle, Horror Show saw them pouring in from around the altar. His view filled with a rising blur and he fired, blew a hole through the forehead of a golden chimera, a beast whose extensible jaw had opened wide enough to engulf him whole.
Their weapons’ fire continued to strobe the interior in funhouse lighting, granting only brief glimpses of the monsters as they climbed and leapt over pews and the corpses of their fallen comrades.
In the darkness between these flashes, one of the beasts rushed up to O’Shea. The animal was beautiful, covered in alternating stripes of red and black. Long, flexible spikes extended from its back and the sides of its arms. Tiny eyes sat just above a gaping jaw, and, from its chin, white tendrils hung in a fleshy goatee, swaying gently, almost hypnotically.
The creature wrapped its muscular tail around O’Shea before he could fire off a shot, squeezing and constricting him in its coils. The air filled with a crackle of arcing electricity and the man convulsed; his hair rose, stood on end, smoke billowed from his ears, and his eyes suddenly burst, spilling their boiling contents down his smoldering cheeks. The delicate filaments that covered the creature’s tail danced and swayed, rejoicing in the act of murder.
Horror Show could watch no more; he gave the beast a red nose with his laser sight and pulled the trigger.
The animal collapsed onto an ever-growing mound of corpses; O’Shea’s fuming carcass fell with it, contorted for a moment, then became lifeless.
Horror Show fired blindly into the onslaught. “Fuckers!”
A rainbow-colored beast glided through the smoke-filled air; large veiny fins stretched from its sides like wings. It landed in front of Carlo, knocked the shotgun from his hands and pushed him back against a nearby pew. His spine snapped just above his waist with a loud pop as the creature buried its head in his breast and tore a section of glistening flesh from his ribs.
At that moment, it was over. Horror Show knew it, and, more importantly, the animals knew it. The lone hitman backed away toward the entrance, firing in all directions. He’d always
sensed, no matter how often he denied it publicly, that one day he would die a violent death. But it wasn’t going to be today, not at the hands of these freaks. The rifle suddenly jammed, betraying him to the horde. He flung it into the darkness and sprinted for the doors, the ammunition belts draped over his shoulder battering his chest.
A neon clown surfaced from the shadows, blocking his path, its gaping maw lined with crystal incisors. Horror Show pulled the Beretta from his waistband, emptied its clip into the creature as he ran. He was still firing shells into the animal’s skull at point blank range, reducing it to ragged blooms of calcium and tissue, christening the oak doors with its gray matter.
Horror Show opened the doors, plucked the pin from a grenade, then threw his entire ammo belt into the void behind him.
The grenades will explode...
“Get down,” he screamed to Hays as he ran from the entrance.
They’ll ignite the ammo from my belt, from Carlo’s belt, from O’Shea’s belt...
“Get your asses on the ground,” he cried to the others as he sprinted across the lawn, trying to reach minimum safe distance.
The blast’s turbulent roar was deafening, a dinosaur howling into his ear. A hot gust of wind, strong and unrelenting, like the palm of the Devil’s hand, pushed against his back and forced him to the ground. His chin made a dimple in the soft earth and his mouth filled with grass.
•••
Brahm dove.
Daylight emanated from every seam in the building, as if the church could no longer hold the sun as its prisoner. The entire structure splintered; a ball of flame shot skyward.
The doctor covered his head with his hands. His body stiffened, prepared for the falling debris.
The concussion shattered Barbara’s windshield. Boards, some blackened, some still burning, rained down upon the scene. Bricks, chunks of concrete, twisted sculptures of wrought iron, and shards of stained glass soon followed. Silence descended with a shower of dust and glowing embers, and slowly, as if none wanted to be the first to move, they rose to their feet and brushed themselves off.