by John Ringo
“So we’re going to sit here all night?” Janea asked.
The hillside was covered in secondary growth, mostly poplar and pine with scrubby undergrowth. Barb had carefully pointed out the poison ivy to her less-than-outdoors-oriented partner. She’d found a clear spot above the cave opening with a good view of it and the rest of the hillside, and settled down for a long stalk.
The cave opening was larger than the one by the trailer, irregularly shaped, again, but nearly the size of a manhole cover.
“Unless we get a visitor earlier,” Barb said, taking a sip of coffee. She was on short sleep from the night before, she’d had some very vivid and really awful dreams, and it had been a long day. It was working up to be a longer night.
“I don’t sit still very well,” Janea pointed out.
Especially with Janea around.
“Try,” Barb said.
“Fighting these things in the dark is going to suck,” Janea said about five seconds later.
“That’s what night-vision systems are for,” Barb said, holding up a set of thermal goggles.
“Yeah,” Janea said, picking hers up and turning them on. “Cool. You can see the FBI guys standing over in the shadows.”
“That’s because they pick up on heat sources,” Barb said.
“Which means they might be next to useless with these things,” Janea said, setting her goggles down.
“Huh?”
“We don’t even know if they’re exothermic,” Janea pointed out.
“Exo…?”
“Hot-blooded,” Janea said. “They could be, you know, like insects. They don’t give off heat. We don’t really know anything about them.”
“How’s it going?” Graham said over the radio. Both women were wearing tactical headsets.
“It would be fine if Janea could understand the basic premise of hunting,” Barb said. “Which is to be quiet. For that matter, if you keep asking me every five minutes, I am going to come down there and take your radio away.”
“We need regular commo checks,” Graham said.
“Agreed,” Barb said. “Nominal.”
“Out.”
“You really are way too into this,” Janea said. “I’m starting to agree with Stan. We need to study them.”
“The problem being that anyone who studies them goes insane,” Barb pointed out.
“Maybe do it like ‘The World’s Most Dangerous Joke,’” Janea said.
“What?”
“You never watch Monty Python?” Janea asked, surprised.
“I tried to watch that…what was it? The Meaning of Life?” Barb said. “I didn’t get it. I don’t get most British comedy.”
“Aesir shit!” Janea said. “How the Hel did I get you for a partner?”
“Language.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Janea said. “Let me rephrase. Fecal matter of a Great Old One. How in Niflheim did I get a stuck-up, prissy, doesn’t-get-British-comedy person like you as a partner?”
“Because you know more about this stuff than I do and I’m better at killing things than you are,” Barb said. “Now this is supposed to be a stakeout. Which means we need to be qui-et so that they won’t know we’re here.”
“Barb.”
“Yes?”
“We’re two reproductive-age females,” Janea said. “We’re not a stakeout, we’re bait. You probably survived that skru-gnon because it wanted you alive.”
“You put the most pleasant spin on things,” Barb said.
“I just thought of it,” Janea said. “I think we should have waited for the rocket launcher to do this.”
“Master Sergeant,” Major Esgar said. “Sorry to get you out at this time of night. Please sit down.”
Master Sergeant Scott Attie, five foot nine inches, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, brown hair and eyes, was a fifteen-year veteran of the Special Forces. As such, he was used to callouts at any time of night. But this one was different. Just as he was getting to bed, on his first real downtime in five years of constant deployments to Afghanistan, he’d been told to report to an office at Joint Special Operations Command, wear civilian clothes, and be prepared to be TDY-on temporary duty-for an unspecified period.
His wife, who had been wearing a negligee that left nothing to hide at the time, had been less than amused.
“Yes, sir,” Attie said, taking a seat and trying not to sigh. He enjoyed his job, but he’d really been looking forward to some downtime. Maybe heading over to the Cape for some fishing.
“All of the following is Top Secret, Special Compartment Intelligence,” the major said. He looked tired, as if Attie’s brief was just one more item to be checked off in a very long day. “There is a priority need for someone with combat experience and experience working in caves for a rapid-deployment mission. Your bio states that you have extensive civilian caving experience with additional military experience in Afghanistan. The mission will be undercover, civilian clothes, has a high risk of loss of life, and will be in CONUS.”
“Uh, sir?” Attie said, looking puzzled. “Posse Comitatus?”
Posse Comitatus was an act passed just after the Civil War that prohibited the military from being used within states of the United States for anything other than disaster relief and suppression of rebellion. It was holy writ in the military that you did not violate Posse Comitatus.
“There will be a more complete briefing,” the major said. “But to cover that, there is a formal and secret determination by the Supreme Court that in matters of Special Circumstance, Posse Comitatus does not apply.”
“Special Circumstance, sir?” Attie said, realizing he was getting out of his depth.
“There was a reason I told you to sit down.”
“Janea. Wake up.”
Janea, despite Barb’s mostly monosyllabic replies, had chattered fairly constantly for two hours and then fallen asleep on Barb’s shoulder. She was clearly having nightmares at a couple of points, but Barb couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep at all. Given where they were and what they were waiting for, tired as she was, Barb could not imagine sleeping.
But when she started to hear stirrings from within the cave, it seemed like a good idea to wake up her partner.
“Freya hjelpe!” Janea muttered then came awake. “Freya aid, that was a horrible dream.”
“Quiet,” Barb whispered. “I think we have company.”
“That’s just what you were saying,” Janea said, shaking her head. “I am awake, right?”
“Just grab your axe,” Barb hissed.
Barb recognized the major aid that she was receiving from the Lord was simply to be able to look upon these horrors with some degree of calm. But as the tentacles slowly crept into the moonlight, she had to hold hard to her sanity. They were causing flashbacks to the battle in the cavern, the skru-gnon questing for any opening to flow into. There was a special horror to it as a woman. She’d never been raped, but what the skru-gnon did was beyond any rape by mortal being or even demon.
She slowly drew her katana, as quietly as she could, then slid to her feet. She had borrowed an MP-5 from the FBI, and she’d use it if it turned out to be effective. But she already knew that, with God’s aid, the katana would work.
“Ready?” she whispered as the monstrosity came fully into view.
“Wait,” Janea said, holding her arm.
The reason for the pause was apparent as a second entity wriggled from the ground. The two stopped in the area in front of the cave, their tentacles writhing and twisting together in what might be silent communication.
Then a third joined them. And a fourth. And a fifth.
As a sixth started to emerge, one of them turned its attention uphill. And they all began to climb towards the two women.
“Uh-oh,” Janea muttered.
“Graham!”
Graham’s head came up at the sound of Barb’s voice. Except for a regular “Nominal” it was the first time she’d communicated all night.
T
he FBI team had been augmented by more personnel from area offices. The investigation was beginning to have all the aspects of a war zone. Washington had admitted that, given the level of threat, they were considering calling in the military, at least covert portions thereof. The problem being that every cover story they could come up with was almost as bad as the reality. Clearing four hundred square miles of American territory and having a mini-war with an alien, or possibly metaphysical, army was going to require quite the cover story.
But at present they had twenty special agents on duty, both to keep the press away from the crime scene and as potential backup.
He got the feeling from the sound of the normally unflappable Mrs. Everette’s voice that they might be a bit short.
“Go,” he said, waving to Randell to turn on a speaker in the command van.
“We are headed down the hill!” Barb said, then cut off. “Sorry, I tripped. This is Old One large force. Say again, large force. At least eight Old Ones are in pursuit! FLIRs seem to reduce the horror aspect. Recommend all agents don night vision gear and prepare for assault.”
“And please don’t shoot us!” Janea added. “We’re the ones with legs running away!”
“Shit,” Randell said, grabbing his M-4 and piling out of the truck. “We have incoming hostiles! All agents, form a perimeter behind the house! Friendlies on the way in. Don night vision gear! Do not look at these things with your naked eyes!”
“We’ve got you covered,” Graham said, calmly. “Come on in.”
“Damn,” Janea said as she tripped and bounced off a sapling.
“Come on!” Barb shouted, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. “We don’t have time for your horror-movie antics!”
“I’m figuring all I have to do is stay ahead of you,” Janea said, sprinting down the hill.
There was a seven-foot wooden privacy fence that separated the lawn of the Boone household from the forest beyond.
Janea hit the wall and grabbed on, frantically scrambling at the slick wood to try to climb over.
Barb boosted her over then took a running jump. Grabbing the top, she somersaulted over and landed on both feet.
“Show-off,” Janea said, running across the lawn to the line of agents.
“Lazy butt,” Barb panted.
“Where are they?” Randell asked as the two skidded to a stop.
“You know those nightmares where something’s right behind you chasing you, and if it catches you, you die?” Janea asked.
“Don’t have them,” Randell answered.
“Well, that’s where they are,” Janea answered, pulling around her MP-5.
“No, they’re not,” Randell said.
“Listen,” Barb said.
It was a rustling, nothing more. Randell had hunted deer before joining the Marines, and to him it sounded, at first, like just a big herd of deer.
But if so, it was a really big herd.
Then the security fence started to rattle as something pulled at it, pushed at it, thumped along a thirty-foot section. And then planks started coming down.
What flowed through the openings was hard to see with infrared. The things were the same temperature as the background. Perhaps fortunately, because even what he could see made something in the back of his head start to gibber. Tentacles and eyes and mouths all flickering in movement as the things, in awful silence, glided across the lawn.
“Oh my God,” one of the agents muttered. “Oh, dear God in heaven.”
Another screamed and pulled the trigger, and then the whole group opened fire.
Barb fired short, controlled bursts from the MP-5 and watched in fury as they seemed to have no effect.
There was an effect; even with the FLIRs, she could see ichor flying through the air, but the wave of blackness was barely slowed.
“These aren’t heavy enough!” Barb said as she ran through the end of her thirty-round magazine. The things were nearly on them, and she flipped the MP-5 over her shoulder and drew her H amp;K, firing carefully targeted single shots into the creature closest to her. Which shuddered to a halt and began to deliquesce.
“Larger rounds!” Barb shouted. But by then it was too late as one of the agents was yanked off his feet, screaming.
Barb holstered the pistol and whipped out her katana, taking a cat stance.
“Lord,” she muttered. “I think we’re going to need a little help here.”
Randell continued firing burst after burst into the monster that was closing on him, backing up as he realized he was coming in range of its tentacles. But the high-velocity 5.56-millimeter rounds didn’t seem to have any effect.
As he ran out of his second magazine he, too, drew his sidearm, an issue. 40 Sig Sauer, and began pumping rounds into the beast. Finally, it stopped.
“Right again,” he muttered, dropping the magazine and inserting another. He stepped forward to try to help the other agents, when his FLIR suddenly blazed in white-out.
Barb waded into the mass of creatures, the five-hundred-year-old katana slicing through tentacles, eyes, mouths and bodies like a blender.
Two agents were down, one of them clearly dead. Wondering why the firing had stopped, she charged across the lawn to the fallen agent and sliced the creature that was on him in half, narrowly missing the agent himself.
Spinning in place, she saw that most of the line was shielding its eyes and backing up.
“Lord help them,” she muttered. “I hoped the FLIRs would work.”
Hers was working fine; the backyard of the house was lit like midday. Which was why she saw Janea dragged off her feet and towards the cave by one of the creatures.
Janea was trying to hack down one-handed with her axe, but the thing simply wrapped her arms and legs in tentacles and carted her off on its back.
“Oh, that ain’t happening,” Barb said. “ Shoot these things!”
But the remaining creatures clustered around her, blocking her way, no longer attacking the FBI agents and concentrating entirely on her. She suddenly found herself beset by a flood of the monsters, tentacles closing in from every direction.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s dance.”
Randell ripped off his FLIR, despite knowing that it was probably going to mean Thorazine for the rest of his life, and looked around.
The reason for the flare-out was immediately apparent. In the middle of the lawn, surrounded by beings out of nightmare, was the “soccer mom.” She was glowing a white so bright it was hard to look at with his bare eyes, and turning the monsters around her into sushi. Strangely enough, as horrible as the things were, he felt an immense peace and comfort. He just didn’t care that they were monsters from beyond any nightmare. He wasn’t sure the feeling would last, but it was good enough for now.
“Take off the FLIRs!” Randell shouted. “There’s light! Switch to forty caliber!”
Randell chose one of the monsters, and by emptying a full magazine into its center of mass, he managed to kill it. As other agents joined him they slowly reduced the crowd around Barb.
“Thanks for the help,” the ichor-covered Mrs. Everette said as the last of the creatures fell. “Gotta go.”
“What?” Randell shouted as the housewife sprinted for the back fence.
“One of them’s got Janea!”
It wasn’t until then that the agent realized the redhead was gone.
“Shit,” he muttered, sprinting after her. “ALICE,” he shouted, using the acronym for post-battle cleanup. “Take care of it!”
As he cleared the fence, he heard one of the agents saying, “Was she glowing?”
By the bright light that was coming from somewhere, Barb could see the thing that had Janea. And it was nearly to the cave.
She sped up, dodging through trees with a grace she normally used for heavy traffic.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, actually using Janea to bound over the thing and block the way to the cave.
“Nice to see you,” Janea said. She wa
s tapping at one of the tentacles with her axe and looking thoroughly pissed. “Sort of. You’re doing your glowy thing and it’s whiting out my goggles.”
The thing was clearly in a quandary. It had a bunch of its tentacles wrapped around Janea, and more were necessary for propulsion. It tried to free up some of the ones holding Janea, and the redhead was able to nearly struggle free. Then it tried to use some of its ground tentacles and it nearly toppled over.
“Uff,” Janea said as she was tossed through the air.
All of those tentacles free, the thing attacked.
“Thank you,” Barb said, cutting off a half-dozen tentacles at once and driving the glowing katana deep into the belly of the beast. “Eat God’s power, you hell spawn.”
“You know,” Janea said, sprawled out on the ground. “It’s not exactly a sin, but it’s extremely embarrassing for an Asatru to get captured.”
“Be glad that’s all that happened,” Barb said. “Did you get any of them?”
“Two,” Janea admitted. “Not that I want these things as my servants in Valhalla. Freya, please note, I’d really prefer not to have these things as servants in Valhalla.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Your little firefight woke up the neighbors. We’re already getting queries from CNN, and it’s the middle of the night. The Director is not going to be a happy camper tomorrow.”
Assistant Deputy Director George Grosskopf was, for his sins, the FBI official in charge of managing Special Circumstances. What he was currently trying to figure out was how to manage the cover-up on this one.
“This may be too big for a cover-up, alas,” Germaine said over the videoconference. “And please note that the Great Powers are in agreement on maintaining confidentiality. It is possible that They may intervene to prevent a widening hysteria. But we cannot depend upon that. Their ways are ineffable.”
“Seismic sounding,” Janea said. “I just thought of it on the way over to the trailer. There’s a kind of seismic sounding system that uses a series of explosions, sonic something or another. Trot out a geologist to spin it as a way to map the cave system.”