Not Your Average Monster: A Bestiary of Horrors

by Pete Kahle

  "Anyway," I continued, pulling onto the highway. "Next day, Mudrat gets in with one of the guards, bangs him up really bad, ends up getting himself killed. No loss. But during the autopsy, they discover two things. First, there weren't any drugs in his system save a little dope. Second, the puncture wounds had completely healed within fifteen hours. Coroner thought it was weird, and sent the finding off to some others to get opinions. One found its way to a guy I know in Houston who called me."

  "Could just be insanity," Max said in his usual devil's advocate tone. "The twin punctures could be vampire or any of a half-dozen other breeds. Why do you think it a lamia?"

  I shook my head. "I didn't at first. Just came to check it out. But then things started adding up."

  "Such as?"

  "Mudrat belonged to a gang calling themselves The Coyotes. About six months ago, they started changing their theme from coyotes to snakes. Recently started calling themselves the Serpent's Army. Now I've met enough bikers in my day to know that they get real cranky at even the thought of changing their name. Gangs fracture for that sort of thing. But no one left. Seemed unanimous, which, trust me, is weird. Lot of coyote tattoos to cover up. Next thing I found was a girl named Stephanie Muller went missing. Her brother reported that she'd recently started hanging out at a bar called The Kickstand. Last time anyone saw her was February fourth." I looked over at Max, his face lit in the glow of the setting sun. "There was a new moon that night."

  His lips tightened. "So you think a lamia has enthralled an entire gang?"

  I nodded. "Lamia love new moons, and if they're feeding people to it, that's when they'd do it. And in case you didn't know…"

  "Tonight is new moon," Max finished.

  "Bingo."

  Max let out a long breath. "Anyone enthralled will protect the fiend to the death. How big is this motorcycle gang?"

  "Maybe twenty." I grinned at his sudden frown. "Don't tell me that's got you worried?"

  "Ten to one," he said. "Not good odds."

  "You're forgetting about Miss Snakey."

  "Not at all. After I've eliminated it and half of its men, that still leaves ten for you."

  Brows raised, I turned to meet his serious blue eyes.

  A self-satisfied grin pulled at the corner of his mouth and he looked back to the road. "Not good odds at all."

  I opened my mouth, searching for a witty response, but all I could muster was, "Fuck you."

  "So." Max coughed and wiped away the smile. "What's the plan?"

  "Well, if The Serpent's Army is going to offer a victim to their master tonight, we need to keep an eye on 'em. See if they go to it or if it comes to them. Once we see her, take her out before she kills anyone, and if they are under her spell it should, hopefully, put an end to it."

  Max nodded. "And they gather at this Kickstand?"

  "That's right."

  "So when you said we should get a drink…?"

  "You got it. Though," I eyed Max's trim suit, "you might want to change first."

  It was dark by the time we reached The Kickstand, a little one-story job half an hour outside Fort Worth. A few cars and pickups sat in the gravel lot. A wall of motorcycles stood before the front, the red and blue neon from the sign gleaming off their chrome.

  Inside was dim, smoky, stank of beer and overfilled grease-traps. Zeppelin blared from a rainbow-strobing jukebox near the bar. Several rough-looking guys were clustered near the pool tables. Patches decorated their denim and leather vests in random, yet uniform order between them. Some appeared military, mementos from ‘Nam, others were skulls and snakes. Tattoos and bracelets adorned their sleeveless, leathery arms. Several women were draped over their shoulders, laughing. Most looked to be professional fender lizards, but a few looked like tourists, gussied up for a night on the wild side with just the sort of men their daddies would shit themselves if they saw them with their little girls.

  Max came in behind me. He'd changed into a T-shirt and jeans, but still managed to wear them in an almost formal manner. Curious eyes followed us to the bar, seeming to say, 'You boys walked into the wrong place.'

  The girl behind the counter was a skinny brunette whose tank-top plunged so low I couldn't help but stare at the V between her tits. We ordered our beers and found a table near one corner, beneath a black and nicotine-yellowed POW flag.

  After a couple minutes of idle chat, our attention mostly focused on the gang by the tables, Max finished his beer and asked, "What do you think?"

  "Well," I said, lighting a fresh cigarette, "guy with the walrus moustache looks to be Chuck Schaeffer, leader of this little cadre. Everyone's orbiting him." I glanced to a Burt Reynolds wannabe leaning over the table for a shot. "Guy on the stick has a piece. Keeps peeking out when he bends down. One behind him, fatty with a ponytail, has one, too."

  Max nodded. "As does the man with curly blond hair, but that's not what I was asking."

  Pretending to scratch my ear, I stole a look at the blond. Damn, it. Max was right.

  "What is our plan?" Max asked.

  "You notice their manner? Hollow eyes, gleam of sweat, the tense undercurrent?"

  He nodded.

  "Seen that look before. Addicts in need of a fix."

  "They keep checking their watches," Max said. "They're waiting."

  "And more keep showing up to wait with them."

  I sucked a drag and let it out. "If it's here, it's in the back or maybe there's a basement. Doubtful, though. Too loud for a lamia, and a snake-woman is not too likely to come slithering in here with all these people. They're probably going to go to it once all the junkies are assembled, or maybe after close it'll make an appearance. Just wanted to let us see what we're dealing with first."

  Max ran a slender hand along his jaw and surveyed the room. "I think I've seen enough."

  Sweat rolled down my neck and onto my already clinging shirt. The car windows were cracked only a little, so no one could see us inside. A hundred yards up the road, The Kickstand's lights burned bright against the country dark. More cars and bikes had arrived, then as the hours rolled by, many of the cars left, but the bikes remained.

  My fingers idly traced along Dämoren's leather holster resting in my lap, following the lines along the ten-inch blade mounted beneath her barrel. That electric tingle of fear before a hunt always abated at her touch. The holy revolver soothed me, assured me that together nothing could stand in our way.

  Beside me, Max dabbed his brow with a dark handkerchief, his other hand resting on the broadsword between his legs. His thumb circled the octagonal pommel. Maybe Lukrasus did the same sweet assurances for him. I licked my lips, urging them to ask, but couldn't. A Valducan knight shouldn't ask such things because they wouldn't want to be asked it themselves. Each relationship was personal. A holy weapon was a knight's spouse, parent, and child all rolled into one, an angel forged in steel. Dämoren had been a sword once. Then she was broken and rebuilt into a pistol, rising back like a demon-killing phoenix.

  Max checked his watch and shook his head. "Too dark. Do you know what time it is?"

  "Eleven-thirty by my guess," I said, watching a couple shuffle their way back to a pickup. "Bar closes at midnight, so it won't be long now."

  Max's grip tightened on his sword, but he said nothing.

  The minutes crawled by, then after all but three cars had left, The Serpent's Army filed out of the bar, several women among them, and began saddling up.

  I straightened in my seat. "Looks like we're going to it."

  Engines roared and thrummed. Chuck Schaefer rolled out first on a big pair of ape-hangers and gunned his engine. The rest followed suit, throwing up a cloud of dust as they rode out of the gravel lot and headed north.

  "I count eighteen motorcycles," Max said.

  "Let's just hope that's all of 'em." I waited until the last rider had left, then started the car.

  Cool air whooshed through the open windows as we raced down the dark highway. The line of red taillights w
ormed around the bends ahead, their speed increasing.

  "Don't get too close," Max warned. "But don't lose them."

  I lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the open window. "Just who the hell do you think you're talking to? Don't worry."

  Six miles later, the red lights flared in succession as they slowed and turned off the road. Dropping to a normal speed, I continued toward them. The bikers were filing in through an open sliding gate of some salvage yard, hidden behind a tall metal fence. Orange firelight flickered inside. We drove past, catching a brief glimpse of some junked cars, then continued on.

  Half a mile later, I turned back around and pulled off the road about two hundred yards from the gate. "You ready?"

  "Let's meet your lamia," Max said, then opened the door.

  I stepped out and strapped on the gun belt. Over the sound of cicadas and frogs, engines roared in the distance. "Keep an eye out for any lights up the road," I said, tying the end of Dämoren's holster around my thigh with a leather thong. "There might be stragglers."

  "And just who the hell do you think you're talking to?" he asked with a dry smile.

  "Yeah, yeah." I drew Dämoren and checked her cylinder. Seven rounds. "Let's go."

  Max pulled Lukrasus from her sheath and together we hurried along the tree-line toward the yard. Rock 'n roll blared as we drew closer. I guessed by the now closed gate that no one else was expected. The high sheet metal fence wrapped around the front of the property and continued through the trees. I nodded to Max and we followed it around, keeping low.

  Near the back, the top of a train boxcar loomed above the wall. There weren't any tracks nearby, which led me to wonder how in the hell they got it in there.

  "How's this?" I asked.

  Max scanned around, set his foot against the fence, and pushed. He nodded, and without a word walked in a crouch straight up the side as casually as if it were lying flat on the ground. He peeked over the top and whispered, "They're gathering in the middle. Some kind of stage."

  I lifted my hand. "Can you pull me up?"

  Frowning, Max reached down and took hold of my wrist. He pulled, but only succeeded in sliding toward me. Evidently, Lukrasus' gift, which allows Max to choose which direction gravity pulls from could only work for him. It was worth a shot, though.

  He released his hold and motioned to the boxcar. "If I laid on top, you could jump and grab my hand."

  Even if I could make that jump, there was no way I could without banging my knees and boot toes against that sheet metal like a gong. Besides, I had no desire to show Max just how ungraceful I really was. "No good." I looked further down the fence line. "You go on up and lay low. I'll find another way in. On my signal we can hit that demon bitch from two fronts."

  Max's brows drew close together. He opened his mouth to say something, when cheering erupted from inside the yard.

  "Go on," I said. "We're almost out of time."

  He nodded, then crawled spider-like, sword in hand, up the wall and onto the rail car.

  Dämoren out front, I quickly crept around to the back side of the property. Another cheer broke out, followed by a woman's piercing scream. Short, terrified, it repeated over and over like an alarm or a skipping record. Ahead, a vertical wedge of light flickered through the fence wall, glowing like a flare in the moonless night.

  I moved closer. A sapling had grown up, pushing two of the panels apart, maybe five inches at the widest. Peering between them, I could see the bikers gathered before a raised platform, their faces lit in orange firelight. Not one, but a pair of lamia stood on the stage, their backs to me. Their naked torsos were those of slender women, their creamy, flawless skin darkening as it met the scales of the giant snake tails that began at their waists. One was in a diamond pattern of green and gold. The other was an oily black, matching her long hair. This was worse than I'd thought.

  Four men pressed a pair of women toward the platform. One, a blonde, was still shrieking her broken record screams. The lamia swayed back and forth hypnotically as the women neared. A boney rattle sang from the diamond one's tail, giving me a moment's shiver. The black lamia opened her mouth, wider than any human. The shrieking blonde fainted into the men's arms.

  I raised Dämoren. One well-placed shot could take out the rattler and end this sicko sacrifice.

  A gun barrel jammed into my ribs. "Drop it, asshole."

  The instant of fear squashed away as my muscles tightened, ready to spin, knock the gun aside and cut the throat of whichever idiot was stupid enough to press a gun into me.

  "Do it," a second voice ordered.

  Damn it. From the corner of my eye I could see Burt Reynolds beside me. I couldn't see the second guy.

  "Now," Burt said, shoving the pistol harder.

  I nodded, removing my finger from Dämoren's trigger. Left hand open, I slowly lowered and set the holy revolver on the ground. They were going to have to shoot me before I'd drop her.

  Burt took a step back, gun leveled. "Turn around."

  I did, fighting the urge to search the darkness for Max.

  The other guy, a man with greasy long hair, held a Mac10 Ingram, his hand clasped around a giant silencer. I sighed in the relief I hadn't succumbed to the urge to bitch-slap Burt for his rookie mistake. Greasy could have cut us both in half with one trigger squeeze.

  Burt holstered his .45 and picked up Dämoren. I nearly kicked him for touching her, but Greasy's machine gun made me refrain.

  Greasy motioned with the barrel. "Walk." And the two men led me around to a door at the far side.

  "Look what we found," Burt declared as he shoved me through. My eyes watered at the sudden stink of smoke and diesel fumes. Fires burned within several perforated steel drums. The crowd turned and parted.

  Chuck Schaefer stood at the foot of the stage, eyes wide with some inhuman fury. Blood dribbled from a pair of holes in his breast. Almost everyone had the same wounds, the same lustful rage.

  "What is this?" Chuck roared.

  "Found him out back," Greasy said.

  Burt held up Dämoren.

  The black-haired lamia's yellow eyes locked on the holy gun. "Bring him here."

  Burt pushed me again, leading me past junked cars and piles of scrap. The two lamia rose up, ignoring the two unconscious women before them.

  "Oppressor!" the diamond one hissed, then opened her mouth, revealing twin fangs. "I'll eat this one." Her jaw unhinged, opening wider, ready to eat me whole. That damned rattle started up.

  White spittle clung to the corners of the bikers' mouths as they circled around me like wolves. Their huge pupils only verified that the demons' drugged venom had them enslaved. I didn't dare look at the rusting train car.

  "I remember you." Chuck's head cocked as he leaned closer. "You were at the bar. Had a kraut buddy."

  I only looked up at the demon bitches, glaring at me with hungry hate. Max, you’d better do something.

  "Where's your friend?" Chuck demanded.

  I met his whiteless eyes. "Fuck you."

  The biker's fist came up so fast I didn't see it. It slammed into my jaw, sending me stumbling back into the crowd.

  The distinct three-clack cock of Dämoren's hammer sounded at my ear.

  "Answer him," Burt Reynolds snarled, gun leveled at my head.

  "Let him go!"

  All heads, including mine, turned to see Max standing atop the train car thirty feet away, broadsword down at his side.

  "There's the German," a guy with a green bandanna sneered, pointing as if no one else had noticed.

  Max's eyes narrowed on him. Growing up in a refugee camp after the war, Max really hates being called that. Light gleamed off Lukrasus' blade as he lifted it up.

  The black-scaled lamia recoiled and hissed at seeing the sword. "Kill them!"

  Guns raised in Max's direction, but before they could fire he shot off the top of the railcar like a missile, slicing bandanna guy's head off as he flew past. Max landed feet-first along the side of a stack of
cars then sprung again before the guns could move on him. Twisting mid-air, he clipped the arm off a man with a pistol and skewered another before the blood spray had hit a screaming redhead square in the face. He leaped skyward, flipping and twirling.

  Dämoren's hammer snapped forward with a crystalline click as Burt pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  I grinned. Dumb fuck. Dämoren wouldn't shoot me. Before Burt could wrap his brain around that, I grabbed his wrist, yanked Dämoren from his hand, and slashed her blade right through Chuck Schaeffer's throat. Burt screamed in rage but I cocked Dämoren and shot him in the eye, unleashing a plume of gun smoke.

  Shots erupted around me. Bikers were scrambling to hit Max as he flew through their ranks like a dancing Angel of Death. Changing the direction of his gravity at will, he moved in graceful random arcs, impossible to predict.

  The green and gold lamia turned to retreat.

  Not so fast. I cocked Dämoren and fired. The blessed slug took her right between the shoulders. Silvery blue demon fire ignited from the killing wound as she pitched forward, rattler tail lashing and balling.

  I was about to take out the other one, when I saw Greasy level his machinegun at Max. I knocked the gun aside as he pulled the trigger, peppering a dozen shots into a station wagon. Then I slammed the revolver's blade down into his skull.

  I grabbed the fallen machine gun in my off hand and took down three more shooters with a pair of short bursts, emptying the mag.

  Max slashed a biker's gut, then somersaulted past me and over the stage. The black-tailed lamia was already across the yard, slithering over the fence. The metal tanged as he landed against the side, straddling her, blade down between his feet and through her spine.

  Silver-blue fire burst from her eyes and mouth. He wrenched the blade free and she fell. The remaining half-dozen of the Serpent's Army staggered, their masters slain and souls now freed. They crumpled, unconscious, to the ground.