The Gates of Hell
Page 46
The last thing Colonel Dieter van Owen saw in this life was the muzzle flash from the end of that Thompson submachine gun. He felt the impact of the first two rounds, but not the next thirty.
The crowd scattered as van Owen’s riddled body slumped sideways, and then rolled onto the floor. One brave man later reported that he peeked around the corner of an overturned table to see a headless figure pick up the container with the head and vanish.
A week later the body of Sergeant Henrik bumped against a barge moving down a nearby river. It was identified by fingerprints and DNA because the head was missing.
* * *
The cadets gaped at him as if the story wasn’t over. Spokelse thought a moment, and then raised his nearly empty pitcher. He motioned for Ramba to make sure everybody had a full mug.
“So now, my friends, let’s toast the memory of Roland Sigurdsson, the Headless Mech Driver!”
Cheers rippled through the bar from eavesdropping patrons. Each of the cadets leaned in to clink their mugs against Spokelse’s pitcher, and then they tilted their mugs high, draining them. Spokelse only sipped from the pitcher. The man behind him, the one missing part of his jaw, took the opportunity to push the cloth-covered object toward Spokelse, who used his foot to drag it close.
“Is that really a true story?” Cromwell asked. His head wobbled.
“By all the Gods of Norway, I speak nothing but the truth, lad. And I’ll tell you one more thing besides…” The pitcher was nearly empty, so he tilted his head far back to drain it. The scar around his neck seemed much darker now than it had earlier. “They say to this day Roland still roams the universe carrying that old submachine gun, and if he thinks you had anything to do with him losing his head…budda-budda-budda…” He put his two hands out like he was holding the weapon himself. “He shoots you where you stand. Others say the head keeps falling off his body and getting lost, and Roland yet walks this Earth searching for it. As for me, I think he has his head back right enough, yet I do believe his shade haunts us yet, as a precautionary tale for young would-be mercs like yourselves.”
“That’s bullshit,” Shapiro said, sounding less than convinced and very drunk. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Spokelse shrugged. “Maybe not, lad, maybe not…maybe I’ve gone too many rounds with too many aliens…well anyway, thanks for buying an old merc a beer.”
They all assured him it was okay and told him not to worry about it, all except Cromwell, who was the only one who’d actually spent any money. Ramba slammed down his own mug, and their eyes met again. By unspoken agreement, it was time.
“Alright cadets, heads up,” Ramba said. They all turned to face him, although Cromwell sensed something going on behind him and began to turn back. “Hey, Cadet Cromwell, eyes front!”
Cromwell snapped around to face the sergeant. “When I talk to you, Cadet, you look at me and nowhere else, is that clear?”
“Aye, Sergeant!”
“How ‘bout the rest of you?”
“Aye, Sergeant!”
The ex-mercs in the room snickered, watching Ramba put them through their paces.
“It’s zero-twelve-twenty hours, drill starts at zero-eight-hundred. We need to leave now, and we’ll move as a group for security reasons. Does anybody need to piss before we go?”
The cadets looked around to see if anybody answered ‘yes.’ It was obvious they all needed to go, but nobody said anything.
“Last chance. Go now, or hold it ‘til we get home. No pissing in the street. Nobody? Alright then, thank our guest for the story, and let’s get out of here. Oh, I forgot. Spokelse has a challenge coin from each of the Four Horsemen; this might be the only chance you ever get to see them. Ask him to show them to you.”
As one they turned, although several were shaky, and Cromwell started to speak. But Spokelse was gone. At least, most of him was. The only thing left was a head sitting on the table and leaking blood.
The mouth opened and spat out four challenge coins bearing the logos of Cartwright’s Cavaliers, Asbaran Solutions, the Winged Hussars, and the Golden Horde. Blood covered each of them. Then the mouth formed words, and the voice belonged to Spokelse. “I hope you enjoyed the story,” it said.
“That can’t be real,” Numis said. “It can’t be.”
“It sure looks real.”
“Pick it up, Winston,” Shapiro said. “See if it’s real.”
“I’m not touching that!”
The head spoke again, this time to Numis. “Why don’t you give us a kiss goodbye, dearie?”
Shapiro puked, barely missing Numis, who screamed, although nobody knew if it was because of the near miss with Shapiro’s vomit or the disembodied head. Cromwell fell over his chair. Within seconds the six drunken cadets had staggered and pushed their way through the crowd and out the front door. Ramba followed at a leisurely pace and threw the room a casual salute on his way out.
In the street outside, everybody in the bar heard him shouting at his cadets, something about the possibility of the impossible. After a couple of gunshots, Ramba yelled again, this time for them to put away their guns before somebody got hurt.
* * *
After the steel door clanged shut, Otto glanced at the camera covering the entrance and watched Ramba lead his six shaken cadets away. Two fell down. The sergeant turned and waved at the camera, but his cadets were running flat out to get away, so he had to catch up.
With his seemingly effortless walk, Otto made his way over to their table and went to the far end, behind Spokelse’s chair. Using his heel, he thumped twice on the wooden floor beside the latch Spokelse had opened earlier. A trapdoor slid to one side, and Spokelse climbed out.
Standing on a chair, acting as if the bar was the stage of some grand theater, he spread his arms and took a bow as the other mercs clapped and hooted. He then peeled off the thick strip of pink latex around his neck and pushed the top button of his jacket. In response, the eyes of the head on the table opened, and it spoke in his voice.
“Don’t applaud, just throw money.”
# # # # #
William Alan Webb Bio
As a West Tennessee native raised in the 60s and 70s, and born into a family with a long tradition of military service, it should be no surprise that the three chief influences on Bill’s life have been military history, science fiction and fantasy and the natural world. In 1972, he won the Tennessee State High School Dual Chess Championship, and spent every waking moment playing board games, role-playing games, and naval miniatures. College featured dual concentrations in History and English. Everything after that is anti-climax, except for wife, kids, published books and all that kind of stuff.
Website: www.thelastbrigade.com
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/keepyouupallnightbooks
* * * * *
About the Editors
A Webster Award winner and three-time Dragon Award finalist, Chris Kennedy is a Science Fiction/Fantasy/Young Adult author, speaker, and small-press publisher who has written over 25 books and published more than 100 others. Chris’ stories include the “Occupied Seattle” military fiction duology, “The Theogony” and “Codex Regius” science fiction trilogies, stories in the “Four Horsemen” and “In Revolution Born” universes and the “War for Dominance” fantasy trilogy. Get his free book, “Shattered Crucible,” at his website, https://chriskennedypublishing.com.
Called “fantastic” and “a great speaker,” he has coached hundreds of beginning authors and budding novelists on how to self-publish their stories at a variety of conferences, conventions and writing guild presentations. He is the author of the award-winning #1 bestseller, “Self-Publishing for Profit: How to Get Your Book Out of Your Head and Into the Stores,” as well as the leadership training book, “Leadership from the Darkside.”
Chris lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia, with his wife, and is the holder of a doctorate in educational leadership and master’s degrees in both business and public administ
ration. Follow Chris on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/ckpublishing/.
_____________________
Living life as a full-time RV traveler with his wife Joy, Mark Wandrey is a bestselling author who has been creating new worlds since he was old enough to write. A three-time Dragon Award finalist, Mark has written dozens of books and short stories, and is working on more all the time. A prolific world builder, he created the wildly popular Four Horsemen Universe as well as the Earth Song series, and Turning Point, a zombie apocalypse series. His favorite medium is military sci-fi, but he is always up to a new challenge.
Find his books on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Wandrey/e/B00914T11A/
Sign up on his mailing list and get free stuff and updates! http://www.worldmaker.us/news-flash-sign-up-page/
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* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy:
Salvage Title
___________________
Kevin Steverson
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and Audio
Excerpt from “Salvage Title:”
A steady beeping brought Harmon back to the present. Clip’s program had succeeded in unlocking the container. “Right on!” Clip exclaimed. He was always using expressions hundreds or more years out of style. “Let’s see what we have; I hope this one isn’t empty, too.” Last month they’d come across a smaller vault, but it had been empty.
Harmon stepped up and wedged his hands into the small opening the door had made when it disengaged the locks. There wasn’t enough power in the small cells Clip used to open it any further. He put his weight into it, and the door opened enough for them to get inside. Before they went in, Harmon placed a piece of pipe in the doorway so it couldn’t close and lock on them, baking them alive before anyone realized they were missing.
Daylight shone in through the doorway, and they both froze in place; the weapons vault was full. In it were two racks of rifles, stacked on top of each other. One held twenty magnetic kinetic rifles, and the other held some type of laser rifle. There was a rack of pistols of various types. There were three cases of flechette grenades and one of thermite. There were cases of ammunition and power clips for the rifles and pistols, and all the weapons looked to be in good shape, even if they were of a strange design and clearly not made in this system. Harmon couldn’t tell what system they had been made in, but he could tell what they were.
There were three upright containers on one side and three more against the back wall that looked like lockers. Five of the containers were not locked, so Clip opened them. The first three each held two sets of light battle armor that looked like it was designed for a humanoid race with four arms. The helmets looked like the ones Harmon had worn at the academy, but they were a little long in the face. The next container held a heavy battle suit—one that could be sealed against vacuum. It was also designed for a being with four arms. All the armor showed signs of wear, with scuffed helmets. The fifth container held shelves with three sizes of power cells on them. The largest power cells—four of them—were big enough to run a mech.
Harmon tried to force the handle open on the last container, thinking it may have gotten stuck over time, but it was locked and all he did was hurt his hand. The vault seemed like it had been closed for years.
Clip laughed and said, “That won’t work. It’s not age or metal fatigue keeping the door closed. Look at this stuff. It may be old, but it has been sealed in for years. It’s all in great shape.”
“Well, work some of your tech magic then, ‘Puter Boy,” Harmon said, shaking out his hand.
Clip pulled out a small laser pen and went to work on the container. It took another ten minutes, but finally he was through to the locking mechanism. It didn’t take long after that to get it open.
Inside, there were two items—an eight-inch cube on a shelf that looked like a hard drive or a computer and the large power cell it was connected to. Harmon reached for it, but Clip grabbed his arm.
“Don’t! Let me check it before you move it. It’s hooked up to that power cell for a reason. I want to know why.”
Harmon shrugged. “Okay, but I don’t see any lights; it has probably been dead for years.”
Clip took a sensor reader out of his kit, one of the many tools he had improved. He checked the cell and the device. There was a faint amount of power running to it that barely registered on his screen. There were several ports on the back along with the slot where the power cell was hooked in. He checked to make sure the connections were tight, he then carried the two devices to the hovercraft.
Clip then called Rinto’s personal comm from the communicator in the hovercraft. When Rinto answered, Clip looked at Harmon and winked. “Hey boss, we found some stuff worth a hovercraft full of credit…probably two. Can we have it?” he asked.
* * * * *
Get “Salvage Title” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H8Q3HBV.
Find out more about Kevin Steverson and “Salvage Title” at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/kevin-steverson/.
* * * * *
The following is an
Excerpt from Book One of The Progenitors’ War:
A Gulf in Time
___________________
Chris Kennedy
Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook, Paperback, and (soon) Audio
Excerpt from “A Gulf in Time:”
“Thank you for calling us,” the figure on the front view screen said, his pupil-less eyes glowing bright yellow beneath his eight-inch horns. Generally humanoid, the creature was blood red and had a mouthful of pointed teeth that were visible when he smiled. Giant bat wings alternately spread and folded behind him; his pointed tail could be seen flicking back and forth when the wings were folded. “We accept your offer to be our slaves for now and all eternity.”
“Get us out of here, helm!” Captain Sheppard ordered. “Flank speed to the stargate!”
“Sorry, sir, my console is dead,” the helmsman replied.
“Can you jump us to the Jinn Universe?”
“No, sir, that’s dead too.”
“Engineer, do we have our shields?”
“No, sir, they’re down, and my console’s dead, too.”
“OSO? DSO? Status?”
“My console’s dead,” the Offensive Systems Officer replied.
“Mine, too,” the Defensive Systems Officer noted.
The figure on the view screen laughed. “I do so love the way new minions scamper about, trying to avoid the unavoidable.”
“There’s been a mistake,” Captain Sheppard said. “We didn’t intend to call you or become your minions.”
“It does not matter whether you intended to or not,” the creature said. “You passed the test and are obviously strong enough to function as our messengers.”
“What do you mean, ‘to function as your messengers?’”
“It is past time for this galaxy’s harvest. You will go to all the civilizations and prepare them for the cull.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What is this ‘cull?’”
“We require your life force in order to survive. Each civilization will be required to provide 98.2% of its life force. The remaining 1.8% will be used to reseed their planets.”
“And you expect us to take this message to all the civilized planets in this galaxy?”
“That is correct. Why else would we have left the stargates for you to use to travel between the stars?”
“What if a civilization doesn’t want to participate in this cull?”
“Then they will be obliterated. Most will choose to save 1.8% of their population, rather tha
n none, especially once you make an example or two of the civilizations who refuse.”
“And if we refuse?”
“Then your society will be the first example.”
“I can’t make this kind of decision,” Captain Sheppard said, stalling. “I’ll have to discuss it with my superiors.”
“Unacceptable. You must give me an answer now. Kneel before us or perish; those are your choices.”
“I can’t,” Captain Sheppard said, his voice full of anguish.
“Who called us by completing the quest?” the creature asked. “That person must decide.”
“I pushed the button,” Lieutenant Commander Hobbs replied, “but I can’t commit my race to this any more than Captain Sheppard can.”
“That is all right,” the creature said. “Sometimes it is best to have an example from the start.” He looked off screen. “Destroy them.”
“Captain Sheppard, there are energy weapons warming up on the other ship,” Steropes said.
“DSO, now would be a good time for those shields…” Captain Sheppard said.
“I’m sorry, sir; my console is still dead.”
“They’re firing!” Steropes called.