by Alan Baxter
But by the time John slipped up to the doorway, all three of his friends, all completely naked now, were visible. Colm stood before the altar with a curved dagger in one hand. John gasped when he spied what the entranced man held in the other.
He shouted, “Stop!” Bulled his way past Amadour, sprinted toward Colm, but failed to reach him in time. Smiling, the pale man turned away from the altar and proffered his severed testicles for his companions to see. Blood fell between his legs and spattered on the floor.
John bellowed, “Wake up!” His men looked back at him with no sign of comprehension.
Then the music swelled, and Cybele’s power erupted inside his head, once more offering the bestial joy that was her gift. Spurning the enticement, he remembered how Elizabeth had bestowed affectionate little touches during the course of conversation with virtually everyone – it had made him jealous until he realized it was just her way – the raucous laugh her mother had deplored as unladylike, how she’d fussily brushed his hair into place with her fingertips when it needed combing, and drank deep of the anguish attendant upon her loss. The intoxication of the Great Mother’s touch receded like a wave that had crashed against rock but failed to break it.
He looked up at the statue, “This is where your worshippers came to be initiated.” He knew that as he’d known the goddess’s name. “But we didn’t mean to come here, and we don’t want to sacrifice to you. Please, forgive us for trespassing and let us go.”
For a moment, nothing more happened. Then, clutching his mutilated crotch, Colm tottered away from the altar, and Amadour and Pascal started forward to take his place. The now-bloody dagger waited atop the stone.
John scrambled in front of Pascal, slapped him, and then backhanded him. “Think about Jesus!” he screamed in the small man’s face. “Think about the Virgin! They don’t want us to geld ourselves to glorify a pagan devil!”
The little tinker blinked. He looked like he was waking up, but John couldn’t linger to find out. He lunged after Amadour and grabbed him by the forearm a pace shy of the altar.
“You don’t want to hurt yourself, either,” John said. “Step away—“
Amadour whirled, wrenching himself free of his friend’s grip in the process. A moment ago, he, like Colm and Pascal, had moved with a dreamlike stateliness, but now he punched at John’s face with the speed of a seasoned brawler.
The punch smashed into John’s nose and rocked him backward. Amadour sprang at him, hooked a leg behind his, dumped him on the floor, and dropped on top of him. The big man seized hold of his friend’s neck and squeezed.
John pulled on Amadour’s forearms and beat and at his face. Neither tactic loosened the Norman’s grip. John’s throat hurt, and pressure mushroomed inside his head.
Then something clanged, and Amadour’s fingers slackened. Grasping the shovel he’d formerly set aside, Pascal hit his fellow Norman over the head a second time. Amadour pitched forward.
John rolled the unconscious man off him. “Thank you,” he wheezed.
Pascal scowled as if to indicate this was no time for chatter. “We have to get out of here before anything else happens!”
His fear of further peril seemed eminently reasonable. At the moment, John didn’t feel Cybele’s power attacking his mind anew, but the flute-and-cymbal music persisted.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We’ll carry Amadour and Colm.” Or drag them if that was the best they could manage.
Pascal hesitated. “Is there a point to taking Colm?”
John turned. At some point, his fellow Englishman’s legs had given out entirely. Head drooping, he now sat on the floor in a considerable pool of blood.
Once upon a time, other worshippers must have tended the newly made eunuchs, priests or physicians who knew how to stanch the bleeding. In the absence of such treatment, could Colm survive? Assuming his sanity returned, would he even want to?
John pushed such thoughts away. “We have to try.” He moved toward Colm, and the music changed, from slow solemnity to something jabbing and discordant.
It sounded angry, furious, and that was likely as Cybele intended. It was one thing, barely tolerable, perhaps, for John himself to refuse her blessing. When he presumed to rob her of other worshippers, especially one already initiate, his manhood sacrificed by his own hand, he committed an unforgivable affront.
Colm snapped his head up. Formerly blue, his glaring eyes were now as golden as the lantern light.
He roared, and his teeth grew points. His face projected into a snout and jaws, and his head broadened. Actually, John realized, the mutilated man’s entire lanky frame was putting on mass, but the head was enlarging even in relation to the shoulders that supported it.
“Jesus, help us!” Pascal crossed himself.
Colm’s hair rippled longer, surrounding his head in a shaggy ruff. Tawny fur sprouted across his body. Manifestly no longer weakened by his castration or other self-inflicted wounds, he sprang up on feet that now resembled paws. A long tail with a tuft of hair on the end lashed behind him.
John retreated and jerked his sword from his scabbard. Pascal hesitated, perhaps considering whether to take the time to retrieve his own blade or simply summoning up his courage. Then he screamed and rushed the lion man with his shovel extended like a spear.
The thing that once was Colm sidestepped and grabbed the spade just behind the head. He swung it, and Pascal lost his grip on it, reeled and fell. The lion man gathered himself to spring.
Bellowing to distract Colm, John charged and cut. The creature retreated just far enough for the sword to flash by an inch short of target, then whipped a stubby-fingered hand equipped with hooked claws at his attacker’s extended arm. John jerked the limb back just in time to keep it from being shredded.
At once, the lion man advanced and clawed with the other hand. John sprang back and slashed. The stop-cut sliced fingers loose and sent them tumbling.
That maiming stroke would have balked many a normal man. Colm, however, didn’t pause for an instant. He kept coming so fast and relentlessly that, even though John gave ground, it was difficult to shift the sword into position for another cut.
Instead of retreating straight backward, John shifted to one side, then the other. Colm compensated quickly, but the second maneuver finally opened up the distance for a proper forceful cut.
John struck at the lion man’s head. Colm’s hand shot out and caught the blade just shy of the target. He ripped the sword from John’s grip and flung it clattering away.
Now, surely, he had two wounded hands, but the new injury didn’t balk him, either. Rather, he lunged.
John retreated, and his lower body banged against something hard. He fell across the altar. Flinging blood, furry hands hammered down on his shoulders to anchor him in place. Colm opened his jaws wide and bent down. With his prey disarmed and pinned, he moved slower than before. Maybe he or, more likely, the Magna Mater, wished to savor the moment.
John turned his head. The sacrificial dagger still lay beside him on the block of stone. He grabbed it and stabbed the lion man in the chest.
Colm jerked upright. The motion yanked the knife from the puncture it had made, and blood sprayed out over John. The creature toppled over backward.
Panting, shaking, John wished he could lie still and collect himself, but he didn’t dare. For all he knew, Cybele was already unleashing some new horror. His imagination suggested her huge statue rising from its throne and the stone lion at her feet turning its head in his direction.
But when he scrambled to his feet, nothing like that was happening. Instead, the piping and clashing died away.
Perhaps Cybele was only the ghost of a goddess, starved to death when her worship ceased, and she’d now exhausted her limited strength. If so, he intended to be gone before she recovered it.
Pascal drew himself to his feet. “Are you all ri
ght?”
“I think so.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help. When I fell, it knocked the wind out of me.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Amadour would have killed me if not for you. Let’s get him out of here.”
With their minds clear, the tunnels proved less labyrinthine than they’d seemed before. Once they were far enough from the shrine that John was reasonably sure no malevolent power was pursuing them, his thoughts strayed as they always did, countless times every day and night, to Elizabeth.
Remembering was painful, but for the first time since her death, not purely so. He’d always miss her, but perhaps a day would come when grief would no longer overshadow everything else in life. Hitherto, such an idea would have felt disloyal and contemptible, but truly, it was only what she would have wished for him herself.
After a time, to the relief of his weary back and limbs and surely Pascal’s too, Amadour roused sufficiently to shuffle along on his own two feet. Eventually the big man asked, “Where’s Colm?”
“Dead,” Pascal said.
“Shit. Are we going back to the others?”
“Yes,” said John. After which they and their fellows would smear the support timbers with pitch, set them on fire, and collapse the mine. King Afonso could find another way to take the city.
BLACK TIDE
James A Moore & Charles Rutledge
In the movies, Special Forces guys always landed their black inflatable boats with precision, drawing them quickly up the beach to be hidden in handy bushes. The choppy surf around Russell Island didn't make that possible, and in fact, one big mother of a wave lifted the boat at the last minute, spilling the six-man Alpha Team into the water and sending the men scrambling to grab weapons and ruck sacks before the tide took them.
Master Sergeant Tony Brent said most of the curse words he knew as he waded onto the sand. Looking back the way they had come, he couldn't see any sign of the much larger transport boat anchored a mile off shore. It was hidden by the night, the fog and the rain. A rain no meteorologist had predicted, and had seemed to rise from nowhere. The storm was so intense it also hid the lights of the town of Golden Cove only a few miles distant.
Captain Kevin Younger waved the members of his team over and said, “The Research Lab is about a half a mile north of us. Spread out in teams of two and converge from different approaches. I've already told you that we don't know precisely what we're dealing with so take no chances. This is a 'cleaner' operation. No witnesses. No survivors.”
Brent, who had actually read the brief file on the operation said, “This island has some residential homes on it. Not on this side, but it's conceivable we could run in to some civilians.”
Younger said, “Was there some part of no witnesses and no survivors that slipped past you, Sergeant?”
“No sir.”
“Good. Now let's move out. Visibility is shit so don't shoot any of our guys.”
With that, Younger slapped Medical Sergeant Eric Patton on the shoulder and the two men jogged off.
Warrant Officer Mason Gentry said, “I'll go with Brent. That leaves Lewis with Resnick.”
“I always get stuck with Lewis,” said Resnick.
“Somebody has to, “said Gentry.
The four men vanished into the cold, drifting mist. Brent adjusted his ruck, and he and Gentry started off at a jog. According to the report, Russell Island had a population of less than a hundred civilians, and the island was only accessible by private boat or plane. No ferries. Basically a small community of fishermen who competed with the larger community of Golden Cove on the mainland.
And then there was the research facility. Brent was on a need–to-know basis and he had been told he didn't need to know. Some nameless branch of the government had been up to some sort of bio-engineering project and today something had gone wrong. The command had come down to his own nameless organization. Clean it up. Burn it down. Salt the ground so nothing would ever grow there again.
The terrain beyond the beach was rocky and uneven. Brent was glad of his tightly-laced boots, which offered his ankles some protection, but the going was still difficult. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when Gentry pulled up short.
“Hold up,” Gentry said. “Thought I saw something up ahead.”
“I don't see anything,” said Brent.
“I got good eyes. Wait here for a second.” Gentry took a firmer grip on his modified M4A1 rifle and moved forward. Almost immediately he was just one shadow among other shadows, hidden by the heavy rain and drifting fog. The muted roar of the rain drowned out all sound as well.
Until the screaming started. Brent resisted the urge to hurry toward Gentry. He knew he had made the right decision a couple of seconds later when the darkness was rent by two controlled bursts from Gentry's rifle. Brent strained his eyes, staring into the rain but couldn't make out anything in the muzzle flash. The gunfire stopped and the screaming resumed only to be halted abruptly.
Now, Brent made his way through the fog, risking the use of the tactical light on the end of the A1 until he found what was left of Mason Gentry. Gentry was sprawled on his back, steam rising from the shredded entrails spilling from his freshly torn abdomen. Most of his face was missing too. It looked as if it had been bitten off.
Brent felt a wave of panic and pushed it down. Captain Younger had said they were looking for some sort of bio-engineered specimen gone wrong. Well it had sure as hell gone wrong all over Gentry. Realizing that he made a wonderful target standing in one place with the flashlight on, Brent deactivated the light and shuffled away from Gentry's body. Nothing he could do for the Warrant Officer now.
Brent had seen plenty of action in Iraq. He'd seen worse injuries, but none under such weird-ass circumstances. What the hell had done that to Gentry?
Brent realized he'd lost his bearings. He fumbled his compass out and checked the faintly glowing readings. He had just decided which way was north when something latched on to his rifle and tore it from his grasp. Brent went immediately to the .45 at his hip, but even as the pistol cleared its holster, a grip of terrifying strength closed on Brent's wrist and held his gun hand helpless. A moment later something struck Brent and sent him sprawling in the mud. His gun went spinning away.
Lightning rent the sky and Brent saw a huge man crouching over him. The man was dressed in black fatigues similar to Brent's own. Had they sent in another team? The only weapon Brent had left was his folding knife, but even as he tried to free it from his equipment vest, a rumbling voice said, “Draw that blade and I'll feed it to you.”
Brent didn't like being threatened. He grabbed the man's arm, shifted his hips, bringing one leg over the man's shoulder, and tried to cinch in a jujitsu triangle choke. He had done it in training a million times and he was good at it. Before he could get the other leg in place, the man leaned forward, jamming his elbow into Brent's thigh, breaking what little hold Brent had and sending him back into the mud. The man's hands dug into the front of Brent’s jacket and then the man stood, lifting Brent off the ground. Brent was an inch over six feet and went maybe two-fifteen. This guy had to be a giant.
“I'm about three seconds from breaking your neck,” the man said. “Now who are you?”
“I ain't telling you shit, pal,” Brent said.
Brent felt the man's grip tighten and for a moment thought the guy really was going to snap his neck. Then the man pitched Brent to the ground.
“That tells me enough,” the big man said. “Your bosses know something's happened at the research lab and you're here to clean it up. Just like Crowley said.”
“Got no idea what you're talking about,” said Brent.
The man said, “Gather your weapons. They won't do you any good, but go ahead.”
“I get the idea you do know what's happened here.”
“Some of it.” The man
turned, but he said back over his shoulder, “Get in my way and I'll kill you next time.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
The man turned back and grinned. “Which one of us is lying in the mud? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”
The guy had a point, Brent had to admit, as the man lumbered off into the darkness. He sure as hell did.
* * *
Kharrn went loping away from where he left the soldier. The man's equipment marked him as some sort of Special Forces operative, but his uniform wasn't from any of the normal branch of the military. Jonathan Crowley had expected someone like that might be coming and he had been right.
Kharrn and Crowley had split up right after arriving on Russell Island. It gave them a better chance of reaching the laboratory undetected. The machine gun fire had drawn Kharrn to the spot where one of the soldiers had been eviscerated, and he had caught a glimpse of something. Not what he had been expecting. Not exactly. But something.
The storm seemed to be gaining in intensity. The wind whipped Kharrn’s long black hair and tugged at his clothing. The wind also dispersed some of the sea-born fog. In the distance, Kharrn could just make out the exterior lights of the laboratory. He picked up his speed. If he could see the place, so could the soldiers.
As Kharrn started up a sandy slope, a misshapen figure loomed up between the giant man and the lab. There was enough light now that Kharrn could see the thing clearly. It had the rough outlines of beings he had seen before. Humanoid in shape, with protuberant, fish-like eyes and a squamous hide. But this one was far bigger than any he had ever seen of the species, bigger than Kharrn himself.
Its arms were too long and its webbed hands had long fingers tipped with wickedly-hooked claws. The creature’s mouth was open, showing rows of sharp teeth. So this was what they had been doing at the research facility. Making something inhuman into something monstrous. The thing made a gurgling hiss and started toward Kharrn.