Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Victor Mamba!” Quincey shouted. “You are hereby under arrest!”

  “On whose authority?”

  “The United States Gov—” Quincey’s words were halted as the shotgun pushed against his cheek.

  Dr. Mamba laughed. “The only authority here is the loa, I’m afraid.”

  “Huh?” Quincey said, staring at the double-barrels on his cheek.

  “A loa,” Dr. Mamba repeated with perfect French inflection. “It’s a spirit of sorts. They are in the process of summoning one now.” He nodded toward the ritual still going on. “It will soon enter the body of one of the worshipers. And then …”

  Quincey turned his head slightly and peered through the far door. The singing and drumming had subsided, and one of the entranced men on the far side of the brazier started to shake violently, his limbs failing as if he were experiencing a grand mal seizure. The rest of the worshippers fell to their knees, mumbling prayers and offering their service to the newly possessed man.

  “What the hell …” Quincey said as he watched the possessed man suddenly stop and glance fleetingly around the room. The embodied loa walked oddly toward the altar, swinging his arms and taking slow, looping strides. Quincey lost sight of him for a moment, but the possessed man returned wearing a top hat, holding rum, and smoking a cigar. With a sinister laugh, he snaked around the groveling, crying devotees, throwing silver pieces at some of them. “What in the …”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Dr. Mamba asked as he took a step down.

  “It’s madness is what it is,” Quincey said, turning slowly back toward the stairs.

  Dr. Mamba withdrew a vial from his back pocket and shook it. “Do you know what this is?” He took another step down. “No. Of course you don’t. This is a concoction of my own design. Do you know what I’m going to do with it?” He took another step down. “I am going to inject it into you.” Another step. “And when I do, you will become my mindless servant, just as he did.” He nodded toward the shotgun-wielding man and took another step. “The people here think it’s witchcraft. Some kind of necromancy. But I assure you, there is very explainable chemistry behind it.” He took one more step. “To becoming a zombie.”

  Dr. Mamba laughed as he took the final steps to the foyer landing. With his pipe dangling from his mouth, he reached into his other back pocket and withdrew a hypodermic needle. Quincey finally got a hand on the knife’s handle inside his belt.

  “If he moves again, kill him,” Dr. Mamba commanded his minion, plunging the needle through the cork of the vial. He slowly pulled up on the plunger, filling the syringe with the dark fluid.

  Quincey tried to slow down his breathing enough so that he could whistle. He licked his lips and whistled the memorable refrain from Polonaise No. 6.

  Dr. Mamba looked up from his task. “Is that … Chopin?”

  Yellow eyes opened in the darkness by the stairs and swiftly floated toward Dr. Mamba. The poisoner never saw the hilt of the knife that crashed against his temple. Dr. Mamba fell to the ground, dropping all his implements.

  Quincey pushed the shotgun away from his face and thrust his own knife into the man’s stomach. His captor bent over but didn’t wince from the pain. Pani followed Quincey’s attack with a running kick to the man's chest, flinging the mindless servant into the den. Quincey finally reached for his rifle and fired two quick shots at the downed man. Quincey turned back toward Dr. Mamba, who still lay limp on the floor. Quincey slung his rifle and removed bailing twine from one of his trousers pockets. With an expert efficiency, Quincey hog-tied the doctor. Soon after, he realized Pani was missing. He grabbed his rifle and walked back into the voodoo ritual.

  It was completely silent. Pani, the mud woman, stood at the center of the room by the burning brazier. In the firelight she looked like some kind of molten demon. Every parishioner, including the possessed man, bowed to her in submission.

  Quincey’s brow furrowed. “What the hell …”

  Wage W. Pascal

  January 16, 1915

  Chapman’s Candle & Soap

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  A makeshift barricade of police officers, sheriff’s deputies, automobiles, horses, and wagons surrounded Chapman’s Candle & Soap - a dull grey brick warehouse positioned on the shore of the slow-moving Ohio River.

  “What do you mean I can’t go in there?” Wage shouted.

  The police sergeant raised his hand. “I’m sorry pal, but no one gets through. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are. No one. Gets. Through,” he barked with a cigar half hanging out of his mouth.

  “Sergeant,” Simon said. “We are duly appointed federal agents. Here are our credentials and a search warrant for the premise.” Simon handed the papers over.

  “Listen, I don’t care if you’re the president of the … holy shit, what the hell’s wrong with your arm?”

  “A simple augmentation, I assure you. Now if you would be so kind as to peruse our—”

  “Sergeant! What’s going on over here,” said a tall uniformed man with copper buttons and golden stars embroidered on his navy blue uniform. Despite the chill rolling off the river, he sweated profusely.

  “Sorry, chief. These gentlemen say they’re with the government,” the sergeant replied.

  Wage moved his leather jacket aside, revealing Ol ‘Snapper holstered next to his Peacemaker badge—a golden version of the skull within a triangle of revolvers. The chief of the Cincinnati Police Department, who looked like he hadn’t shaved since the Civil War, glared skeptically at the badge. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  Simon responded, “The insignia of our outfit. Now if you would please take a look at our—”

  The chief snatched the papers from the sergeant’s hands. He looked them over carefully, especially the signature from the Attorney General and … “Theodore goddamn Roosevelt?” he spat.

  “That’s correct, sir,” Wage finally said. “We are a highly discretionary unit, and if it’s all right with you, we’d like to keep it that way,” Wage said.

  “What about him?” the chief asked, nodding toward Dominic.

  Dominic grinned and moved his aviator jacket to the side, revealing his badge and gun in the same fashion as Wage.

  “He’s with us, too,” Wage replied. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  The chief tipped his hat and gritted his teeth. “We got a report from a couple of boys night-fishing on the other side of the river. They claimed they saw someone walk down Chapman’s dock and dispose of a human body in the water. Sergeant Guthrie here sent one of his patrolmen to investigate. He never came back. So I came down here. Sent a team of officers in, called in the sheriff’s deputies for back up.”

  “What happened to the team that went inside?” Wage asked.

  “They never came out. All we heard were screams and then … nothing. The deputies have tried to make entry after that, but the door is barred from the inside. They even tried the receiving door on the dockside loading ramp. It’s locked too.”

  “All you heard were screams? What about gunfire?” Simon asked.

  “No gunfire,” the chief replied, shaking his head.

  “So what’s your plan?” Wage asked.

  “I’m not willing to risk any more men at the moment. We have the advantage here with the place surrounded. We can wait out whoever’s in there. So that’s what we are going to do. Wait ‘em out,” the chief said.

  “With all due respect, sir, we have a different plan,” Wage said.

  The chief took off his hat and ran a hand through his sweaty white hair. “I’m not sure you understood me right … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch you name.”

  “Major Wage Pascal,” Dominic blurted.

  “Yes, well, Major Pascal” the chief continued, “If you think I am just going to waltz right in there, guns a blazin’, and pull out whoever the hell is responsible for this, then you got another thing comin’. So tell me, son, what is your plan?”

  Wage a
djusted his stance as he looked at the large wooden doors to the warehouse. “Well,” he said, pointing. “I plan to waltz right in there, and pull whoever the hell is responsible for all this out. The guns a blazin’ part, though, that’s Plan B.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. Dominic nodded and put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

  The chief looked down at the papers he held. “Peacemakers, huh?” he asked. “What you’re planning on doing doesn’t sound much like makin’ peace.”

  “Neither does ignoring the screams of the men you sent in there, chief,” Wage replied. “Now, if you will excuse us, my men and I are going to execute our search warrant.” Wage snagged the papers from the chief’s hands and shouldered his way through the chief and his sergeant. Simon and Dom followed.

  “Look alive, men!” the chief yelled. “We’re sending in another team!”

  A medley of law enforcement officers stiffened their positions around the warehouse and aimed their weapons at the various blacked-out windows and the large, barn-like door. The whole thing created a cacophony of clicks, whirls, and creaking leather as the Peacemakers approached the door. It was a symphony that Wage Pascal reveled in, and a symphony Simon faintly recollected from somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. Dominic, who used to prefer, above all else, the sound of a wrench clanging against loose bolts and the roar of an engine, decided it was his new favorite sound.

  “What’s the plan, sir?” Dom asked. Wage held up a finger and directed the young agent to the side of the warehouse door. Simon took a similar position on the other side. Wage walked to the nearby window and scratched at it with his thumbnail. The windows were painted from the inside and painted well enough that no one could see in. Wage then squared off with the warehouse door and squatted as low as he could. “Now what are you doin?” Dom whispered.

  “Staying low. Bullets go through wood, Dom,” Wage murmured in reply.

  “Most people unconsciously fire at hip level or above,” Simon added. “Staying low gives you a better chance at survival should someone decide to shoot in our current direction.”

  Wage pushed slightly on the doors. The door groaned as it hit the bar behind it and bounced back. “Still barred up,” Wage whispered

  “What do we do now?” Dom asked.

  “Looks like we are going to have to storm the castle,” Wage replied.

  “With what?” Dom asked, forgetting to whisper.

  “With a battering ram,” Wage replied as he smiled and looked at Simon.

  Simon sighed and traded places with Wage. From his kneeling position, Simon pushed at the center of the doors with his wonderarm, bowing them inward. Groans turned to creaks as he pushed harder. The sound of gears went off within the wonderarm as Simon pressed even harder with his flat metal palm. Creaks now turned to pops. Simon inhaled as he let up a little bit before stiffening his arm with one last push. The full force of his wonderarm exploded the wooden beam barring the door with a thunderous crack. The now-warped doors flung open, revealing the warehouse.

  Wall to wall, four massive shelves stood before them, creating three wide pathways. Each shelf stretched almost to the back of the warehouse, all of them more than two stories high and littered with wooden crates of various sizes. Suspended high above each shelf, where sunlight streamed through the unpainted windows, were individual pulley systems capable of moving down the length of the warehouse.

  Wage drew Ol ‘Snapper and Dom followed suit. Simon, taking up position behind the concrete again, smelled the air. Wax, lye, and something else. Something more pungent. Something that stung the tiny hairs in his nostrils.

  Wage peeked inside the door. He saw nothing. Nobody. No bodies. “All right, boys,” he whispered. “Time to waltz. We got three rows. Dom, you take the right. I’ll take center. Simon, you take left. Quiet as church mice from here on out. We’ve already announced our presence busting the door, but let’s not give away our position. Use crates for cover if you can. Any questions?”

  There were none. Simon deployed his own revolver. The three of them fanned out.

  Wage made his way down the center aisle with slow methodical steps. He kept his breathing steady and finger on the trigger of his outstretched revolver. At the end of the aisle, Wage noticed the manufacturing side of the warehouse. There were tables, chemical jars, boiling equipment, clay molds, and an array of tools. A rancid, rotten-egg smell wafted through the air, ebbing and flowing with each step. He stifled a cough.

  “Major,” whispered Simon as they were three quarters down their respective rows. Wage looked over in between two crates beneath the first level of suspended shelving. “Major, you need to see this.”

  Wage ducked and squeezed between the two floor level crates. Simon held up an odd, monstrous mask. It was black leather with sealed, bulbous eyes and an accordion trunk hanging from where the mouth should be. It reminded Wage of an earless elephant. The trunk of the mask hung down and attached to a Bible-sized metal box affixed with straps. “This ain’t Halloween, Simon. What the hell are you doing?”

  “This mask has a designated purpose,” Simon whispered as loud as he dared. “Do you not smell what’s in the air?” Wage blinked as his eyes watered. Simon pointed to the metal box attached to the accordion trunk of the mask. “I believe this mask was designed to keep someone from inhaling whatever is in the air.”

  Wage’s nose began to run. He needed no more evidence. He holstered Ol ‘Snapper. “Grab one for Dom,” he said. “How the hell do you put this thing on?”

  They both threw their hats to the ground and donned masks, Simon figured out how to buckle his first and then demonstrated the process to Wage. The masks narrowed their vision and amplified their own hot breathing. Simon used the affixed straps to pin the metal box to their chests. “I believe this is what purifies the air, giving us unadulterated respiration,” Simon said through the mask.

  Wage didn’t understand a word he said. “What?” he yelled from inside his own mask.

  Simon tapped his shoulder and gave him the thumbs up.

  That’s when they both heard Dominic scream.

  Dominic DeFelice

  January 16, 1915

  Chapman’s Candle & Soap

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Dominic tried to walk evenly and breathe steadily like Wage had taught him. But his heart raced, speeding up his steps as he approached the fallen crates at the end of his aisle. Situational awareness, he thought, remembering Wage’s words. However, his situational awareness did not reveal an arm lying motionless in between the fallen crates ahead of him. The arm sleeved in navy blue with copper buttons belonged to a downed police officer.

  Dom’s pace slowed. His eyes stung and welled with tears. He stifled a cough. All the while he smiled, relishing the feeling, trying to come up with a catchy name for his own revolver. He decided on Ol’ Smoker. Ol’ Smoker and his new badge granted Dominic a feeling of imperviousness that made him disregard his own nose beginning to bleed.

  He finally came across the dead body splayed in between the fallen crates. In the throes of death, the downed officer had covered his face with one hand. A burned face. Cherry-red around massive white blisters. Vomit and blood ran from the man’s mouth, but Dom wondered why he couldn’t smell it. More men lay only a few yards ahead of him, toward the manufacturing end of the warehouse. Six of them. Police officers. The chief’s men. All of them had at least one hand covering their red faces with weeping sores. Blood and vomit coated the floor.

  Dom coughed again. His lungs burned. “What in the heck?” he said to himself.

  He heard a rustling. Dom aimed his gun at the shelf above. Between crates, he saw a monster clad all in black. It wore a full-length black slicker with black leather boots and gloves. The monster had wide eyes and an elongated nose that made it look something out of an H.G. Wells novel. Dom had always been scared of those novels as a child.

  The monster became a dark blur as Dom could barely keep his burning eyes open. He couldn’t see th
e foreign creature hopping down from the shelf and aiming an alien device at him. A high-pressure, atomized spray knocked him back and burned his skin, setting his nose, mouth, and lungs on fire. Dominic screamed, dropping his gun so he could hold his face. He screamed until his lungs and throat filled with enough fluid to choke him. He fell to the ground, vomiting bile and blood.

  “Stop!” Wage yelled, racing from around the far row. He fired his shot low at the black-clad entity wearing a similar breathing mask. The figure wore a silver tank on his back with a rigid hose leading to a nozzle he held. “Stop!” Wage yelled again. The sound of his voice was deafening in his own mask. He fired again and missed as the figure slid over a table and flung it upward to provide cover. Bullets go through wood, Dom, he remembered saying as he fired off two more shots. But the thick oak table absorbed them. Usually go through wood—damn. Wage fired another shot to suppress his target. “Simon!” he yelled, pulling his mask to the side as best he could. “Get to Dom!”

  The detective sprinted across the manufacturing floor from the far row and toward the last row where Dom cried aloud again. In his haste, Simon slipped on the blood and vomit from the six downed policemen, staining his suit. He pressed on as Wage fired his final shot.

  Dom spat more fluid from his mouth so he could speak. “Major!” he cried with his newfound voice.

  “Major!” Simon echoed. “We’ve got a serious problem!”

  Unable to hear Simon, Wage plucked a fresh bullet from his belt. He emptied the spent shells from his cylinder and quickly loaded only the first chamber of his revolver. With limited cover, there wasn't time load all chambers. However, the sound of brass shells hitting the ground would signal a reload and an inability to shoot to an adversary. This, in turn, almost always led to an adversary to reveal himself to fire back.

  Wage waited for the black-clad figure to reveal himself so he could take that opportunity to place his single shot in the man’s head. He waited. And waited. All your plans are stupid. That’s why they never work, he heard Mink say in his head.