Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation

by Richard Cosme

  Army fatigues covered his massive frame. Three rifles were draped across his chest. Football pads covered his shoulders. Hanging below his bearded chin were strange looking goggles. Shin guards from a 20th cen catcher protected his lower legs. A WWII Nazi helmet, large enough to cook a fifteen pound turkey in, covered his head.

  Two of his men tried to retreat in the face of the Disciple onslaught. He pushed them back to face his enemies, and they went down under a hail of bullets. They were replaced by five more Messengers, eyes dancing, grins on their faces, screams of joy in their throats. Slammer or Bad Boy. They were flying.

  He saw me then. Recognizing me not because of our previous encounter in the parking lot (he was too far away to make out my features without binocs) but because of the dog that protected my prostrate form. Duke felt his presence, whirled to face him, snarling and snapping his warning to keep back.

  The Babe wasn’t impressed. He smiled at the dog, then shifted his eyes to mine. He screamed over the melee, “I’m gonna fuck you up, McCall.”

  Then he reached back to just above his shoulder and pulled the baseball bat from the harness that kept it always close. He swished it through the air, practice swings, smooth black Kentucky ash that would shatter bones, split the flesh. Then he slowly, deliberately lumbered in our direction, ignoring the shots and screams that filled the hallway.

  He only had eyes for me.

  That’s when the lights went out. That’s what his walkie talkie command was for…extinguish the lanterns. But it didn’t stay dark. Muzzle flashes illuminated the hallway.

  I tried to get up, but the pain in my left side kept me down. My left arm hadn’t been hit, but when I attempted to move it, the motion was fiercely protested by my ribs and torso muscles. I went to the right hand, pulling the Desert Eagle .357 Magnum semi-auto pistol from my shoulder holster. Nine rounds, spare clips accessible, it would stop anything, even The Babe, who was just a few steps away.

  I saw him coming…as sure and true as a bear to a rotting carcass. Nothing stops a hungry bear. They know no fear or caution. The muzzle flashes provided the light. Hundreds of rounds were being expended in the hallway. The noise of the rifle and pistol shots, punctuated with screams of terror and excitement, transformed the corridor into a twisted nightmare of sight and sound.

  I brought the .357 up, using Duke’s back to steady my arm, looking for a shot at the man coming to take my head off. But Stevie and Sarah were still moving toward me, firing over Duke and me at whatever threatened us from the other end of the hallway. I couldn’t get a shot off at The Babe. Sarah and Stevie kept moving into my line of fire.

  I tried to scream at them—Get the fuck down! He’s behind you! He’s gonna kill you!—but I couldn’t get enough breath into my lungs to fuel the shouted command. The muscles in my left side wouldn’t cooperate.

  I waved the pistol side to side, big motions, then up and down. But they were too busy defending themselves and me to notice.

  Sarah and Stevie were close now, just a couple of steps away, appearing and disappearing with the intermittent lighting of the muzzle flashes. Both of them were firing repeatedly, Sarah emptying her shotgun and flinging it to the ground, replacing it with the Leader SAR. Stevie was with her, pouring out an even heavier wall of fire over the bodies of me and Duke, a Skorpion machine pistol in one hand, HK 81 assault rifle in the other.

  Two steps behind them was The Babe. He was focusing on them now. They would have to go down under the power of his Louisville Slugger before he could get to me.

  Sarah and Stevie were at my side. Sarah leaned over me, concern etched on her face. She was mouthing words I couldn’t hear in the din of the screams and rifle shots. Flashes of lightning illuminated her face, beautiful auburn hair, emerald eyes.

  Behind her, the beast drew nearer.

  I widened my eyes and pointed my head down the hall. Stevie was covering both of us. I pointed with my right hand to the monster that was bearing down upon all of us. Turn around!, I screeched in my mind. He’s coming! Gonna turn your brains into pulp! Take you away from me. Extinguish the light in your eyes. Please, Sarah, please look.

  She checked my body for wounds in the flashing light. She couldn’t read my mind.

  The Babe was a step away now, the bat above his shoulder, preparatory to a killing blow. Stevie was on his feet, focusing forward. He did not sense the beast behind him. He would be first. Then Sarah. I didn’t care what he did to me.

  The bat began its downward arc. The fat man’s eyes were shining with anticipation. Muzzle flashes made him appear and disappear, as if each sighting were a lighted picture, one frame of a sequence. And each snapshot brought the bat inches closer to Stevie’s head.

  We were going to die…and I was defenseless, powerless, unable to stop the force that threatened us. Couldn’t even scream a protest.

  Duke launched.

  One hundred and twenty pounds of claws and fangs, golden fur and wiry muscles. A flash of Stevie’s rifle highlighted Duke’s leap. He was stretched out fully, suspended in mid-air, perfectly equidistant between me and The Babe, a projectile launched from a cannon, heading straight for the fat man’s throat, frozen in a photograph that would never leave my mind.

  Duke’s body didn’t knock the fat man down, but it stopped the behemoth in his tracks and caused him to drop the bat. Duke was too close to be hit by the bat. He was plastered to the monster’s upper body, his head thrashing, working his way in toward the soft fat flesh of the throat.

  Duke was just seconds away from the jugular. I could see the terror in The Babe’s eyes as Duke’s growls filled his ears and the dog’s sharp fangs ripped at the bloated face and neck of the man who would kill his family.

  Stevie and Sarah turned when Duke launched. They watched in stunned fascination at the struggle for life, close enough to them that they could reach out and touch Duke’s fur. None of us could help. We couldn’t get a shot in without jeopardizing Duke.

  It was over in less than three seconds.

  The Babe’s huge arms came up and his meaty hands grabbed Duke by each shoulder, peeling the dog from his upper body. In the flashes of light, I could see bright red blood covering Duke’s jaw and fangs. The right side of the Babe’s face was awash in blood. He flexed his arms and tossed Duke aside, bouncing him off the wall to my right. Duke hit high up and slid to the floor, unmoving.

  The Babe wiped the blood from his face and reached down for his bat. Stevie was closest. He swung his rifle and smashed it into the Babe’s forearm before he could retrieve the bat, receiving a backhand in return which knocked him back three feet and momentarily cost him his coordination.

  Sarah brought her weapon up, but the Babe retrieved the bat before she began firing, swinging at her and smashing the SAR. He turned to me then and saw the Desert Eagle .357 coming up to the level of his head. I wasn’t fast enough. The muscles on my left were still fighting any movements I made from the right side. The pistol came up, but not before he started backing away. The man was close enough to see it was a very large gun.

  Sarah pulled a 9mm Ruger from her holster and we both brought our pistols up to center on his head. In the flashing lights, he saw our move and ducked his head, presenting the helmet to us. She fired first. I was too weak and slow. Her shots bounced off the helmet. He continued to retreat.

  I brought the big pistol up, but at over four pounds of dead weight on my right arm, and no help from my left, my accuracy was non-existent. I unleashed four rounds. The sound was deafening in the confinement of the hallway, louder by far than any of the other weapons.

  The first three missed completely. The fourth hit his helmet at an angle, not a direct hit, ripping it from his head and sending it flying toward the bullpen. Sarah and I both went for head shots then, hoping to end the fat man’s reign.

  But he had already reached the safety of his soldiers, and before we could get off, he pulled two of them in front of him and ducked behind the shelter of their flesh and bones.
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  Our shots went into his temporary bunker, smacking into the men’s flesh, riddling their protective sports gear, tearing plastic, flesh and bone. The shots from the .357 (I had five left) traveled right through the men that protected him. I saw The Babe’s bulky form jerk back as some of them impacted. But they didn’t stop him. He pulled back around the corner into the bullpen and then I heard the squawk of the walkie talkie in my pocket as he issued more orders to his men.

  • • • •

  Within five seconds, except for a few random single shots in the bullpen area, there was silence…and total darkness. With my right hand, I put the goggles over my eyes.

  Sarah was bending over me. “Mac,” she said, “Mac, honey, where are you hit?”

  I reached up with my right hand and pulled her head down so that her ear was right next to my mouth. Whispering haltingly, I said, “Took a couple of slugs in the ribs. Armor stopped ‘em. But it’s sore as hell. Can’t hardly talk.”

  I took the derm patch from my throat and placed it on hers. “Take my ear piece and get everybody the fuck out of here. We got what we want. We need to draw back and regroup.”

  She took the little earring from me and immediately began barking orders, telling James to get his men back into the stairwells, checking on Merlin and Weasel, who had escaped down the elevator shaft.

  To my right, in the green hazy gun smoke, I could see Duke limping toward me. Behind me Stevie was stirring. Bodies littered the hall; moans of the wounded filled the air.

  We got out before they decided to come at us again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Up on the twenty-first floor, where we had moved because it was the high ground, easier to protect, we posted guards in the stairwells and assessed the damages by candlelight.

  Stevie was bruised but fine. Sarah had a couple of nicks from random bullets, but the bleeding was checked. Weasel was unscathed. I was very sore and limited in my range of motion. But I could finally talk again, and it appeared that my ribs were not broken.

  Except for a face that looked like it had been on the losing end of a clan boxing match, Merlin was physically fine, no bullet wounds or broken bones. Psychologically he was in bad shape, sullen and brooding, alternating periods of silence with energized bellicosity. During his quiet spells, he cleaned weapons, completely focused on the task, oblivious to any of our attempts at conversation.

  He had become a completely different person. Nearly a week as a prisoner of the Messengers and the vile acts they had perpetrated upon him had robbed Merlin of his most endearing personality trait, his zest for life. He needed our help. We would take him back home again. Probably have to drag him. He would not want to be around us.

  James had a bullet wound in his thigh, but was more concerned with the condition of his men than his own injury. Three of the Disciples had been killed by the Messengers; four more wounded badly enough to have to be carried out. That job was underway. The soldiers who helped the wounded would return, bringing reinforcements. We had men posted on seventeen and sixteen, in case the Messengers tried to leave, or resume the attack.

  Four floors below us, the our enemy was silent. My Radio Shack walkie talkie hadn’t made a sound. I chose not to attempt to open contact. Never fuck with a wounded bear.

  • • • •

  James sipped on a canteen, tossed a biscuit and piece of smoked salmon to Weasel. “We’re going back in,” he said. “Ain’t finished until every last Messenger is dead or gone from our borders.”

  “What I would expect,” Weasel responded. “We’ll go in with you.”

  “No need,” James replied. “This is our fight now.”

  “No,” Stevie said. “You saved our asses. We continue together.”

  James nodded his head. Despite his words to the contrary, it would have been a breech of code for us not to have gone. In most ways we conducted our lives in a different value milieu than the clans. But with a few of them we shared some common beliefs. In this case we would finish the job, not because it was an expectation of James’ code, but because it was part of ours.

  “We got time now before my men get back,” James said to Weasel. “Tell me about those red lights. What do they mean?”

  “Couple ‘a years before I migrated up here,” Weasel began, “I lived on the Mississipp, west side, Cape Girardeau. State called Missouri. Beautiful town. Probably about five thousand of us scattered through the town and countryside. Made most of my livin’ trading herb. Everyone grew it, but not with the seeds I had. People were happy when I came in to trade.

  “Some of the local yahoos tried to trade me some night vision goggles, old bulky things, Viet Nam era. Looked like you had a pair of binoculars tied to your head. Thing was, I knew these things were infrared glasses. Had some knowledge of infrared night scopes. Ran into a fella whose daddy was a soldier in ‘Nam. Sniper to be exact. Told his son the infrareds would produce a little red light comin’ out of the scope when they were powered up. Viet Cong would line up on the light and put a single shot right on it. Get ‘em in the head every time. Like they had a little sign on ‘em, sayin’ ‘Here I am.’

  “So I know I don’t want any part of these glasses. Yahoos don’t know about the problem, and I sure as shit ain’t about to tell ‘em. Never give away an advantage. They’re pissed because they want my weed. I say fine, give me that Browning over and under 12 gage and I’ll give you a half pound. Hell of a shotgun for pheasant, turkey. They go away, but not too far. I see ‘em hanging around.

  “Gotta give it to those boys. Best goddam trackers I ever saw. Only people ever tracked me back to a home base. And I was extra careful. Knew they had something on their mind. Middle of the night, one of my alarms goes off. Could be a deer. Cougar. But I always check. Sneak up to a little bunker I got set up, scope the Remington .30-.30, not one of them night scopes, mind you, and take a look.

  “Sure enough, there’s ten little red lights out there, movin’ toward me, bunched up nice and pretty. They figured they was invisible. They could see in the dark, but no one else could. Snapped the Remington up and extinguished seven of those little lights before they could figure out what was happening. Hour later, I was gone. Heading north.

  “That’s what the Messengers got, infrared. That why I never messed with night vision until I came across the image intensifiers. Not an advantage if the guy you’re looking for has a gun and knows you’re looking. If they come in the dark, we’ll see those red lights again…and use it against them.”

  Everyone had been quiet during the tale, focused on Weasel’s down home twang, caught up in the little mystery and adventure all of his vignettes conveyed.

  “Damn,” James said, “that was a hell of story. You know there’s an indie up north makes his livin’ telling stories? Mostly to other indies, but some of the clans let him in too. Spins a few tales, entertains the little ones, adults too from what I hear, gets fed, sometimes a woman, always a place to sleep.”

  “I’ll be dipped,” Weasel said. “Never heard of such a thing. Maybe when I retire I’ll take it up.”

  “I’m afraid the point of the story is going to be moot,” Sarah commented. “By the time James’ men get back it’s going to be full blown daylight.”

  “Just as well,” I said. “If we’re going to have to dig them out, I’d prefer to have full vision. Seems like things will be more even that way.”

  “Agreed,” James replied. “But that info about red lights gets tucked away.” He tapped his head. “Never know when it might save our hides.”

  “Let’s talk about going back down there,” Merlin said, the steel in his voice contrasting with his normally peaceful persona. “I got some scores to settle.”

  We all stared at him in disbelief. Some of us in sorrow for what he had lost. I wished I could have made it all disappear for him. Wipe it from his hard drive. But I couldn’t. No more than I could do it for Stevie. Merlin would have to deal the same way we all did.

  Duke got up and wa
lked over to Merlin, doing a three-sixty and then plopping down beside him, eyes up, checking him out. He sensed the change.

  Sarah and I shared a look. I knew what she was thinking. In some ways, particularly his pacifism and love of music and longing for the good parts of the 20th, Merlin was the last of the innocents.

  • • • •

  Fifty of us went in an hour after dawn. Each of us who had a comm set led a force of seven or eight. Three groups crammed into the bathroom through Merlin’s escape hatch. The other five groups entered through the two stairwells. At a command from James, we hit the seventeenth floor like the beaches of Normandy.

  It was empty. They were all gone. Vanished.

  At first we thought they had used Merlin’s exit. But when we found their escape route, it explained how The Babe had communicated up to eighteen earlier without using the walkie talkie.

  They had a hole in the southeast corner. It was large enough to allow quick escape and ran from nineteen to fifteen. A desk had been pushed aside for their escape. A rope dangled from seventeen down to fifteen.

  Weasel smiled. “Never did accuse the man of being dumb.”

  They left their dead, stripped of all useful items.

  They also left their sign—upside down crosses, five points carved into wall paper, devil’s pitch forks, painted on walls in blood. It drove James into a frenzy of furniture smashing and shooting. He peppered the walls containing the Messenger spoor with automatic weapon fire, trying to eradicate their effrontery. Merlin, stern faced, devoid of emotion, joined James in the thunderous assault on the painted walls, emptying three clips from one of the Messenger’s own M 16s into the offending surfaces.

  As quickly as James’ rage had flared, it subsided. As if drawing his energy from James, Merlin, too, ceased firing. Throwing his assault rifle down in disgust, frustrated that all he had to shoot at was a wall, James turned and smiled grimly, ordering five of his men to find some paint.