War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1)

by Russell Newquist

“Abby!” he nearly shouted it back at her. Jim sat straight up, alert. “We know where you are, Abby. We’re coming for you.”

  “Help me, Michael!” She whispered at him. Then the line went dead.

  “Abby!” This time he did scream.

  Jim stood up and addressed the assembled team.

  “Let’s go.”

  Conor, Michael, Gabriel and Denzel piled into one of the massive black Cadillacs. Stefan and Jim took the front seats of the other, while George and Peter scrunched into the back seat. They squealed out of the driveway before the doors even closed, blasting through the residential zone at ludicrous speeds. Game day traffic on the highway, however, brought them to a crawl.

  “This is a nightmare,” Conor complained as they inched up Lumpkin Street. “Isn’t there a better way in?”

  “No,” Michael shook his head. “It’s game day. We’re headed straight toward the stadium. Everything will be this bad.”

  “We could walk faster than this.”

  “With our gear? In broad daylight?”

  Conor harrumphed.

  A sudden bump from outside the vehicle snapped Michael out of his thoughts. Conor slammed on the brakes. The effect was somewhat more jarring than one would have expected at five miles per hour. A shadow and a small squealing noise drew their attention to Michael’s window.

  A filthy, dark skinned face pressed up hard against the glass, smashing his fat nose into a warped caricature of itself. Crazy eyes darted left and right and sometimes both directions at once. Hands framed the face, sliding down the glass with another soft squeal as gravity took over from the weak, emaciated arms.

  “What the hell is this?” the Irishman demanded.

  Michael raised a hand to calm him, as he depressed the button that activated his power window. His fellow passengers sat in silence as the glass lowered into the door. The foul stench that wafted into the car exceeded even Michael’s expectations.

  If Michael had decided to make a list of the people he’d least expected to see today, Jeremiah Ezekiel Elijah Jones wouldn’t have even been on it. That wasn’t because Michael had expected to see him. It was because he hadn’t given the crazy homeless man a second thought since the night of the library incident. It wouldn’t have even occurred to him to add the man to the list.

  Jeremiah stared at Michael. He couldn’t quite muster the will to straighten his crossed eyes and focus properly, but he tried valiantly. Somehow in that moment an aura of extreme gravitas came over him.

  “It’s Peter,” the man said gravely, staring unblinking into Michael’s eyes. “Peter.”

  “You must be confused. I’m Michael. Peter is my friend.”

  “No, fool!” the gravitas disappeared faster than it had come on. “That was the message. The rest of the message. The one I tried to give you before, when the police cut me off.”

  “Um, oh,” Michael told him sheepishly. “What was the first part of it again?”

  Jeremiah scowled at him.

  “I forgot,” Michael admitted. “It’s been a while.”

  “You forgot!” Jeremiah stood up straight, arms stretched to the sky. The gravitas reappeared suddenly. “You forgot a message from the Lord?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Michael told him. “Can you remind me what it is?”

  Jeremiah blinked at him, and the serious air collapsed again.

  “I forgot,” the homeless man snapped.

  Michael couldn’t tell if he was serious, or if he the homeless man wanted to chastise him. Before he could ask, Jeremiah walked away, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

  “Anybody wanna tell me what that was about?” Denzel asked, as they crept forward another car length.

  “Jeremiah is... a prophet of the Lord,” Michael told him.

  “Dude, are you serious?”

  “No. But he is.” Michael nodded back out to the street, indicating Jeremiah. Denzel’s face maintained its incredulous look.

  “Really?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Conor twisted around to get a look at Gabriel’s face. The two men traded a knowing look.

  “Don’t tell me y’all think he’s for real.” Denzel’s tone made it clear he thought the pair had lost their minds. “That dude is crazy,” Denzel insisted.

  “Prophets usually are,” Gabriel responded. “Mortals were not meant to converse directly with God. It takes its toll.”

  “Oh man, Momma’s gonna kill me when she finds out what I’ve gotten into,” Denzel muttered.

  “He wouldn’t be the first we’ve met,” the Irishman admitted. “Can you remember anything about the message?” Conor asked Michael. “Anything at all?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “It’s been weeks.”

  Finally, the Sigma Chi house crept into view. Michael watched behind them as the second Cadillac turned off, squirreling around to come up behind the target.

  A moment later his cell phone buzzed. A text message from Jim confirmed the other team had arrived. He relayed the news.

  “They’re in position.”

  Their own SUV crawled into range.

  “OK, send the message,” Conor ordered. “It’s kickoff time.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Conor whipped the wheel to the side and gunned the accelerator. The oversize vehicle jumped the curb and closed the distance across the neighboring lawns. Visiting sports fans blared their horns at them.

  They came to a hard stop about ten yards from the building. Michael popped out of the vehicle. He and Conor crossed the lawn quickly and pressed against the wall on the left side of the door. Gabriel and Denzel raced up behind him and flanked the right side.

  After everyone found their position, Michael pushed away from the wall and stepped in front of the door. He prepared for a kick. A gentle tap on his shoulder interrupted him.

  When Denzel hefted his weapon, Michael nodded emphatically and stepped out of the way. A loud growl filled the lawn as the giant cranked the chainsaw. A moment later, the door lay in ruins. Gabriel immediately tossed a flash bang grenade in the gaping hole. Rather than killing and maiming, the device was designed to produce a lot of light and noise. Military and police used them to temporarily stun occupants when raiding a building.

  The door flew open and hit a blond, spiky haired sophomore square in the nose. Worst, the flash-bang went off right at his feet. He let out a terrified scream and dropped to the floor clutching at his eyes and ears.

  Michael felt a little bad for the kid as he burst into the foyer. He brought his rifle to bear and scanned to his left. Gabriel followed immediately and cleared the right side. They flanked either side of the room as Conor and Denzel rushed in behind them.

  Denzel dropped down to see to the young man as Michael and Gabriel moved forward. He ripped a strip off the kid’s t-shirt and pressed it to his broken and bloody nose. Blood rapidly soaked it.

  “Sit up and stop bawling like a little girl.” The blond sat up against the wall, but he couldn’t stop the whimpering. “Rich kids can’t take a whoopin’.”

  “You hold that there,” he told the bleeder, pointing to the strip as he followed the raiding party.

  Michael stopped short of the hallway, flattening against the wall again. A crash came from the rear of the building as Gabriel pulled up behind him. Peter and Stefan launched their assault from the rear entrance right on schedule.

  Michael took advantage of the commotion to pop his head around the corner for a peek into the common room. Khalid stared back at him. The rich boy punched him right in the nose. His eyes watered, distracting him for a moment as the foreigner turned and fled down the hall.

  He stepped out to pursue their quarry, but stopped when something swatted at his ankle. He watched in horrified disbelief as a hand rose out of the floor. “There’s a construct growing here!”

  “Here, too! More than one!” Conor called back.

  “They’re everywhere!” Denzel shouted, as he yanked the starter
on his chainsaw. “Man, what have these white boys been up to?” He hacked at a hand as it tried to grab him. Blood splattered everywhere.

  Michael and Gabriel pressed their backs together as the ecto-creatures rose from the floor all around them. They took their time, choosing their shots carefully, as they picked their assailants off one by one, clearing the room.

  A high-pitched scream pierced the house.

  “Abby!” Michael took off after the voice.

  “Wait!” Gabriel cried. An undead hand grasped his shoulder, forcing the Texan back to the problem at hand. He gave up on Michael and called for closer backup. “I need a hand in here!”

  “I’m a little busy at the moment!” Denzel called out from the living room.

  The chainsaw revved high, drowning out all other sounds. Conor cursed and sprinted into the common room, coming to Gabriel’s aid.

  Michael ignored it all as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. As he reached the top he caught a glimpse of Khalid slipping into a bedroom down the hall. He stepped a foot out to follow and immediately fell flat on his face.

  He rolled over onto his back and took careful aim with his submachine gun. A single well placed shot severed the rotting hand at the wrist. The hand dangled at his ankle as he scrambled away. He batted at it with the stock of his rifle until it finally let go.

  The now-handless creature continued to rise out of the floor as he stepped away. All along the hallway, more of the beasts formed and rose. He suddenly wished he’d waited for Denzel and the chainsaw to join him.

  “Stupid,” he muttered to himself.

  He popped the magazine out of his MP-5 and checked its contents. Still half full, but he swapped it out for a fresh one anyway. He’d need the rounds. He flipped the fire selector over to full automatic and charged down the hallway. With a primal yell, he mowed down everything in his path with short, controlled bursts.

  By the time he reached the bedroom, nothing in the hall moved. Michael pressed himself against the wall and swapped out his magazine for a full one. He gave the doorknob a tentative twist. It didn’t budge. He’d have to kick it open. The cramped hallway didn’t afford him the same space for a windup that the front porch had. On the other hand, this was a cheap particleboard interior door. He positioned himself and set his footing, launching into a heavy, thrusting side kick.

  He fell flat on his face.

  The door popped open just as he was about to hit it. With nothing to check his momentum, Michael overextended himself and lost his balance. He landed hard on his right shoulder and wrenched his bad knee.

  He felt the construct on him before he felt the pain. The hot un-breath and wet slobber blasted at his neck. Revolted, he jammed a thumb into the thing’s armpit. Whatever it was, it apparently still had human-like nerve endings. He thanked God for that as he pushed his other thumb into an eye socket.

  It hissed and snapped at him, but it moved enough for him to reposition. Michael popped his hips hard and rolled the thing over. Rolling to his knees, he fished for the submachine gun on its sling. Two shots to the head brought the beast down.

  He heard the scream again, this time close and loud. He spun around to find the girls. Faith cowered against the wall. Abby struggled to stay brave and strong as another creature bore down on them.

  Michael squeezed the trigger without thinking. His aim held true. The sound-suppressed submachine gun popped lightly. He heard the nine millimeter round splatter into the mystical construct’s head. The creature dropped like a rock.

  He let the weapon fall, trusting the sling to keep it attached to his body. He reached out with his hands, taking a wrist in each – Faith’s in his right hand, Abby in his left. At least, that was the plan. His right hand closed firmly around Faith’s wrist, his left around Abby’s. Then he heard laughter ringing in his ears as something hard hit him on the head.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Peter and Stefan burst in through the rear door exactly thirty seconds after they heard the front door shredded. Jim Covington followed a moment later. George trailed in behind them, his makeshift weapon at the ready. They found themselves in an empty utility room, stumbling over dirty laundry.

  Peter and Stefan flanked the door on the far side. A quick glance around the corner revealed an empty hallway. They pushed inward, pausing again outside the kitchen.

  They heard Denzel scream, followed by the whine of a chainsaw. Then George let out a yelp behind him.

  “The hands! They’re everywhere!”

  Pale white hands and arms pushed out of the wooden floorboards, grasping at anything nearby. Peter picked off the nearest four with a single shot each. The bullets did little good, though. The hands kept coming. Eventually arms followed.

  “Keep moving!” he called out.

  They dashed through the kitchen to another doorway. Peter kicked it down to find a dark room on the far side. Peter flipped on the tactical flashlight affixed to his rifle. The light illuminated a flight of bare wooden stairs leading downward into the basement.

  Videogames had taught him to expect a deathtrap from the stairs. He applied extra caution during his descent. He took a deep breath when he reached the bottom unscathed. He inhaled again when he saw the basement.

  A maze of hallways lay spread before him. Various rooms lay off the hallways, closed off not with doors but with sheets - sheets soaked in blood. He worked his way to the end and found a pentagram painted in glow-in-the-dark paint. A single torch lay on either side of it, and a simple wooden chair sat in the middle.

  On the far side lay another closed door. They burst through the entrance with weapons trained. Eight pair of eyes looked up at him in fear from the floor. He lowered his weapon in disgust as he reached over to the wall and flipped on the light switch.

  The frat boys lay huddled on the ground, legs tied and arms bound behind them. They wore only white cotton underpants and ball gags. The pallor of their skin and the stains on their underwear indicated they’d been down here for some time. And the stench. The room smelled like someone had moved an outhouse inside a gym in the middle of a Georgia summer, and then turned off the air conditioner.

  “Father above,” Stefan crossed himself as they cut loose the frat boys.

  “Come on.” Peter led the way back up the stairs, pausing just outside the kitchen. As he suspected, the hands and arms had grown. A room full of golems greeted them. He charged in with a scream, picking targets and shooting.

  Jim and Stefan popped out right behind him. Jim selected targets on Peter’s left, while Stefan took the field of fire to the right. Peter cleaned a pathway down the hall. He dropped two un-vampires in the utility room and then paused to guard the door. Stefan took up position at the far end of the hallway to cover their escape as Jim pulled George aside.

  “The Escalade is still running,” he told the student. “Pile all of these guys in, however you have to, and get them out of here.”

  “Where to?” George asked.

  “Hospital,” Jim answered. “They need medical attention. And food.” As if on cue, rumbling erupted from a hungry belly. “And you’ll need to stick to the residential roads until you get further from the stadium.”

  George nodded and moved toward the back door, the rescued prisoners in tow.

  Peter, Jim, and Stefan regrouped in the hallway, preparing to penetrate further into the house. A guttural yell from behind drew them up short. They found Denzel in the common room, surrounded by fake vampires. He screamed as he swept his chainsaw blindly in circles. It bit into undead flesh with every swing, sending blood and gore flying everywhere.

  A vampire had already reached Denzel. Peter couldn’t get a clear shot, so he moved in behind it and slammed the butt of his rifle into its head. It refused to let go of its quarry, so he hit it again. And again. It turned and hissed at him, blood pouring from its lips. This time he hit it in the face.

  It jumped free from its prey, wrapping its arms and legs around Peter. He felt jaws tighten around hi
s left shoulder as they tumbled to the ground. He reached around with his right arm and boxed the undead beast in the ears until it let go. He shrimped out from underneath it and raised his left arm to keep the creature’s jaws at bay.

  They struggled together on the ground as Peter reached down his own leg, frantically unclasping the snap at his thigh. Claws scratched at his chest, ripping his shirt and drawing blood, but the scratches were shallow and superficial. At last he got the holster undone and drew his pistol. A single shot to the head ended the creature’s short unlife.

  It took Denzel a moment to realize the vampires were all down. He kept swinging the chainsaw against open air, eyes closed. When he finally realized he wasn’t hitting anything anymore, he stopped and peered around the room.

  “Damn, am I glad to see y’all,” he let out in his inimitable Georgia drawl.

  They took a moment to regroup. Peter and Jim made their way up the stairs. Stefan and Denzel stayed downstairs to cover their escape and mop up any more constructs that might appear.

  After scanning the hallway, Peter sprinted forward, heading for the next open doorway. Two steps past the stairs, he ran headlong into something hard. Jim scrambled to a stop behind him. Peter took a step back to evaluate, reaching out to probe the hall. As he touched the barrier, a burst of blue light crackled around his hand like lightning. He pushed forward against it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Some kind of energy field,” he declared.

  “Magic,” Jim agreed. “The warlock is here.”

  Peter raised his submachine gun and took aim at the barrier.

  “No!” Jim yelled at him.

  It was too late. Thankfully the old man had the sense to duck as he cried out. The ricochet from Peter’s shot zinged right over his shoulder.

  “Careful, kid,” Jim snapped at him. Peter apologized profusely, but the old man waved it off. He stepped forward again, probing once more with his hands. He found the energy barrier and followed it in every direction.

  “It’s floor to ceiling, and completely covers the hallway. How are we going to get through this?” Peter frowned. He banged on the barrier in frustration, to no effect at all. He gave it a solid kick for good measure. It hurt his foot. His shoulders sagged in frustration.