“Neither do I,” Conor responded. “And I don’t want to find out!”
“Right,” Michael responded. “So where is she then?”
The dragon screeched overhead as if on cue. They watched it circle the sky above them before landing atop the skyboxes on the outer ring of the stadium. Even at this distance they could see Abby dismount. Gabriel fished a set of field glasses out of his pocket.
“She’s got the girl,” he noted. “And there’s some kind of altar.”
“That’s the summoning, then,” Conor noted. “How do we get up there?”
“Through them.” Denzel pointed across the field, right into the undead army.
“Right then,” the Irishman noted.
“Can we follow the corridor around and avoid the fight?” George asked.
“Let’s check.” Almost before Conor even got the words out, a group of golems rounded the corner. More flooded in from the outer ring.
“Through the field it is,” Conor decided. “Denzel, lead the way!”
The student cranked his chainsaw and steeled himself for the push.
“Blue forty-two!” He cried out. “Blue forty-two! Hut!”
He charged out into the fray, spinning his saw of death before him. They hadn’t even made it halfway across the field before everything went pear-shaped. They’d spread their formation too thin. A handful of constructs cut in between them. Individually, the things fell like dominos. Surrounded by so many, the team faltered.
Knowing he could never shout over the chainsaw, Michael tagged Denzel on the shoulder and pointed out the split. They turned and pushed back to regroup. It only took a minute, but it killed their forward momentum. When they resumed their push, they moved at a fraction of their former speed.
The mass of ectoplasmic flesh pushed in around them from all sides, crushing the bubble they’d projected. Their safe space closed in tighter and tighter. He held off as long as he could, but at last Michael had no choice. He thumbed his submachine gun over to full automatic and let loose.
It bought them some space, but not much. The weapon clicked open, and he swapped magazines. A moment later, it clicked open again. He reached to his vest and came up with nothing.
“Out!” he called.
“We’ll cover you while you reload!” George responded.
“No, I’m out!” Michael replied.
He let the MP-5 drop to the ground and felt over his shoulder. His hand closed around the baseball bat he’d snagged from Khalid, still tucked into the back of his shirt. Better than nothing, he thought as he drew it.
The respite he’d bought with his last rounds didn’t last. As the crush closed in on them again, his companions followed his lead one by one. Gabriel went first, then Stefan, then finally Conor. Their demoralizing calls of, “Out!” pierced his ears.
A quarter of the field still stretched before them. Denzel whirled his chainsaw like a madman. Even George’s hoe-saw didn’t seem so silly now. The gangly nerd pushed forward with a determination Michael never would have guessed he had.
Everyone else scrambled for backup weapons. Conor brandished a long hunting knife. Gabriel snapped open a collapsible baton he’d carried on his belt. Backs pressed together, they managed to keep the horde at bay. Somehow they managed to start forward progress again. Michael even started to think they had an actual chance of making it to the other side.
The stream of dragonfire changed his mind. The heat evaporated the cold November rain around them, creating a momentary approximation of a steamy Georgia summer. The dragon sailed past with a piercing screech. It banked into a turn, preparing for another pass.
“Move!” Michael called. “This way,” he added, pointing to the nearest portico. The adrenaline rush fueled them and they regained momentum.
The concrete portico loomed over them, only a dozen yards away. Suddenly Michael stumbled and fell in the throng.
“Michael!” Stefan shouted, slowing.
“Go!” Michael called waving them off. The wyrm banked toward him. The beast sucked in a deep breath, its jaws opening wide as its chest cavity expanded. He sunk into position, ready for the end.
The heat never came. Instead, he felt water – lots of it, and not rain, either. It hit with too much pressure, overwhelming him. He sputtered for breath.
He struggled out of the sudden shower and finally managed to force his eyes open. The space around him had opened again. The dragon seemed to stagger in midair as it flew away. A path to the structure had even opened up, a massive stream of water shooting straight down the middle. At the other end, George and Denzel struggled to control a firehose.
Michael ran straight past his companions, further and deeper into the complex. They turned the firehose with him, catching onto the plan. They used the high-pressure water like a liquid battering ram to clear a path.
Michael rounded the corner and pressed his back against the thick concrete wall. When George and Denzel popped around the corner after him, he jumped out and hugged them both. For a moment, they just huddled there laughing like idiots and slapping each other on the back. When they almost lost control of the hose, they calmed down.
“It was George’s idea,” Denzel admitted. “But he couldn’t control the hose on his own.”
Michael nodded gratefully and gave the bookworm a congratulatory shoulder clap.
Another huge stroke of lightning and massive crack of thunder interrupted their celebration. A half dozen smaller lightning flashes illuminated the area around them long enough to sober them. Enemies closed in on all sides, flooding the corridor. Michael hefted the baseball bat again as his friends pressed their backs close against his. They had a moment before the horde closed in on them but not long.
Michael jumped in to help George with the firehose so that Denzel could bring the chainsaw into the fight. He snapped the nozzle open and sprayed a steady stream back and forth. They managed to slow the influx of attackers, but they couldn’t hold them off forever.
“If anybody has a brilliant plan, now’s the time.” Michael himself had none.
“Pray,” Stefan told them.
“Thanks, smart-ass.”
“He means it,” Conor told him. “Pray.”
Michael didn’t have any better ideas. He didn’t have enough practice, and he’d never actually been very good at it. He decided to keep it simple so he wouldn’t foul it up. In fact, he kept it to one word.
Help, he prayed.
Lightning arced through the sky once again. The thunderclap followed almost immediately, assaulting them with a wall of deafening sound. The ground shook as it passed. George dropped to his knees and covered his ears until it passed.
“That wasn’t thunder,” Michael noted.
He poked his head out around the concrete wall and scanned the stadium. When the second Hellfire missile exploded in the field it confirmed his suspicions. Multiple streams of heavy gunfire followed as he watched Task Force 13 clear a landing zone.
Chapter Forty-Three
The first Blackhawk touched down at the fifty-yard line. Michael popped back behind the wall, facing the hordes that closed in on his friends.
“Cavalry’s here!” he informed them. “Good work with the prayers!”
“What?” George asked, somewhat dumbstruck.
“Task Force 13 just landed. We’ve got backup!”
“Hold here,” Conor ordered. “Let them come to us.”
“We need to signal them,” Michael noted, “So they can find us. Did anyone grab any flares?” Blank stares answered him.
“I’ve got a signal,” Denzel answered. He stepped forward and opened up a stream with the fire hose, aiming it in a high arc and spraying back and forth. A moment later, flashing lights from the helicopters answered them.
“They’re coming,” Michael translated the Morse code. They retrained the hose downward to hold the golems at bay while the soldiers approached.
Lieutenant Colonel Abrash led his men toward them, his face con
torted into a dark scowl. Soldiers cleared the immediate area and quickly established a perimeter. A second squad of soldiers stood with them inside the circle, ready to move at a moment’s notice. The eerie calm inside their makeshift eye of the storm unnerved Michael.
“Trouble seems to follow you everywhere, Sergeant,” the Colonel reported. “Care to explain why you burned down a frat house?”
“We’ve got bigger problems right now,” Conor interrupted. As if on cue, the dragon reared up above the stadium and belched out a giant flame.
“I’ll say,” Abrash answered. He glanced at Michael. “You brought a baseball bat to a dragon fight?”
“No, I just ran out of ammo. And it was supposed to be a rescue, not a battle.”
“Some rescue.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out one of the ‘hostages’ was actually the ringleader.”
“Abigail Covington is behind the whole thing,” Gabriel filled in, supplying the calm that Michael couldn’t.
Abrash’s face darkened. He scanned the group and his scowl deepened.
“Did Jim know?”
Michael shook his head.
“He found out when the rest of us did,” Gabriel answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty damn sure.” Michael’s anger came out.
Stefan laid a hand on his shoulder.
“He fell saving us all,” Gabriel shared the news.
Abrash softened his expression.
“Damn,” he swore. “Fill me in on the details later. We need to put a stop to this.”
“Abby’s the key,” Conor declared.
“Copy that. Where is she?”
“Up on that tower,” Gabriel pointed. “Summoning something.”
“The tower with the dragon?”
“That’d be the one.”
“Summoning what?”
“Something worse than a dragon,” the friar answered.
“Right.” Abrash sighed. “Alright, we’ve got to get around that thing somehow. It’s not even feeling our weapons,” he noted. “Not even the Hellfires. How do we take it out?”
“Dragons are the manifestation of demons,” Gabriel answered, as if that explained everything.
“Great. How do I kill it?”
“You can’t,” the Texan explained. “No work of mortal man can kill a demon. Only the power of God can do that.”
“Like the Sword?” Abrash asked. Gabriel confirmed it. “Too bad you haven’t chosen a new Knight yet.”
“The Sword has chosen,” Stefan answered.
“Where is it?” the colonel asked.
“The Knight is being tested.”
Abrash looked over the group.
“The Bishop kid?”
The friar nodded.
“How long will it take?”
The friar shrugged.
“We can’t count on the Sword,” Michael declared. “We need a backup plan.”
“The backup plan is a pair of nuclear tipped Tomahawk cruise missiles,” Abrash informed them.
“What?” George blurted out.
“They’re already locked on to this location, ready to fire if we report a failure. Or if we don’t report in at all.”
“They won’t kill it,” Gabriel answered softly. “You’ll kill a hundred and thirty thousand civilians for nothing.”
“It’s not my call,” Abrash snapped back.
“We need another backup plan here on the ground, then.” Michael somehow kept his voice calm. Abrash scowled at him.
“Captain Long!” he called out.
The blonde woman scrambled away from the perimeter to join them. “Yes sir!”
“Form up Bravo team, V-formation. We’re going to cut a path to that tower over there. Alpha team falls in behind us and covers the rear as we move. Once we take the ground floor, we set our next perimeter and hold it at all costs.”
“Yes sir!” She moved to round up her team.
“All units, this is Merlin,” Abrash barked into his radio. “Taking down that dragon is mission priority one.” A few of the nearby soldiers gave him a resigned look, but none argued. Nobody wanted to go up against a dragon. But none of them would shirk their duty.
“Bravo team is ready, Colonel!” Long called.
“Hold for my signal!” Abrash ordered.
“We didn’t bring any extra nine millimeter ammo,” he told them apologetically, referring to their submachine guns. He waved over a sergeant. “But we thought you might need some supplies.”
The young soldier dropped a large duffel bag on the ground and unzipped it. He withdrew a handful of M4 carbines and passed them around. Magazines followed. The team swapped out their German submachine guns for the American carbines. Denzel slung his chainsaw over his shoulder and hefted a pair of the carbines, one in each of his massive hands. George snickered at his friends Hollywood antics, but he refused to part with his hoe-saw.
Abrash keyed his radio again.
“Eagle 3, we need air support. Light the undead bastards up. Eagle 2, keep that dragon occupied.”
The AH-64D Apache Longbow swung around, letting loose with the 30mm cannon. Abrash called out the order.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Michael felt terrible for the groundskeepers as he charged across the grass. He recognized the absurdity of the thought, but the pristine field he knew from the occasional football game had transformed into a mud pit. He slipped and slid all over the place as he ran. He almost wished for a pair of cleats. He wiped again at his filthy face. Mud covered him everywhere.
Something that looked and felt rather like blood and guts covered the mud in a layer of filthy grime. In time it would dissolve into nothing. But the magic had created a strong facsimile. Even the smell came out right. On the other hand, some of it was blood – his and his friends’. He wasn’t sure he’d ever truly feel clean again.
Task Force 13’s Alpha Team formed a wedge before them, insulating Michael and his friends somewhat from the fighting. Yet it couldn’t insulate them from the noise. Bursts of rifle fire rang out everywhere. The soldiers of TF-13 fired short bursts, keeping their fully automatic M4A1 rifles well controlled. Michael approved of their discipline.
With an entire platoon at hand, they moved across the field easily. Their new air support kept the dragon busy, removing another advantage from the enemy team. The helicopters also managed the occasional strafing run. Fake vampires proved no match for modern weaponry and tactics.
Michael struggled to keep up with the group. He’d kept himself in great shape since he’d been discharged. In the relative safety, the events of the last twenty-four hours came crashing home all at once. Since these constructs first invaded the Covington house, he’d eaten only one real meal. A few short hours of sleep had sufficed so far, but now he could feel the lack of rest. His stomach growled, but he barely noticed. His hip and knee screamed at him. Though noiseless, they seemed far louder. Sheer willpower carried him forward.
He dropped his eyes as he stumbled again. When he lifted them, he found his friends at his side helping him up. Denzel slipped a shoulder under the former soldier’s arm, and they pressed on. George just nodded at him and patted him on the back.
Their moral support lifted him further than their physical support. He felt a second wind flowing through him. It wasn’t much. All of his aches still ached. The fatigue still ran straight through to his bones. He still felt the loss of his friend deeply.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He found his footing and waved Denzel off. A nod of understanding passed between them, and the big man rushed back to the front lines. He reentered the fray with a shout.
A moment later, a wave of mutters broke the platoon’s professional silence.
“What the hell?” Michael heard from one soldier.
Then he saw the source of the confusion. The bulk of the manufactured army had maneuvered between them and the tower. The golems pressed in to become one giant mass as if a sculptor kneaded handfuls of
clay together. A figure began to form out of the sloppy goo, rising above them.
“They’re forming Devastator!” George called out.
“What?” Gabriel queried.
“Past your time, old man,” Michael teased him.
The massive creature began to rise, straightening at the waist and pushing upward. Michael looked up, and up, and up some more. A gut wrenching noise emanated from the towering colossus. To his ears, it sounded like a dying rhinoceros, except louder. It overpowered even the repeated explosions of gunfire.
When the thing at last stood upright, it began lumbering toward them, one giant, waddling step at a time. Its size made it slow, but the stadium rumbled with every shuffle.
It lifted an arm the size of a tree and swiped it across the field. The soldiers retreated out of its reach. Fortune watched over them, and they all managed to clear the first blow. The slower constructs didn’t make it. The giant squashed a half dozen of them like bugs.
It didn’t appear to even notice that it diminished its own side. That didn’t surprise Michael. The individual constructs had not proved particularly bright. He doubted that the larger conglomeration would fare much better on an IQ test.
The other arm shot upward, bracing for a second blow. The soldiers moved again, shifting their position. Michael followed at a brisk run. He stumbled but caught his footing again. George, next to him, didn’t make the recovery. He dropped to the ground with a cry.
Michael spun on his toes, turning back for his friend. He gave the young man an arm, yanking him to his feet. They sprinted toward the edge of the plodding creature’s reach. But Michael could see the writing on the wall. As slow as the giant moved, they’d lost crucial time. They wouldn’t make it.
He surveyed the area before them and made a decision. A heartbeat later, they both tumbled to the ground. Michael threw his body over his friend’s and the large arm swept over them.
Chapter Forty-Four
George struggled underneath him, but Michael shushed him and held him still. The small trench they huddled in barely fit their combined bulk, but the large arm only brushed him as it passed over them. When it cleared, he shot to his feet and pulled his friend with him.
War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1) Page 22