Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Slowly, night became deeper, morning stars sliding slowly across the sky. And Soloman still didn’t move, hoping to find the hated silhouette of Cain against a wall. But there was nothing.

  Eventually the night lessened, a distant dawn hazing the horizon beyond the glaring street lights. Yet Soloman continued to see nothing but shadows, as day crept closer. And despite his previous convictions he began to wonderer if they were wrong ...

  Movement.

  A faint shadowing of dark within dark. It was all there was, but it was what Soloman had been awaiting. He locked on it instantly as he heard Marcelle’s composed whisper, “There.”

  “I see it,” Soloman said, and suddenly felt the kind of respect for the priest that comes only when one man has finally measured the other in the field. With one word Marcelle had suddenly come to a new level of regard, as far as Soloman was concerned.

  Soloman focused keenly on the darkness and then, again, saw the shadowy outline; a gigantic human form highlighted by streetlight against a slate-gray wall. It was there in the distant sound of rending steel for the briefest moment, and then not even Soloman’s superior night vision could find it again. It was gone as clean as the wind – nothing at all.

  Marcelle didn’t move.

  Soloman shifted, reaching back to grasp the shotgun. And, very slowly, brought the weapon in front, holding it close as he stared without breath into the blackness.

  No, nothing.

  Marcelle stood away from the wall, squinting, and Soloman could tell from the priest’s frustrated face that he also saw nothing. The priest scowled, staring, but he was obviously confused; it was as if he had seen an apparition appear and disappear in the same breath. After a moment he shook his head. “I see nothing, Colonel.”

  Frowning in gathering anger, Soloman withdrew a cellular phone and dialed Malo, giving terse instructions to descend on the parking lot. Then he turned to Marcelle. “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going in.”

  Marcelle gripped his arm. “Perhaps we should wait for more men, Soloman.” He spoke with concern. “We know he is inside the building and, in this situation, time is to our advantage.”

  Soloman pulled away. “This is personal, Marcelle,” he rasped. “That thing has killed a lot of good men and tried to kill a little girl that I happen to care for. I’m not going to give it another chance to escape.”

  Marcelle stared as Soloman ran in a loping combat crouch, closing on the building. He crossed the empty parking lot as covertly as possible, using separated shrubbery and largely decorative trees, and then he was at the door Cain had compromised.

  Looking down at the portal, Soloman saw that the stainless steel knob had been sheared away like wet paper. Ragged threads were all that was visible where the lock had been, and Soloman knew from the absence of an alarm that it had been disabled.

  Bending, he went through the exit and melted instantly into the dark. Sliding against a wall he listened, hushing his breathing as he searched the faint gray light of the museum, but he detected nothing.

  Soloman’s racing heart and almost silent breath sounded terrifyingly loud to him in the gloom, but he knew that was a fear-generated illusion, for not even Cain could hear his pounding heart.

  Soloman held the SPAS close as he moved carefully down the hallway, knowing the giant would be involved in searching for the book. But Soloman had no idea where it was either, so he was forced into a random search-and-destroy.

  When he found Cain, he knew it would hit like lightning and escalate into a raging battle that would likely leave this building on fire. But Soloman knew he was ready for it; he had the grenades and the .45 and was wearing a vest with a steel shock-plate reinforcing his chest.

  He was heavily armored enough to last for a few moments before either he or Cain went down. And even if he did go down, Soloman was hatefully determined to injure Cain badly enough to at least cripple the giant. Something was driving Soloman that he didn’t understand and didn’t try to understand, sensing only that it was something deep and quick and becoming more and more alive ...

  Silently he crept through the museum, turning his head minutely to detect movement or sound, but there was only silence. Cain, wherever he was, was working quiet as a ghost in the gloom to find the—

  Blood.

  A rivulet of red moved slowly over the marble floor.

  Soloman turned his head to glimpse a gray uniform extending beyond a corner; the legs of a doomed security guard who had obviously happened upon Cain when he entered the building. But Soloman didn’t take time to examine the body; it didn’t matter how the man died. He was simply dead, another life taken by this thing that should have never seen the world.

  Death after death after death; it was all there was.

  Soloman stalked forward using solid cover. He searched the wide square balcony above lit with faint light, but he saw nothing, heard nothing, detected nothing and was becoming increasingly frustrated. He knew that he had to hit Cain while he was preoccupied with the theft. He had to hit him from behind and continue to hit until he fell. Then he would hurl one of the antipersonnel grenades secured on his belt, which he hoped would separate Cain’s head from his shoulders.

  Sweating furiously, swiping perspiration from his face with a free hand, Soloman walked along a rear wall, his combat boots making no sound on the marble floor. He was tempted to leave the shadows and then it occurred to him that not even Cain could have perfect night vision, especially if he were standing in light, because his eyes would be apertured to the greater light instead of the lesser. And it was something that not even Cain could undo because it was an optic reflex no more changeable than unconscious breath. The more light, the more effective the shadows.

  Soloman had taken a dozen more steps when he suddenly halted, not knowing why. It had seldom happened without any visible or audible warning, but over the years he had come to trust it.

  Something dangerous was close beside him, he realized.

  Something unseen … and silent.

  The last time the instinct had struck Soloman so strongly he had been in Beirut tracking down a senior member of the jihad. Not even knowing why, Soloman had halted in an alley and dropped fast to the ground as an AK-47 opened up from a window less than ten feet away.

  He had never been able to determine what made him stop and fall to the ground a split-second before the bullets passed over his head; he had simply done it. Nor did he know why he stopped now; it simply happened. Alarmed, he turned his head minutely to detect anything as—

  Cain …

  Emerged from darkness.

  In a rumble of haunting thunder Cain stepped from the deepest shadow less than ten feet away. Galactic and gigantic and ultimately menacing the beast took a single slow stride into the light. His smile was malevolent, mocking. His red gaze fixed on Soloman with baleful intensity.

  He was dressed utterly in black, his head already covered with thick dark hair that swept back from the broad, fearless forehead. And he had acquired a long cloak that made him seem even more mammoth. His long fingers tapered to wicked black talons.

  A bright-white flood of horror and adrenaline had rushed from the center of Soloman, and he couldn’t catch his breath as he backed up, matching Cain slow step for slow step. He knew his heart had somehow skipped a beat, and he had to glance down to ensure that the SPAS was centered on the giant’s chest.

  Soloman retreated another stride and didn’t know why he hadn’t fired the shotgun. It was as if they were both awaiting some unknown signal to initiate the oncoming battle. Then Soloman realized the entire confrontation was shockingly wild and uncanny – a spellbinding battle to the death that had begun without a single blow being thrown.

  With a warlike glance Cain regarded the SPAS as nothing, his dark face distorted by a contemptuous frown. Then he stopped in place, poised as powerful as death. And Soloman saw a
n ancient manuscript clutched in his right hand: The Grimorium Verum.

  The book was bound with a thick wooden latch, the spine comprising a row of wide leather straps.

  Soloman realized with spiraling horror that Cain had probably seen them watching outside, had known what they were planning to do. That’s why he’d made himself visible; he’d wanted Soloman to follow him into the museum and played him perfectly.

  With a slight tilt of his head Cain regarded Soloman and his weapons as if, together, they posed no more threat than a child. Then he spoke in the volcanic voice Soloman had heard on the tape, a voice that gods would envy. It was human thunder rumbling with power never used and never needed, fearing nothing. On the tape it had been enraged and lordly and imperious. Now it was cold and contemptuous.

  “So,” Cain said with an indulgent smile, “you are my great adversary – the one who wounded me.” He laughed. “That was a blow well dealt, butcher! You enjoy the blood as much as I.”

  Frowning, Soloman moved to the side, knowing Cain’s superhuman speed could close the gap between them in the blink of an eye and also knowing that with his first shot an all-out war to the death would erupt. He froze his finger tightly around the trigger of the shotgun.

  He didn’t want to engage Cain in battle like this because if the first shot didn’t kill, then Cain would be all over him raging and rending, finishing him in seconds.

  An amused smile crept over the fiendish face as Soloman shifted, sweating and glaring and watching with hair-trigger alertness. “You came for the child,” he rumbled. “Yes, you came for her.”

  Playing for time so that Malo and the Delta commandos could close on the museum with the two choppers, Soloman frowned. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he said, “And for you.”

  Cain lifted hands from his sides.

  “I am here.”

  Soloman shifted, his hand tightening on the trigger of the SPAS until no slack at all remained in the trigger; a half-ounce more pressure and the weapon would discharge. Then Cain bent, laying the manuscript on a small mahogany table. He murmured something in Latin – something that held a deathly intonation – and as the taloned fingers lifted, it happened.

  That fast.

  Cain was nearly motionless and in the next second was roaring forward in a wave, and Soloman fired blind as a fist smashed into his chest.

  He bellowed as he flew back, the shotgun somehow torn from his hands, then hit the floor hard and rolled back and up, drawing the .45 to fire instantly. He saw Cain coming over him, and a half-dozen rounds thundered bright into the air, a boom-blinding strobe in the room.

  Cain took the rounds to the chest and arm as he closed, and then he struck the pistol aside and hit Soloman again, blasting him back. Brutally stunned, Soloman was thrown hard from a wall and hurled a wild blow that Cain deflected with contempt, returning his own.

  Cast into another world by the murderous impacts of the blows, Soloman staggered away wildly off-balance. It was like getting hit by a cannon and in a breathless red haze Soloman struggled for air and life, knowing somehow that the steel shock-plate was dented. And something else didn’t feel right in his chest and leg but he had no time …

  In the next breath Cain threw Soloman aside so that he crashed into a marble statue that he grabbed wildly from the pedestal, but he fell to the floor and it shattered in his arms. Struggling violently to reorient himself, Soloman rolled over white shards, groaning.

  No time for this!

  Get up!

  GET UP!

  Staggering numbly to his feet, he whirled as Cain closed again like a panther playing with a dog, and he knew the monstrosity was going to kill him slowly, just as he realized that any of the blows would have already killed if Cain had used even slightly more force.

  Cain laughed as Soloman rose shocked and breathless and drenched in wild sweat, searching desperately for anything that could give him a faint fighting chance. He moaned in pain as he clutched his chest, dimly realizing that the ballistic vest had been shredded.

  He knew that in normal combat the sheer concussion of the blows would have rendered him unconscious, but a fantastic survival base was in command now, a part of his mind that compelled him to survive on instinct and training because courage had fled.

  No, he told himself, I won’t fall.

  Stumbling, he cursed savagely as he tripped backwards over a small golden couch. And Cain roared in laughter, horrific bestial fangs violently exploding from his jaws like prehistoric tusks. The hellish mirth made his face fiendish, fangs hurling back the light with an ultimate killing wrath.

  Shocked at the sight, Soloman rose again and angled to the side, gasping. Then in a rumbling storm Cain came closer, and he found the strength to focus, recovering. Committed to taking Cain with him, he reached up to curl a finger tightly through the pin of a grenade strapped to his chest.

  Eyes narrowing suddenly, Cain halted in place. He glanced at the grenade clutched in Soloman’s trembling hand and a smile came to him slowly. “Ah ... a sacrificial move,” he growled, clearly amused. “How frightening. Should I flee from you?”

  Soloman frowned.

  “I’m the last, Cain. Not even you will survive this.”

  Cain laughed, taking his time. His bloodthirsty joy was unforced and unconcealed. “You pleasure me,” he smiled. “Before I take your life, I want to know your name. You are worth remembering.”

  Soloman tightened his finger even more in the ring. “It’s Soloman. You’ve got three seconds to remember it.”

  With ghastly mirth Cain laughed again, throwing back his head. Soloman was confused for a moment and then knew what the giant was planning to do, and he pulled the grenade pin with the thought, hurling himself aside before—

  It was too quick.

  In a black roar Cain’s forearm caught him viciously across the neck, clotheslining him. Then a taloned hand lashed out like lightning to tear the grenade from his vest and Cain whirled in the same heartbeat, hurling the grenade across the room where it detonated in an explosion that brought down marble and ceiling and plaster, sending a superheated shockwave to the cavernous walls.

  Lost in rage, Soloman shouted in pain as he staggered up, fumbling frantically for another grenade, and then Cain was there, a human lion roaring with the strength of twenty men. Soloman never even saw the arm that lashed out to somersault him, and then he was being raised to his feet again, lifted cleanly from the floor. The remaining three grenades were instantly torn from his vest and hurled to the side.

  Red eyes ...

  Snarling fangs ...

  Cain growled before him.

  Cain’s scarlet glare was narrow with wrath, and Soloman knew it was over. There was nothing left to do. He frowned at the breath that flowed from the fangs, breath hot with the stench of a world of blood and death and the grave.

  “Yes,” Cain whispered as Soloman’s head rolled in half-consciousness, “you were, indeed, a worthy opponent. But, no, not my last victim.” He leaned forward as the fangs touched the skin of Soloman’s neck to—

  “Adjuro vos! Futige, partes adversae!”

  Soloman never knew where he landed but even in his shock he recognized the voice and knew Cain had hurled him aside to confront the Exorcist. In seconds he rolled to a knee to see Marcelle standing alone in the middle of the room.

  The priest stood grim and enraged with a large silver crucifix extended in a single hand, and then Soloman stumbled weakly to the side, stumbling, finally finding a single grenade. He clipped it reflexively to his waist and staggered further, gaining distance, as Cain walked slowly toward the priest, his head tilted as if he could not believe the futile challenge.

  His face distorted with horrible courage, Marcelle slashed the crucifix in the air as he thundered, “Begone ye hostile powers! Depart thou infernal creation! And do not think to despise t
he words of this sinner who dost serve the Lord of Hosts who Himself hurled ye headlong from the heights to thine infernal reckoning!”

  Another cross was cut with violent wrath.

  “Yield to God!” the Jesuit shouted. “Yield to the Lord of Hosts before whose countenance thou dost eternally tremble! Discedite ergo nunc! Begone! Begone I say! Ecce Crux Domini, fugite, partes adversae! Vincit leo de tribu juda, radix David!”

  Cain halted in place for a frozen moment, as if he expected something to happen at the words. Then with a smile that reflected the purest blood thirst, he laughed.

  Moving forward.

  Without any indication of fear Marcelle boldly stepped into the confrontation, slashing a terrific image of the cross in the face of the beast. “Begone thou seducer!” he raged. “In the name of Jesus of Nazareth who Himself hurled thee down to the dwelling of the Serpent, I cast thee out! Begone I say! Begone! The blood of Christ compels thee! The blood of Christ compels thee! The blood of Christ compels thee!”

  With a growl that came from an intensifying black animal center, Cain snatched the priest by the vestment and pulled him close to the monstrous fangs. And Marcelle’s hand instantly gripped the giant’s wrist as they strained. Then the priest’s teeth clenched in the fiendish test of strength, and a breath exploded from him. Cain’s horrific face split in a jagged smile and Marcelle gasped, overwhelmed.

  As Soloman lifted the shotgun from the floor.

  “Cain!”

  Spitefully, Cain spun his head.

  Soloman centered the shotgun on the copy of the Grimorium Verum, still lying on the small table. “Let him go!” he gasped. “Let him go now or I’ll destroy the book!”

  Cain snarled.

  Taking a single step forward Soloman raised the shotgun to his shoulder to lock a solid aim. “Let him go now, Cain! This’ll vaporize that thing! You’ve got two seconds!”

  Cain let Marcelle fall to the ground and for a moment seemed to grow even larger and more terrifying in his wrath. With a narrow glance he measured the distance, determining whether he could leap between Soloman and the book before Soloman made the shot.