Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Enraged and breathless, Soloman twisted back to throw the body to the floor, heated and breathless from the rage of combat.

  “Soloman!” Maggie staggered up, supported by the Mother Superior.

  “Are you all right!”

  Taken by the killing instinct, Soloman didn’t answer, for he heard the distant screams of Amy. He studied Maggie and realized she was badly wounded, but that she’d survive.

  He moved past her and Mother Superior Mary Francis to quickly locate the lost shotgun and Grizzly, replacing the pistol securely in the holster. He held the shotgun in sweating hands.

  Things were burning down quick, and he felt more certain than ever that he would never make it out of here. He stretched out a hand: “Give me the backpack, Maggie.”

  “But—”

  “Give it to me! It’s almost over!”

  She handed it to him.

  He knew there was napalm and dynamite along with an extra eight grenades concealed inside. He slung it over his shoulder and moved past them, into the torchlight.

  “Come on,” he rasped. “We’ve got to find Amy.”

  ***

  Ben stared with hate-filled eyes.

  He saw a long limousine draw into the sea house, and he raised the binoculars with a vengeance. He wasn’t even surprised—measuring it against the unendurable ordeal of his watch—when Archette stepped out of the vehicle to be welcomed into the manor like a king.

  Frowning, Ben lowered the glasses to his gut.

  He scowled.

  “You’re about to be a very popular man,” he said.

  ***

  Frowning from his throne, Cain knew.

  With a scowl he reached down, his hand settling on the neck of the mandrill, caressing, communicating with the strange intuitive understanding they had come to share in so short a time. Then he stretched out his other hand, locking on the chain securing it to stone.

  With titanic strength he shattered the links, and at the impact the mandrill leaped forward, roaring as it loped across the floor on thick simian arms, disappearing into the depth of the Castle to search for prey. In seconds it was lost beyond the torches.

  Silence echoed in flame.

  “Where man fails,” Cain whispered, “let beasts prevail.”

  ***

  Marcelle roared as he was hit again, backing up the stairway. He hurled a massive forearm high to deflect a blow that tore away flesh and in desperation threw out a fist, losing even more. He tried to ignore the gush of blood from his severed finger.

  A flash.

  Marcelle twisted away again, but the blow struck true, slicing him with brutal force, and he threw it back, lashing out with a fist that struck like thunder. The blow was unforgiving, and it rocked his attacker to send him cascading chaotically down the stairs where the warlock rose, stunned, a hand to his head, shaking in anger, before he glared up again. His hand tightened on the sword.

  Bleeding heavily, Marcelle spun and saw the opening to the prison tower, a place once used to hold those who refused to accept the wrath of warlords. He wasted a single stare at the advancing figure before he leaped, crawling quickly through the portal to gain his feet.

  A low moon gleaming white in the night bathed him, and Marcelle prayed a short prayer for Absolution, knowing that it was almost over. He tried to control his fear, but fear was all there was, all there was ...

  Emerging like Satan from some blackened underworld, the warlock rose slowly from the floor, the wicked, long blade leading the way. Marcelle grimaced, knowing that it had all come down to this single, dreaded moment. He must fight now, he knew, or die.

  He had sworn that he would never take a life – had sworn that he would never raise his hand against another, that he would die before striking back to save his own blood.

  There was a conflicting moment of madness as he watched the warlock advance, always silent. Then Marcelle remembered that it was not his life that he was defending. It was another’s, the life of a child who had not yet even begun to live. He shook his head, clenching bloody hands.

  “Hear me!” he gasped. “You are deceived!”

  The warlock froze.

  “Your master is defeated!” Marcelle shouted. “He was a god once, it’s true! But his glory was cast down! He is not what you think! And he will not conquer this world! Hear me on this! Hear me! You are deceived! He will not conquer this world!”

  The warlock took a slow step forward.

  Grimacing, Marcelle backed up.

  “Hear me at the last!” he continued. “Hear me, and I tell you that your sin may not be mortal! But if you continue I will be forced to use force against you, and you will die! Don’t you understand?” He raised his hands before his face, clenching with incredible strength. “You are strong, but I am far stronger! And if you attack again I will be forced to kill you! Can’t you understand? Is there no truth left within you?”

  A pause.

  Then, finally deciding, the warlock bowed his head and stood back in a masterful pose, committed. He held the blade close in his right hand, his left raised across his chest, close to his chin. He came onto the balls of his feet, balanced, ready to advance or retreat. Obviously, he considered this a serious challenge. In a moment he had crossed half the distance of the tower to corner Marcelle, blade leading.

  Marcelle lowered his head, retreating until he knew there was no more room to retreat.

  “So be it,” he whispered. “But I will pray for your immortal soul. Do what you will do.”

  The warlock came so quickly that Marcelle lost the flash of the blade in the darkness, and his hands flew out to grasp his attacker’s neck with terrific strength. And as a severing pain struck deep in his chest Marcelle bellowed, twisting to the side to evade a second blow.

  With a howl of abysmal agony he evaded the third, and his arms encircled to snatch his attacker in a hug with gorilla arms tightening hard to close like iron cables, hands locked at the spine. Then in the next second Marcelle closed his arms even tighter, and a scream burst from the warlock’s throat, the sword falling to the ground.

  But it was too late for surrender.

  Marcelle tightened as a piteous whine burst from the cloaked shape, and it squirmed to escape. Then the priest’s face contorted with effort, and he felt ribs snapping, the spine breaking beneath the pure brute force as he shut his eyes with a roar.

  Finishing it.

  ***

  Soloman found Amy’s cell quickly, moving with a speed and intensity of mind that amazed even him.

  He shouted to the child, telling her to back away from the iron door as he tore the Grizzly from his waist. And when Amy was clear he fired to shatter the lock, kicking the door against the wall.

  Amy ran to him.

  Breathless, he caught her in his arms, hugging her hard for a moment as he knelt. Despite the holocaust upon them, he took a moment to hold her, gaining strength and life. And Maggie was there, holding both of them. She moaned a prayer, and Soloman leaned his head back, grimacing. He shoved Amy into her mother’s arms.

  “Hurry!” he hissed. “Get her out of here!”

  Maggie gripped his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  He pulled loose and rose, a bloody image in the torchlight.

  “I’m going after Cain.”

  A cold chill struck Soloman as he heard the despondent groan of Mother Superior Mary Francis and he turned, knowing something disastrous had happened. And then he saw it: a crouching, sloped, bestial image standing in the doorway of the dungeon, swaying on short legs. Seconds later a low growl rumbled across the floor, thick with a thirst that emanated from a black animal center.

  He stared and realized that – whatever it was – it wasn’t human. Then, horrifically, it advanced; a huge, apelike silhouette in shadow moving on long muscular arms and stout le
gs. In the faint light of torches, distended fangs gleamed like knives.

  Frowning, Soloman stepped toward it. Without a word he squared off, slowly lifting the shotgun. He let it know it would have to come through him, a primal challenge that was clearly understood beast to beast.

  Mary Francis quickly knelt to lift Maggie and Amy. “Come!” she shouted frantically. “This is for Soloman! We must give him room to fight!”

  Gasping in pain, Maggie rose with Amy in her arms and with the old nun’s support they staggered away. They were moving toward a deeper part of the dungeon, searching for a place to hide, when they heard a striking, hideous, roar that made the torches tremble.

  And heard Soloman return it.

  ***

  Marcelle lay in blood, moaning.

  He was almost dead, he knew.

  The wound was deep, numb, and burning, sending agony into his soul to tell him that, yes, he would die from this. He rolled onto his back and mechanically felt the black wetness that was his chest as the stars gazed down at him.

  He tried not to despair, knowing that every man had a level he could not endure. Then he remembered Amy, and his face twisted in a savage grimace of determination. With a loud curse he rolled again onto his chest and began to crawl, foot by foot, toward the stairway that led down, down, down ...

  Toward the child ...

  ***

  Soloman fired as the beast hurled itself forward, striking iron bars to rebound high and hard and then collide against him with force, instantly tearing the shotgun from his hands.

  A whirlwind of fangs and claws struck as Soloman frantically grabbed the mandrill and hurled it aside, kicking it viciously as it came off the wall. The savage impact stopped it in midair, and again Soloman grabbed the tremendously heavy beast and received a ravaging blow to his face.

  Once more he hurled the beast aside, and it struck the floor hard and rolled. Instantly it gained its feet to charge back in a whirlwind of swirling simian arms and distended fangs, and Soloman knew a moment of pure panic as the jagged white jaws and claws came over him with a strength he could never equal.

  Falling back before the onslaught Soloman knew only flaying fangs and talons, and then some part of himself that he’d lost in the chaos – something he’d forgotten in the horror blazed alive once more. His hands lashed out, snatching it by the neck. He held it at bay for a roaring white moment before the remorseless claws found his forearms, tearing and crushing.

  Soloman screamed in pain at the deep wounds and rolled violently, turning and spinning, the movements faster and faster in a red blaze of pain and blood until he savagely threw the beast away, rising instantly.

  The mandrill hit the ground on its feet and threw itself back, covering the small distance with a roaring bloodthirsty intent, and Soloman frantically withdrew the Grizzly to fire wildly as—

  It hit him again and conscious thought was never a part of what happened afterward.

  The violent jaws flashed past his neck, and then Soloman saw the black tanto rising in his hand, rising and plunging with death-strength into the massively muscular chest and neck.

  The beast screamed, struck deep, and returned the rage, but Soloman anticipated the blow, raising his shoulder and arm to block a clawed hand. And then they were tumbling again, a battle of beasts fang to fang in red light, lightning-quick blows lashing through a mist of blood as they battled.

  Blows were blinding, delivered and received in a tide of flashing blood as they fought face-to-face. Then Soloman realized dimly that he was losing the titanic battle and with desperation roaring in his head grabbed the beast by the neck.

  He hurled it back with hate and then closed in on it, smashing it over the stones, and as they rolled again Soloman’s blade rose and fell in a red holocaust of vengeance that separated him from this world, from all he had ever known.

  Soloman struck blindly, in a brute frenzy that released pure rage. There was no mercy, just vengeance as he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed in a shower of blood until the beast began to tire.

  A clawed hand lashed out, slower this time, and Soloman ducked to evade the blow. Then, throwing himself forward, he struck hard, his fist frozen with all his strength on the hilt of the blade as he hit it solidly in the chest, breaking a rib. Soloman felt the blade slide deliciously over bone as he instantly tore it clear, drawing viciously to do even more damage. He spun to block a backhanded sweep as the brown shape whirled again into him.

  Collision!

  Together they hit the floor in a storm of tornadic blows, each delivering fiendish wounds as they rolled down the corridor with roars blending. Soloman saw only white fangs painted red with his blood as he struck with the tanto again and again to hit the neck over and over, striking to kill, knowing nothing else. He struck in a red rage, wounded and wounding until the beast beneath him fell suddenly . . . still. . .

  Still ... and dead.

  Bending his head to its chest, Soloman moaned. He knelt a long time, everything forgotten in the pain, the place, the battle. It had almost been too much for him and then he remembered . . . Cain . . .

  Amy.

  He lifted his head tiredly and didn’t waste a glance down because it was over, and he had more to do. He stood, exhausted.

  “Maggie!” he shouted, swaying.

  She came out of the darkness, Mother Superior Mary Francis holding Amy in her arms with the child tightly clutching the black habit. Then as the nun approached she bent down to grasp something that Soloman had lost in the battle with the mandrill. He was too dazed to wonder what it was as she silently placed it inside her cloak.

  Maggie was before him, supporting him.

  With a fierce glare Soloman held her close. “Get out of here,” he whispered, breathless.

  “Soloman, please come with—”

  “No, Maggie! It ends for both of us! Cain dies tonight! It’s over!”

  “Sol—”

  His grip on her neck brought a cry from her.

  “It’s over, Maggie!” he shouted. “Cain has to die! But none of us are going to survive if you don’t get out of here right now! Find Marcelle! Get back to the car!”

  Mary Francis rushed forward, grabbing Soloman’s arm to pull his frantic grip from Maggie.

  “Do what you must do!” she shouted into Soloman’s face. “Do what you must do! But do not fear him! Do not let him use your love against you! That is his greatest weapon!”

  Staring, Soloman saw her essence, a strength that was not of this world. He nodded. “Get Maggie and Amy the hell out of here, Sister. I’m about to bring this place down.”

  Expressionless, she moved to usher the two toward the stairwell as, behind them, Soloman bowed his head.

  He was already tired and wounded as he lifted the shotgun. He felt deeply that there was no way to defeat what lay above, but there was no other path to take. His whole life had come to this, and now he would finish it.

  Leaning against the wall, he laid the daypack on a hook beside the staircase and made sure the fuse could be lit quickly. It would kill both of them, he knew, but that was good enough.

  Live . ..

  Die ...

  Whatever.

  ***

  Supporting Maggie and Amy, Mary Francis ushered them up the stairwell, stepping around the dead bodies sprawled in a red flood at the threshold. Together they hurried in frantic silence, knowing they weren’tsafe yet.

  They were halfway up when Amy reached out in tears, grasping the old nun’s neck, staring hard. And even in the confusion and panic Mary Francis seemed to feel the impact of the gaze.

  Amy whispered, “Mary . . .”

  Mary Francis paused, turning at the words.

  Then Amy slowly lifted the rosary beads, clutched them tight in a trembling fist. Her eyes were pleading, needy, and the nun paused to lean Maggie against a
wall, instantly reaching up to wrap a strong old hand over Amy’s.

  And the crucifix.

  Her voice was like cool water.

  “Yes, child,” she whispered. “He will.”

  ***

  Ben sat up in the seat.

  Archette, eminently confident of his security defenses, had exited the manor. And Ben started the engine, waiting until the driver pulled into the sand-swept roadway of Long Island. And Ben was behind it, calculating, remembering every intersection that would come up during the next five miles, selecting a spot.

  He took his time.

  Then as they pulled into a deserted four-way stop outside Sea Cliff— a remarkably deserted coastal road—he saw his opportunity and moved. He gunned the LTD hard and pulled up beside the limo. The CIA-trained driver reacted automatically, driving the fender of the larger vehicle hard into Ben’s right front, attempting to ram him off the road.

  But Ben had expected it and took the impact, cutting the wheels hard to the right. Then they accelerated sharply, and Ben waited until they reached a mean left turn, moving away from the sea.

  As they took the turn Ben slammed on his brakes, letting the limo cut in front of him. And as the larger black vehicle reached the apex of the corner, he accelerated again and slammed into its rear bumper, forcing them both off the road and into the sand. The two cars careened crazily into a stand of trees.

  Ben exited first, running to the driver’s door and using four rounds to blast out the reinforced window before the man could respond. Then, using his brute strength and forty years of experience, he hauled the hapless driver onto the sand, disarmed him and pointed the gun in his face. His voice was a sinister threat that cut through the slashing tide.

  “Get out of here,” he whispered.

  The driver ran, raising both hands in surrender.

  It took him five seconds to vanish in the early dusk, and Ben knew he didn’t have much time. He got into the limo, ignoring the smashed glass. He gunned the engine and in seconds cleared it from the LTD. Then he was on the road, moving fast toward the cape.