“It’s the gateway,” Denman says, then, “Ahh, she doesn’t see it.”
“Not that,” she somewhat snaps, putting on a bit of a scowl, “The liquid on the ground. I thought it was oil or some other fluid that had leaked from the explosion, but it ….,” her voice trails off.
Denman joins her in looking at Skot, a smirk taking his lips as he waits.
“It’s blood,” Skot finally answers.
“Blood?” she repeats, eyes widening, her feet halting in their nearing approach.
“Yes, the final sacrifice, it seems,” Denman decides to join the talk again, “All of the negative energy has culminated here,” he gestures, “forming the eye of the storm, as it were, though I can assure you, the focal points of these are not calm.”
She just gives him a look, then slips her eyes to Skot. He nods once, giving the verification she craves.
“They did this on purpose?” she asks, incredulous.
“Not hardly,” Denman scoffs.
“The negative energies created by their actions caused this,” Skot elaborates, “but they did not know what they were doing. This happens sometimes, a gateway spontaneously opening because of the coming together of many different stimuli. It’s not just the bloodletting, but the things they have done, and those energies come back here. The location of this city also plays a part, as well as-.”
“Do you think now is the time for a lecture?” the Professor of Philosophy interjects, “Maybe after we’re done here, hmm?”
And just then Ernst returns to animation, crying out, shocking them all.
“No! No! They’re coming!” he yells, pointing toward the site of the explosion, “We’re too late!” and he turns, running away.
He proves a harbinger, for just then, a bubbling emerges at the center of the area, dark illumination coming from beneath it, and then a rumbling as of an earthquake. It is not enough to upset their balance, but it is felt, and then, as though these things are but precursors, another explosion occurs, a jettison of fluid and earth rising up from the boiling. This shockwave does thrust them back, hands and arms held up to protect faces, and then it appears.
“I see it now,” Lilja declares, voice a whisper, her eyes held wide, and she does.
It is yet another thing that her mind thinks ought not exist, and she blinks rapidly, sucking in a breath, then she closes her mouth, pulling in another through her nostrils. She sees what looks like a fissure in the very air, a roiling tear of dark colors, black, blues, purples, and reds. She grits her teeth together, jaw tensed as her eyes look upon it, drawn in, trying to plumb its depths as it hangs there, the barriers moving, writhing in an obscene way.
“Lilja … Lilja!”
She blinks, lips parting as a breath is expelled, then she stutters over an inhale, eyes darting to Skot. He has placed a hand on her right shoulder, and she did not even register it.
“It’s the gateway. I have to close it now. Now. Do you understand?”
She nods.
“If anyone, or anything, tries to stop me, I need you to take it out. Okay?”
She nods again.
“They may come from the compound or from the gateway. They want it to stay open. They will come if they can. I need you to defend me, alright?”
“Alright,” she nods again.
“If the bullets in your gun do not stop them, use your sword.”
She takes a moment to understand this, but then she nods again.
“I think she gets it, Skothiam. You had better hurry.”
He looks over at Denman, and the ubiquitous arrogance of his demeanor has dimmed to such an extent as to be nigh invisible. Skot gives Lilja one last look, a squeeze of her shoulder, then he moves closer to the chaotic-seeming fissure.
He again pulls the sword from the cane, though there show no visible enemies upon whom he might use it. He begins speaking in a language that sounds somewhat like Latin, but even to her less than fluent ear, she can tell it is not the dead language of the Roman Empire. He holds the sword more like a totem than a weapon, and she sees it shine with that eldritch glow, noticing that it seems to emanate from the sigils carved in the base of the blade. He continues speaking, perhaps casting some spell, his eyes intent on the gateway even as they grow further lost to this world.
She watches the area, hoping to glimpse any attacks that may come. She ought to feel a heightened tension with what she has learned. Will the bullets not stop them? The ones in Skot’s Walther seemed to work. Does he customize them somehow? Are these things really demons from Hell? But instead she remains reasonably calm, alert, eyes continuing to take in the scene, ears tuned for any approaching noise.
Then her eyes move toward the gateway, again locking on that unnatural phenomenon. The edges blur and fuzz like the blind spot of a migraine, but the inside of that fissure still shows a thick movement as of lava. But then she thinks she glimpses something more substantial in there, some hint of an alien landscape, something born from nightmare? She cannot be sure, and she feels that encroaching confusion and disorientation she saw and even somewhat felt earlier this evening.
Denman looks over from his own position, and he sees that look in Lilja’s eyes. He’s seen it before, and he knows the effects of the opening are claiming her mind. He doesn’t say anything. If she lacks the fortitude to survive it, then so be it. Thus is the crucible of life. He knows that humans create rules, expectations, even words to try to contain and control existence. It is a case of a practical framework growing thick with the vines of fear, being cultivated by a defense mechanism that leaves one limited. He moves his eyes away even as she draws deeper in to the influence, keeping his own senses attuned for a threat to himself or Skot’s efforts.
“Lilja?”
She blinks, once, very deep, then followed by a few more, rapid, eyelashes fluttering, then she looks up to again see Skot there at her side, some time obviously passed, another consoling hand placed on her shoulder.
“Be careful not to be distracted by what is coming out of that gate,” he cautions.
“What?”
“It emits energy as well as being a passage. It has already seeped into this entire area, filling it like a gas leak.”
“It is poisonous?” she asks, looking concerned.
“Not exactly, but it can render you somewhat disabled, defenseless, and enough exposure to people with the lacking mental defenses can contribute to insanity or other effects.”
She wonders at the curiousness of this comment and what it implies, but at least she now feels back to more herself.
“I’m fine,” she nods once, and he returns that with a warm smile of his own.
“Skothiam?” Denman calls over, and the two look in his direction, seeing that he faces away toward one of the many avenues into this area. “They are coming. Perhaps you ought to get back to work?”
He gives her one more look, that gentle curve still on his lips, then he goes back to where he had been before, resuming the chant, the words spoken with low volume, yet with firm enunciation.
She eventually hears the sounds of running feet coming from the direction she initially arrived at this lowest level. She turns, focusing on the opening that leads to that stairwell, pointing the barrel of her rifle, finger at the ready near the trigger. She hears the labored, frightened breathing of Ernst who has inadvertently gotten closer to that hallway in his attempt to distance himself from the gateway. She tries to get his attention, using very clear signals with her left hand that he ought to move away. He either doesn’t see or will not comply, for he stays there, cowering, crippled by fear.
Then the figure emerges, sprinting down the stairs, and it is a human woman. She does not look like a party-goer or one of the many girls offered as product. Lilja assumes she is probably one of any number of other females employed here in a different capacity. Her clothing does not mark her as a likely waitress or cook, but her aspect is similar to others she has seen tonight - one of naked rage. Still, she falters
at pulling the trigger even as the woman stops, red-rimmed eyes looking about with quick jerks of her head, teeth bared, her own breath short, ragged, and she sets her sight on the nearest prey, emitting a loud yell and rushing for Ernst.
“Shoot her!” calls out Denman’s voice, and he rushes toward the attacking woman, his melee weapon at the ready.
She squeezes the trigger, bullets flying out of the suppressed barrel with a clicking cough, and though one misses, the other two hit the woman in her legs. She cries out, stumbling, but ready to get back up. Lilja takes better aim but then moves the barrel aside quickly as Denman reaches the scene, moving in behind the woman and dragging his blade over her throat then backing away. The woman falls onto her hands, her blood pouring out in time with the pulsing of her excited heart until she falls into that sticky puddle.
“What is your problem?” Denman demands, walking toward Lilja, anger drawn over his face.
Lilja does not respond with a similar emotion, instead showing somewhat calm, if not a bit confused.
“That was a woman, not one of those things,” she counters.
“Demons,” he presses, though he stops before getting too close to her, “Those things are demons. You had better get that through your head. They are not going to provide the luxury of waiting for you to accept that before they kill you. Do you understand?”
“But she looks like a regular woman,” she says, gesturing with one hand toward the corpse.
Denman pulls in a breath through his nose, all the world like an evaluating professor trying to decide on the spot whether to continue with a difficult student.
“They are able to influence people, even possess them,” he explains, “And with that gateway spewing out their energies, expect more. They won’t all look like monsters, so I hope you have it in you to take a life. We don’t have time for exorcisms,” he all but spits, going back to another vantage for his own guard duty, sparing a glance at Ernst as he does.
She thinks back on the young girl she tried to save, the man with the butcher knife, and especially that large guard that Skot commended her for dispatching. Were they being influenced, possessed? If so, she recalls the young girl coming around from it. She doesn’t know what all is going on, but she’ll be damned if she takes advice from someone like Denman Malkuth.
More noises then arise, this time it is obvious it is more than one person. She casts a glance to Ernst, and he has managed to crawl and scuttle to a better hiding place. He even registers her notice this time, and he points a shaky finger toward another opening. She trains her barrel on it. She also then hears more noise from the walkway, but a quick glance to her left shows that Denman has responded, and he readies himself for this approach.
Three more people run forth from the open doorway, and though they all appear human, two men and one woman, they bear the same vicious behavior as the others. They do not go after Ernst, though not for failing to see him but because they lock their notice on the gateway and Skot. With but this short pause, they resume their sprint, rushing toward the caster.
She fires, quickly, her barrel moving to track the targets. One goes down, then the second. She is more careful, for the third passes along the line that leads to Denman, and she does not want to miss and hit the professor. Then she fires again, knowing her magazine is low, and the third falls. She then ejects it, slipping in a fresh one and shoving the empty into that same pouch. She runs over to the fallen people just as more of those bestial noises arise from above, and two of the more obvious creatures lope to the stairway intent on coming down, moving also with the use of their hands.
She checks the three people she has hit. Two of them appear to have been broken of the spell of influence, writhing out in pain now, confusion. She does what she can for the one man, as he has taken a hit in his lower left torso. She also zip-ties them both, just to be safe. The third man, though, the one who made it closest to Skot, is still snarling and spitting, consumed by his rage, trying to drag himself, leaving thick trails of blood from his shot-up legs.
She rushes up and uses the stunner on him. It doesn’t have much effect, but it does give the man reason to turn and try to get a hold of her, his clawed hands flying out. She backs off, then dodges in, trying the stunner again, and he cringes with pain, but he still does not collapse, so she takes him in a choke hold. This subdues him sufficiently, and she gets the zip-ties on him.
“You’re wasting your time.”
She looks up to see Denman cleaning off his obsidian blade, two dark bulks of the now dead beasts in a bloody disarray.
“I am not going to kill them if I have any other option.”
He smirks, a forced exhale through his nose, “You really are more suited for him, you know.”
“What?” she wrinkles her brow as Denman gestures toward Skot.
“A pity,” he continues, “You do seem somewhat useful. With proper training, you’d make a fine hunter.”
She racks the slide on the G36C, chambering a round, stepping closer to him, looking up into his face, not intimidated by him in the least. He just continues to give her that smirk, so she turns and goes back to her task.
“Please,” ekes out a voice, and she looks down at the woman she shot and bound, “I need help. Why am I tied up? I’m hurt. Please help me.”
“Everything will be alright,” she says, “We’re getting the situation under control. Help will be here soon.”
She looks up to see Denman watching her, his eyes full of condescension. She finds herself thinking less and less of him, despite that he shares some secret knowledge with Skot. That will have to wait, though, as the sounds of more figures approaching arises.
“How is that gateway coming along, Skothiam?” Denman calls back, eyes toward the encroaching noise.
She glances at Skot when there is no answer forthcoming. He is deep within whatever state he has achieved to attempt to seal the fissure. She thinks she sees an outpouring of something like colored mist going from his sword and blending into the menacing hues of the opening, but she cannot be sure. She feels another tremor beneath their feet, and her eyes widen somewhat. She takes a sure stance, hoping the ground does not erupt beneath her, leveling her gun in the direction from which she expects more attacks.
Two more of the monsters run in from the darkness of an open doorway, and she spares a tangential thought to wondering if they generally move in pairs before she pulls the trigger, unleashing a torrent of bullets. Hits strike all over them, their bodies jerking with it, that black blood, if it is blood, spewing forth. They are resilient, though, and it takes nearly the full magazine to down them.
Then more footsteps arise on the walkway, and she and Denman look up to see other humans. She recognizes one of them, the man in a very nice tuxedo, though the bow tie hangs loose. He is flanked by several others, all of them carrying submachine guns. The boss, for that is obviously what he is, stands at the railing, looking down over the grisly scene.
“What have you done to my home!?” Gnegon shouts, his face tense, red, and his head shakes, his right hand coming up, curled into a fist. “What have you done to me!?” he adds, clearly on the edge of bursting. “Kill them!” he orders.
Both of them take quick cover as the guns are aimed and a shower of bullets lashes down at them. She thinks of Skot, looking over, and he still stands there, absorbed in his activity. At least he has not been shot, but he seems entirely uncaring, if not unaware, of the firing squad there on higher ground, trying to do them all in. She hides now behind some debris, what looks like a medical cabinet of some sort, or was, along with other indications of similar use, takes careful aim, knowing she has few bullets left, peering through the ACOG, and squeezes off one round which hits one of the gunman. He drops.
The others are clearly having difficulty seeing her. She is small, dressed in black, and her gun makes insignificant noise compared to the barrage from them. Her red hair is exposed, but despite its vibrant color, it is tied up tightly. Several of the s
hooters stop, changing magazines, others looking about, and of course, they see Skot, and they take aim.
No, she thinks, urgency consuming her, moving her barrel, firing, adjusting rapidly and smoothly, firing again, and those two drop. She is now out, so she drops the rifle, pulling out her sidearm, aiming with both hands on the pistol and firing quickly. She wants them to see, to hear; she wants to draw their attention to her, see her as the threat. She wonders what Denman is doing, probably hiding quite well, but then she realizes her presumption, noticing that he has gone over to another staircase and is balancing speed and stealth to sneak up on them in order to dispatch them with his dagger. He reaches one who is about to resume firing, stabbing the obsidian blade through the neck, before the next explosion occurs.
A flash of colors, a surge of light from the gateway, then a greater rumbling is felt beneath them. All of this happening very fast, and then an eruption comes from a nearby room, then again as the door is blown, wood and material flying outward. Another monster emerges, and this one is larger and more horrible than the others, making them seem mere mutations of nature compared to its hideous shape.
The thing appears to be about three and a half meters long, hirsute, the thick, black hair shiny and bearing of some of the earth through which it has dug. It moves about like a giant worm, rising up, and it shows to have two large hands midway through its body, the digits long, bony, possessed of rugose flesh, the nails at the tips also long, tapering to thick points. These are attached at the wrist, more like flippers, and they curl out threateningly. If this were not enough, the top of it is possessed of a multitude of faces, each also showing the same wrinkled, pale flesh, empty and dark sockets where eyes ought to be, if such a thing were akin to known biology at all, nearly non-existent noses more like open nostrils, and small mouths, gaping, emitting a choir of alien sounds that threaten to bore through ones ears and directly into the mind.
She stares, her lips parted, breath caught up. The monster flings itself at the stairs, crashing through the wooden structure with ease, toppling Gnegon, his men, and Denman. Bullets are fired wantonly by those still possessed of life or consciousness, screams emitting from some, mute shock from others. She sees that some of those shots hit the creature, but they are merely absorbed by the pelt, seeming to have no effect at all on the thing.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 35
