Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  Vexilla laughed again. The Grey became angered at her arrogance. “Why don’t you ask the Grey bastard what went wrong?”

  Sokol turned as the Grey advanced on Vexilla. It started to reach for her but Sokol stepped in front of her. He turned on Asmodius. “What does she mean?”

  The Grey again, turned away and stormed to the far side of the chamber.

  “I asked a question,” Sokol persisted.

  “Ask the bastard who else was killed and who bloodied it up? That may be interesting.”

  The Grey turned and its yellow eyes glowed in fury. It swiped its arm through the air.

  “I kill who I…wish…to kill!”

  Sokol felt like he was gut punched. He shook his head and then a thought struck him. “Well, you’ll soon get your chance.” Sokol paced as he thought. “It doesn’t matter, we’re done doing the committee’s bidding anyway. I don’t care who he killed.”

  Again, the laugh. He angrily turned to his former assistant. “You’re not thinking this through Dmitri. He, as we suspected he had the power to do, projected himself to his attack zone. It would have been impossible for it to be hurt if his physical presence wasn’t there. Who, or what injured it?” Vexilla laughed again. “I think you may have someone out there that knows more than you do about your new friend.”

  Sokol turned and looked at a furious Asmodius. “Well?”

  The Grey, from across the room lifted Vexilla off the floor. It pushed her against the steel wall and started to twist her neck. The only thing that saved her was the alarm buzzer that sounded.

  “All hands to defensive stations. We have an intermittent radar contact coming in from the North.”

  “We’ll take this up later,” Sokol said as Vexilla was suddenly and ruthlessly let go where she fell to the deck. “Now, go do some killing for me!” He paced to Vexilla and helped her up. “As for you my dear, it’s time for you to pay for your treachery. It’s time you die with the men sent to kill us.”

  Throughout the rig, one hundred specially chosen commandos prepared to ambush their fellow countrymen who came to end the career goals of Dmitri Sokol.

  * * *

  North Flamingo Road,

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Jack had been at McCarren airport to see Will Mendenhall, Jason Ryan, and Colonel Henri Farbeaux off on their mission to get a closer look at the man out to expose the Group—Congressman Harold Briggs. Xavier Morales had informed them that he suspected Briggs was getting his information from someone who knew far more about Department 5656 than they should and that left out most American citizens and possibly shed more light on who the main suspects were without it being said. Outside of confronting the Congressman directly, Jack had given Henri, Jason and Will free reign as to how they went about gathering the information. Tram would run as their back-up from a hotel suite in New Orleans.

  Jack’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Collins,” he said curtly as he left the airport’s private access area.

  “Colonel, we have a stage one ‘purple’ alert issued by Europa. We have a cover team heading there now. The situation is critical according to Captain Everett,” Xavier Morales said.

  “Address?” Jack asked.

  “Colonel, it’s Mrs. Hamilton’s residence,” Morales said.

  Without another word Collins tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and then screamed toward Flamingo road. A stage one purple alert told him that Event Group personnel were down.

  * * *

  As Jack tore into the circular drive, he saw the Event Group cover vans in front. They had various logos on the sides proclaiming emergency house repairs. They even had a falsified Nevada Gas Authority van with flashing yellow lights. Just as he opened the car’s door, Sarah was there. She took Collins in her arms and started to cry.

  “Sarah, what happened?” he asked as he held her at arm’s length.

  Virginia, your men, they’re all dead!”

  Jack took Sarah by the hand and they sprinted to the open front door of the house. They were met by Carl. He just held out his large right hand and stopped them from entering the house.

  “There’s nothing you can do in there, Jack.”

  Collins locked eyes with his friend. The question didn’t need to be asked.

  “A Massacre. Virginia, all four of our men,” he said as he saw the shock in the colonel’s eyes. Carl stepped out of the way when a man in a gas service uniform and another in a cleaning service coverall stepped up with a stretcher. Carl moved aside. Jack reached for the sheet covering the body and pulled it back. The serene face of Virginia Pollock greeted Jack and Sarah’s horrified stares. Jack balled the corner of the sheet up as his anger built and then he calmed and allowed the sheet to finally slip from his grasp. He lowered his head.

  “Alice?” he asked.

  “They took her to the closest trauma center. Desert Springs Hospital. Niles is with her. Heart attack they think. It’s bad Jack. I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

  Carl lowered his head and shook it. He and Collins knew when they were helpless to do anything. “Jack, what about the Master Chief? Should we call him in Paris?”

  “God, I forgot about Jenks. He’ll flip out.” Collins thought a moment as he looked from Carl to Sarah. “No, we need time. If Jenks finds out, we’ll have him to worry about as much as our killer. When is he due home?”

  “Five days,” Sarah said shaking her head knowing that the gruff Master Chief was going to take Virginia’s loss very hard.

  “We’ll brief him when he get’s home. My responsibility, Jack said.”

  “No,” Carl interrupted. “I’ll do it. God knows he’d kill anyone else. I brought him into the Group. It has to be me.

  Jack could only nod his head knowing that Carl was right.

  Jack turned to look at Sarah. “Go, be with Niles. We’ll come as soon as we get a grasp of what in the hell happened.”

  Sarah swiped tears away and then turned and ran for Jack’s car.

  Collins took Carl by his large shoulders and lightly shook him. “Hey pal, I need you.”

  Carl nodded his head. “Jack, our men were murdered in a ruthless way. No one man has the strength to do what was done.”

  Jack patted Carl on the shoulder and stepped inside of the house. He was immediately approached by a man he knew well. He was part of the medical staff at Group and was a specialist in crime scene analysis. His eyes went from him to four covered bodies lying on the living room’s hardwood floor. Jack intentionally looked away as he knew more of his men were under those sheets.

  “Colonel, you have to see this. I can’t figure out what in the hell took place here.” Jack watched the technician turn and return to the kitchen area.

  The first thing Jack saw was the pentangle etched in blood over the kitchen table. The number one stood out as his eyes went to the table itself.

  “Assistant Director Pollock was found there. It was like her death was some form of sick ritualistic sacrifice.”

  “Could you tell the cause of death?” Jack asked as he tried to swallow the taste of bile in his throat.

  “Without an autopsy, I can’t be sure. But it looks like strangulation by a powerful hand. Her larynx and spinal cord were pulverized.”

  Collins heard a chair being moved. He turned and saw that Carl had entered and had sat down. Jack had never seen Carl so distraught. He completely understood.

  “Colonel, we also discovered this,” the technician said turning to the sliding glass window. “We couldn’t recover much, but what we did…I just don’t know what in the hell it is.”

  On the glass, men were working with a heat gun as they fogged the glass while a female tech outlined with a white grease pencil what looked like words and symbols.”

  “Get what you can for Charlie—,” Jack stopped himself before he could say the name Ellenshaw, forgetting they didn’t have him at the complex. He cleared his throat. “Make sure they get pictures and get them to Cryptozoology. Make sure M
ajor Korvesky is made aware.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said a voice from the entrance hall.

  Jack turned and was looking at the stunned face of Tom Wilkerson, FBI agent-in-charge of the Las Vegas field office.

  “What the fuck happened here?”

  Jack angrily turned on Wilkerson. He was still angry over the confrontation at the Desert Rose Cemetery. He took the FBI agent by his blue windbreaker and brought his nose to his face.

  “I don’t want to hear any FBI bullshit on how you’re going to handle this. My crime scene. Our people are dead!”

  Carl took Jack and forced his arms away from Wilkerson. When freed the FBI man backed away from the blazing blue eyes daring him to say something.

  “Jack, I’m here to assist. The President is aware of what happened. He said not to get in your way. You have a basic free hand to do what needs doing.”

  Jack deflated. He reached out and lightly tapped Wilkerson on the shoulder.

  “Sorry, Tom. But we have five dead and a very special woman in the hospital who may not make it.”

  “Our labs at your disposal. I have a team posted outside to keep the Las Vegas locals at bay. We will seal this scene, Jack.”

  Collins nodded.

  “My crew here needs time Tom. Give them that. Then report fatalities from a gas leak.”

  Tom Wilkerson looked around at the blood and the symbol on the wall.

  “Go get the sick son of a bitches that did this Jack, and I’ll hold them down for you while you beat them to death.”

  This time it was Carl who thanked the FBI man. “We’ll be at the hospital. Call if anyone gives you a problem.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  Looking at the crime scene, special agent Tom Wilkerson sat hard into the chair Carl had just vacated. He shook his head at the terror at what must have happened in the quiet house on North Flamingo Road.

  “And I thought dealing with terrorists was bad.”

  * * *

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Two miles from the Harvard University campus, stood a magnificent house built in 1678. Once belonging to the family of a little-known French and Indian and revolutionary war hero, John Alston Barlow, the home was rarely seen by the citizens living close by. The woods that surrounded the estate acted as a natural barrier that not only kept people out, but the family in. The Barlow’s have always looked at their home as a virtual prison where they had been kept out of public view since the time of the witch trials almost three hundred and forty years ago.

  Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III watched as Matchstick had slowly come around from his delusional and basically silent state since he had been found alive. When they first encountered the small alien at Lake Mead, they had not realized that their friend wasn’t all there. It was like unwrapping a toy at Christmas without all the parts included in the box. As Charlie watched from their comfortable area where they were being held, Matchstick would doze and then suddenly awake as if he had a horrible dream that bordered more on night terrors. Mahjtic had shown no memory of how and when he was shot and supposedly killed that night in Chato’s Crawl. Charlie felt he wasn’t nearly qualified enough to start reassembling the small alien’s dysfunctional mind even though thus far Matchstick showed no memory loss when it came to Charlie or those friends he had encountered at the lake. He dare not bring up the subject of Gus Tilly, Doctor Denise Gilliam, or Pete Golding.

  As he watched the dozing alien’s eye’s fluttered open. Charlie went to the large bed and sat on its edge.

  “How you doin,’ Matchstick?” he asked watching him for any sign of panic.

  He remained silent. Matchstick sat up in bed and looked around. The small nose, almost imperceptible, moved as if he were smelling something familiar.

  “Wa…wa…ater,” he said in his typical cotton filled voice.

  Charlie reached for the pitcher and glass on the small table. He poured a glass and offered it to Matchstick. The thin fingers came up and gently pushed the glass away. Then Charlie realized what Matchstick was saying. It was the same observation he had when they first put them in confinement.

  “Yes, I smell it too. We must be by a river or lake.”

  “Moving…wa…wa…ter.”

  “A river then.” Charlie put the glass down and assisted Matchstick as he sat up on the ornate bed. “Let’s go about this with what we know,” Charlie said as Matchstick’s eyes roamed around the room they were in, not really locking on anything. “We know we landed at Logan International.”

  “Bos…tonnn.”

  “Yes, Boston. If we are smelling water, and as dank as that smell is, I think we’re in a basement.” Charlie looked around at the antique setting. “A very nice basement, but a basement. Must be a low water table in the area. Any ideas?”

  Matchstick stopped looking around the room and his almond shaped eyes settled on the cryptozoologist. “Char…lessss.”

  “Yes, it’s me, Charlie.”

  Matchstick looked at Ellenshaw and the eyelids closed from the sides of his head and then the black orbs rolled in exasperation. It took Charlie a moment to realize his mistake.

  “Oh, yes, of course. The River Charles you mean.”

  Matchstick made a clicking noise with his tongue and cheek as if saying, ‘now you got it.’

  “Old friend, what do you remember of the past nine months?”

  Matchstick pushed the covers off its small legs and stood on the bed. He was still wearing the small blue coveralls of the security department. To Charlie’s dismay the little guy still smelled of earth—or, ‘the grave’ he corrected his thinking.

  “Gussssssss. Peeeeeat. Doc…tor…Gill…Gilliam.” His eyes went down to look at Charlie. His large head tilted to the left, and then to the right. Then his eyelids closed, and he squeezed them shut for the longest time. When he opened them, Ellenshaw saw the tear run down its green skin. Charlie just nodded. That answered his question.

  “Matchstick, how in the world did you survive those bullets?”

  “The mysteries of the universe are vast Professor. Of all the people on earth, you and your associates should know that better than most.”

  Ellenshaw turned and stood from his place on the bed. Matchstick backed as far away as he could until its small back was against the wall. Both were staring at the old woman who had entered the basement unseen. Gone were her shabby street clothes and they had been replaced with a modern, if not out of fashion full-length flowered print dress. Her silver hair was placed in a bun with a pink ribbon.

  “Sorry to have startled you.” Elsbeth Barlow walked further into the large room and looked around until she found a chair and then she sat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if she were exhausted. When she opened her eyes, she gave her ‘guests’ a small smile that was anything but applicable in their current situation. “In answer to your question about Mr. Stick, his body is far different from ours as I am sure you know, skinny.”

  Charlie noticed the old woman had lost her backwoods sounding dialect and she now spoke in clear and very precise English.

  “We learned a very long time ago that when a Green has massive trauma done to its system, that system will shut down to repair itself, or regenerate if you prefer. Depending on the form of trauma, this process may take as much as two years. I am sorry, but the cause I represent could not take a chance on waiting that long. I need Mr. Stick here to assist in finding him.”

  “Who are you?” Charlie said as Matchstick still kept his distance.

  This time a little of the backwoods in the woman came out as it had before. She laughed. More of a cackle like she had voiced at the lake. “That is a complicated question.”

  Charlie stood up and looked from the old woman to Matchstick who still stood as far away as he could get on the limited size of the bed. “Well, I think we deserve an explanation, so why don’t you un-complicate it for us.”

  “My name is Elsbeth Barlow.”
/>   “Are, are you like, one of them? An alien I mean?” Charlie asked. After what he had seen what this woman was capable of at Lake Mead the question didn’t seem at all outlandish.

  Again, the laughter. “Lord, no.” She looked from Ellenshaw to Matchstick who had closed his eyes as if in deep thought.

  “There’s no use in searching that enormous brain of yours for a memory of my name, Mr. Stick. You’re never heard of me before. At least your collective memory with your race won’t allow you to remember.”

  “You, Madam, are not un-confusing the situation at all,” Charlie said as he saw the questions in Matchstick’s face as he thought about what the woman said.

  “In other words, Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III, me and Mr. Stick have met many times before. But due to some chicanery by me and others, he won’t remember. Neither him nor the many of his kind from the past.” She smiled kindly at the small alien. “Without him and his race my kind would not have been able to fend off our enemy in the past.”

  “As I said, I am not following you,” Charlie said, wondering if he had totally lost all of his imagination or was this woman just that insane.

  “Charlie, may I call you Charlie?”

  “Call me a fool for thinking you have a reason for doing what you’ve done.”

  She smiled. “Well, Charlie, you and your friends always thought that the war with the Greys was the real threat. I never gave it a second thought you see. Humankind has always been able to fight off the bad side of his race or that of any physical entity, be human or otherworldly. But for thousands of years man has had an enemy that cannot be fought off with brute strength and bravery like your small Group under the desert has in abundance. The real enemy has returned. How? I do not know. But the bastard is here. I saw him just tonight.”

  “Again, just who in the hell are you?” Charlie asked as he watched Elsbeth stand from the Queen Anne chair.

  “Some call me Granny. Mostly my followers that have chosen the solitary life. Some call me the old one, like John Adams, George Washington and even that rapscallion Thomas Jefferson, all of whom I assisted in the past and the very men responsible for hiding my old ass away from the world in expectation of this day.” She started for the door and then stopped and turned. “Even your old friend, Garrison Lee.”