by Weston Ochse
Lore holstered her pistol in her chest rig and crossed her arms. Although she spoke softly, her voice rang loud in the rounded-roofed chamber as she repeated the Persian words that had been the clue to killing these creatures… the same words she’d tried to bang out of her head in her double-wide in Riverside. Only that had never really happened. She’d been in fugue, and someone, or something, had given her that clue. But to what end? To whose benefit? Had it been Faood? Had it been Sufi Sam? Had it been Rumi? Did it even matter?
McQueen raised his rifle to fire again, but Boy Scout put a hand on the barrel and gently pushed it down. Then he cupped his old friend’s cheek and smiled at him. He held the gaze for a moment, then strode into the cistern. He slung his rifle on his back, then waded into the water. He swam to where the daeva had collapsed on the central rise on which Lore had previously stood. It still breathed, but barely. Well aware of the danger, he reached and pulled the bag free from its head. Its eyes were pallid gold and lacked power. The previous tell-tale glow in its throat was non-existent.
This close to the being, looking into its eyes, Boy Scout felt a somberness come over him. For a reason he couldn’t ken, he reached out and cupped the daeva’scheek, the same way he had with his friend’s, and was immediately transferred to a street in Saigon where a monk had just set himself on fire. He could smell the burning skin mixed with car exhaust, a man’s body odor and a curry dish being made on the street in an immense metal wok. The fire sparked, whipped and roared in a voice of its own. A car honked. A woman screamed. Flashes from cameras lit the scene. The monk burned before him, stoic and unmoving, staring at Boy Scout with all the volition of an angry god.
“Why is it you kill us?” it said.
“Why is it you kill us?” Boy Scout asked in turn.
“You are with the others. You use us—torture us with your dreams. Like this thing. How could you do this to yourselves?”
“It’s my understanding that he did it in protest… something political.”
The burning monk grinned. “He did this and you don’t even know the reason why.”
“This was not from my time. This was from before.”
“And still you fail to learn from history.”
“What are you really?” Boy Scout asked. “What made you?”
“The better question is who made you. We looked away, then looked back, and there you were… shadows upon this world bathed in the light of creation. And like shadows, you bring darkness wherever you go.”
“Some of us are warriors and some are poets,” Boy Scout said, thinking of Rumi and Byron and Frost.
The monk said, “The words of a single poet can cause as much damage as the swords of a thousand warriors.”
“And so we’re back to my questions,” Boy Scout said. “Why do you kill us and who are you?”
“We’re not here to kill you. We came to get the one who was being tortured. We heard its screams and came to it now that it was no longer hidden.”
Boy Scout noted the use of the word it rather than him. Perhaps they didn’t have a gender. “So you have no desire to kill us?”
“We defend ourselves only. You weren’t our creation, therefore we have no power over you.”
“Yet you revel in our war against ourselves?”
“We try and seek understanding why a creation would try and destroy itself.”
Suddenly a question formed that Boy Scout knew had to be asked. “Where are your creations?” The moment he asked it, he felt such an overwhelming sense of loss that he wept, a sob wrenching free.
“We don’t know,” the daeva said, the face of the monk burning away. “But we will continue to seek them until the last of us is but a memory to the first star.”
Then Boy Scout snapped back to reality and watched the light die in the daeva’s eyes.
“God bless you, Thích Quảng Ðức,” he whispered, invoking the name of the monk who’d died, suffering in the hopes that the torment of his fellow monks would stop, anguish they’d endured because of the politics of the South Vietnamese government. The similarities weren’t lost upon him.
Then Lore and Boy Scout were by his side.
“You’re crying, boss,” Lore said.
He opened his mouth to speak, but another sob broke free instead as the daeva died and the last of its self-imposed perdition washed through him, multiplied into oblivion until the weight of it was enough to crush a planet.
“Bryan,” McQueen said, uncharacteristically using Boy Scout’s real name. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” He grabbed Boy Scout by the shoulders. “What is it?”
Boy Scout let out a bone-rattling sigh. “It’s all just so fucking sad.”
“What?” McQueen asked.
“What’s so sad?” Lore asked.
Boy Scout waved a hand, then noted he was still holding the being’s fingers. He let its hand go with reverence and watched as it slid beneath the water. “This creature, for one thing. This whole set up. The burning monk. The falling man. The poor girl running from the napalm. All of it. Us, shadows on the world bringing darkness wherever we go.”
He put a hand on McQueen’s arm and turned away.
“Not this,” Lore said. “Never this. This thing killed Criminal.”
“No it didn’t, Laurie May.”
The use of her name startled her, but she continued. “What is this? What did it do to you?”
“It didn’t do nothing. Just truth.”
“I call bullshit,” Lore said matter-of-factly. “Criminal was one of us, and it was one of these who killed it.”
“No, that’s not true, Lore. A creature who was being tortured woke up and lashed out. It was more of a prisoner than we ever were. Don’t you see? It’s not us. It’s the dervishes. They are the darkest shadows of us all. They kept it here and brought people as lures to catch immortality. Do you have any idea how many graves are out there, how many bodies to share eternity with Criminal—Oscar James?”
“I remember,” she murmured.
“Three thousand, nine hundred and forty-two.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her to look at the daeva. “This didn’t kill them. They killed them.”
She tried to tug free, but Boy Scout wouldn’t let her.
So she pulled him in close. Now face-to-face, she said, “Then if they’re so good, why is it I learned how to kill them so easily? Do you think Rumi or any of the other dervishes would have told us, wanted us to kill their precious fugue machines?”
“Who do you think told you, Lore? God?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It just came to me and I couldn’t get rid of the damned words.”
“And all while you were spiritually strapped to the daeva, who had the ability to shift and control what was happening,” Boy Scout said. When she said nothing, he said, “Now you’re getting it. Think about it, Lore. Why did you know how to kill them? Who told you that they have an Achilles’ heel?” Her eyes widened and he pulled her close, hugging her. “Yes, the daeva told you. It no longer wanted to live.”
“Suicide,” she whispered.
He held her at arm’s length so he could see her face. “It wanted to die and it chose you to give its greatest secret.”
“Then how did Rumi know? Why had it become part of his legacy?”
“They’ve wanted to die for an eternity, I’m afraid.” Then he added, “I think they put the words out there and instead of taking them literally, like we did, they turned the phrase into something about wellbeing and yoga pants. The wound is the place where the light enters you, like it’s always darker before the dawn. It wasn’t spiritualism. It was a prayer for the dying.”
“Wellbeing and yoga pants.” She laughed flatly. “Isn’t that just like us.”
Just then Faood came running in, out of breath, eyes flashing towards the dead thing in the water. “You killed it?”
“We got lucky,” Boy Scout said, not wanting the dervish to know their secret.
“No time to celebrate. The Q
RF is almost upon us.”
“You heard the man,” Boy Scout said. “Partner up and spread out.”
Everyone moved with purpose, but Boy Scout made them pause one last time. “And remember to count backwards in multiples of threes.”
“Hear that, Narco?” Bully said, punching him soundly in the shoulder. “Now’s your chance to walk and chew gum at the same time.”
He winced and gave Boy Scout a look that said, This girl is scary.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
BOY SCOUT WOULDN’T let them get any nearer the entrance than cistern number three. If he was leading the QRF, he’d have his team toss in flash-bangs or even grenades to clear the rooms. The attacking force would be on edge when they got to the first room, more so the second room. But by the time they got to the third cistern and still had no contact, he was hoping that their guard would begin to fall—they might even wonder if their enemies hadn’t already been killed. Sadly, the idea that they’d already escaped couldn’t be played with the TST vehicles still out front.
He wasn’t sure where the others were, but he and Faood were on either side of the entrance to their cistern. Three was probably the smallest of the cisterns, with the exception of eight, which was no more than a foot pool. Three was no larger than a standard living room. There was space to walk around the edge, but the cistern fell to a depth of eleven or twelve feet, the water absolutely chilling. When they hadn’t been in fugue, Boy Scout liked to dive in and hover near the bottom every morning. Not exactly a cup of coffee, but the cold shock definitely woke all of his senses.
He carried five magazines for his long rifle and three for his pistol. He also had two grenades, which he hoped to use when and if he could get the QRF to cluster.
They didn’t have long to wait.
The attacking force did as he’d suspected they would, using a flash-bang in the entry chamber. When they entered, they’d see a dead daeva and rubble from the collapsed ceiling.
It didn’t take them long to work their way to the sleeping chamber, where they used another flash-bang.
Then the place the TST used as a bathroom.
Flash-bang.
Then the first cistern. He could now hear one of them calling terse military commands in clipped Persian.
Flash-bang.
The second cistern.
No flash-bang.
At that moment, Boy Scout smiled. He pulled the pin on the grenade he held in his hand, let the spoon snap free, and after two seconds tossed it high in the air into cistern number two.
Two men cried out in Persian when they saw it, then came the explosion.
Boy Scout held out his hand and counted down from five so that Faood could see. When he got to one, they both leaned around the corner and picked out targets, using full automatic to increase the confusion. He saw two bodies in the water and two more rolling on the ground. Once his mag was empty, he and Faood turned and ran around the water and into cistern number four. He passed Lore and McQueen, who were waiting on either side of the opening, and continued running into cistern number five, where Bully and Narco had returned to their ledges. Instead of aiming mag lights, they were now aiming their HKs.
Boy Scout continued on until they were at the archway to cistern six. They slipped inside and then turned to look. He couldn’t see all the way to where Lore and McQueen stood because of the elevation drop in cistern five, but he pictured them in his mind.
He dropped his empty mag, replaced it, and seated a round in the chamber.
Faood did the same.
Thirty seconds later, McQueen and Lore opened fire, taking turns at double tapping.
McQueen around the corner.
Blam! Blam!
Blam! Blam!
Lore around the corner.
Blam! Blam!
Blam! Blam!
Rinse and repeat.
Once their mags were empty, they beat feet into cistern five, then beyond, to stand beside Boy Scout and Faood.
“How many?” Boy Scout asked.
“I got two,” McQueen said.
“Same here,” Lore said. “One was dancing and I almost forgot to count.”
“I saw it too. Started at ninety-nine,” McQueen said.
“I saw four down from the initial, but could be more,” Faood said.
“They have body armor,” Boy Scout reminded them. “So some of the hits might not be lethal.”
Thirty seconds passed. From where Boy Scout stood with McQueen beside him, he could see Narco up on a ledge, aiming into the archway.
“With their losses, will they still keep coming?” McQueen asked Faood.
“If I was leading the QRF, I’d call for reinforcements.”
“Radios work inside here?” Boy Scout asked.
“Not even a little,” Faood said.
“They’d have to go into full retreat to make the call.”
“Narco?” Boy Scout called.
The man looked his way.
Boy Scout made the universal sign for What’s going on? with his hand.
Narco shook his head. “They ain’t coming, boss.”
“Okay. Let’s move by twos.”
Boy Scout tapped Faood on the shoulder and they ran back into cistern five. They each climbed the ledges to get to the opening, then peered around the archway. Nothing moved in cistern four.
Boy Scout waved for the next two.
McQueen and Lore ran over, then edged around the water until they reached the archway to cistern three and took up position. They waved for someone to move forward.
Boy Scout motioned for Narco and Bully to join them.
They climbed down. As they passed Boy Scout, each of them flashed him a grin. Boy Scout grinned back, noting again the Broney patch on Narco’s body armor.
Then the room exploded, water and debris shooting everywhere.
Boy Scout fell back and down the ledges until he rolled to a stop at the water’s edge.
He cursed himself for not being more careful. He should have waited longer before he committed his people forward.
His head was ringing as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. His body armor had protected him from flying debris. Still, he wobbled a little but found his rifle and climbed the ledges back to the entrance. He dreaded what he’d discover. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Faood struggling to get to his feet.
Inside cistern number four was a slaughterhouse.
Bully lay face down next to the entrance, her head sheathed in blood.
Narco was in the left corner, sitting, as if he’d just gotten tired and plopped down. His head lolled back at an impossible angle, his eyes endlessly open, a piece of sharp stone protruding from his neck.
Both Lore and McQueen were face down on the other side of the cistern.
Everything was covered in water and stone dust. If Boy Scout had to bet, the QRF had used a block of plastic explosive with a remote detonator, which meant someone would have had to been watching.
As if on cue, a round whizzed by his ear like a supersonic hornet, then he got three in the chest. The hammer thumps knocked the wind from him. He thanked his body armor once more. Of its own accord, his right hand brought up his rifle and he fired from the hip as he fell backwards.
Rounds ate the wall behind where he’d been standing.
Feeling like he had a gorilla sitting on his chest, Boy Scout fought to get to his feet, then ran around the center of the cistern and pulled McQueen around the corner. Then he yanked out his pistol. Holding it in his left hand, he ran across the archway firing both weapons at the same time, seeking anything moving. He made it to the other side without being shot again and grabbed Lore. Just as he was pulling her, she kicked at him, catching him in the chest, then the jaw.
He fell back, grabbing at his face.
She twisted and brought her pistol around, aiming at his head.
Her eyes had the dull shine of someone still out of it.
“Lore—”
She fired at the sound,
the round impacting the wall above his head, showering him in rocky dust.
“Lore!” he shouted. Her eyes cleared, then she blinked. Once. Twice. “Boy Scout,” she whispered. Then realizing where she was and the circumstances, she whirled and saw the carnage. Her hand went over her mouth.
Faood climbed into the archway to cistern four and opened fire on a target. Then he lifted Bully’s head, looked for a moment, then lowered it gently to the floor. When he saw that Boy Scout was watching, he shook his head. He glanced over to Narco and shook his head again. He made his way around to McQueen.
Boy Scout couldn’t move.
Please God, no, Boy Scout thought. McQueen was his best friend. God, anything but that.
Suddenly several rifles began to fire into their cistern.
Boy Scout snapped out of it. He dropped both his weapons and pulled out his final grenade. He pulled the pin and let the spoon fly too late to note that he couldn’t get it through the door in time.
Faood held out his hand and Boy Scout tossed him the grenade.
Faood caught it and threw it into the next room, then dove back behind the wall.
The explosion ended the gunfire.
Boy Scout scrambled for his weapons, shoving his pistol back into the chest rig. On hands and knees he made it to the archway. Then he took his rifle and went into a prone position, begging for a target to enter his sight. But there was nothing. No one.
He used the archway to pull himself to his feet and lurched around the water in cistern three. His ears still rang and he shook his head to shake the bells free. He moved with his rifle ready to fire. He didn’t even pause as he entered the next cistern. Fucking dervishes were going to kill his TST. If there was any moment he wished he’d been in a fugue it was right now, so he could come back and everyone would be alive, but he knew better.
Then he heard a savage scream from the main cistern.
A bolt of golden energy shot across his line of vision.
Boy Scout lunged forward, ready to fire at anything.
When he reached the entrance to the main cistern, he saw the daeva—the one they’d presumed crushed by the ceiling blocks—holding a dervish in its hands. The daeva roared as it ripped the man in half, human innards roping down to the water below.
