“I think, my dear, you are getting ahead of yourself. How did Korbazrah capture the djinn?”
Loring stared at him; for the first time a flicker of doubt crossed her face. “I’m afraid those accounts are inconsistent. But I think it went something like this.... He managed to find the demon a host body to live in—an assistant over whom he had complete power. He was then able to coax the demon into doing his bidding. He struck a bargain with it. That’s not hard to do. Traditionally, the forces of evil love a good bargain. Throughout the folklore, the djinn are described as mischievous creatures who thrive on beguiling humans. Korbazrah probably thought he had the upper hand and, for a while, perhaps he did.
“When Nebuchadnezzar laid siege to Ur-Tawaq, Korbazrah sold the king his conjuring services. I found enough evidence to suggest he was being paid by Nebuchadnezzar. In return for his money he got the demon to do what it did best, unleash a plague of psychological terror, reducing the citizens to a state of panic. Ultimately demoralized, many of them killed by strange inexplicable incidents, they surrendered to the Babylonians. Nebuchadnezzar had them all slaughtered.
“Korbazrah was then ordered to subdue his demon, which he did, believing he was about to come into his life’s great reward. He fashioned a silver flask in the shape of a pentagon—the flask that I found. He lured the demon into it—how, I don’t know—then slammed on the stopper and sealed it. After that, he probably hid it in his chamber, figuring he might need it again. Then he went to the king. And the king... the king had him executed. The body was burned, the work chamber sealed, and the location heavily salted to keep the demon from rising again.”
“Salt,” mumbled Yazir. “Salt and silver...”
“Yes,” echoed Loring, relieved that Yazir’s resistance was crumbling. “Salt and silver—two of the ancient deterrents against demons. When we excavated our dig, we found the ground heavily laced with salt. The water that burst from the rock was salty. That far inland, an underground spring should have produced fresh water—pure and sweet, not salty. And the flask, made of silver—and the shape of it—a pentagon...”
“Yes...”
“According to the folklore, these are all things used to combat demons.”
“Yes, they are. According to... folklore.”
Loring sat down. “You don’t believe me.”
Yazir relit his pipe. “Let’s say that I do not find it unusual that a group of illiterate Iraqis assigned to an archaeological expedition should permit themselves to be ruled by the ancient superstitions. I do however find it odd that an intelligent, well-educated American woman should become so stirred by these things. So influenced.”
“You think that’s what it is? Influence, mass hysteria?”
“Couldn’t it have been? After all, the events at the dig prompted your search for all this other information, and when one has crossed the line from scientific objectivity into the realm of willing to believe... one can prove anything.”
Loring checked her rising anger and tried to display the objectivity Yazir was hoping for. “I saw the rock burst open and the water rush out. It was salty.”
“Yes, but that is an event added on top of others. First we must accept that Moulin translated the tablets accurately, and that what you were reciting really was a spell to bring water, and that the moon was not in confluence with Jupiter, and there was no coincidental earthquake and so on. Otherwise, you are relating an isolated, though admittedly unusual event.”
Loring shook her head. “You’re picking me apart.”
Yazir threw up his hands and flashed a smile. “My dear, you have not come to me to have your story tested. You obviously believe it and will continue to do so until something happens to prove you wrong. What do you really think about this demon, this djinn?”
Loring thought carefully. “It could be the original genie in the bottle. I believe this story became part of the folklore that comes down to us in a watered-down form as the tale of Aladdin and his magic lamp. You know as well as I do that the djinn are as real to the Islamics as Satan is to the Christians.”
“Some believe, some do not,” said Yazir.
“Do you?”
Yazir laughed. “There are moments when I am as superstitious as the most ignorant Bedouin, but not often.”
“Imagine what you would feel if all this had happened to you.”
Yazir shifted uncomfortably. His stomach roiled again.
“The shape of that flask was not randomly chosen. It was crafted for its magical properties. The pentagon is the base form of the pentangle, a geometric design of great occult power. It is most often applied as a restraint against dark forces—”
“I seem to recall those words.”
Loring grinned. “One of your lectures—ten years ago.”
“How flattering.”
“The chamber where we found the artifacts had five walls. A pentagon.” Loring leaned forward. Her eyes shone with fevered certainty. “The entire city of Ur-Tawaq was laid out inside a pentagon—five walls of equal length, height, and thickness surrounding the inhabitants. It was a common architectural form in those days and was supposed to help ward off evil spirits.”
Yazir’s brow knitted. “Or keep them in,” he said. “This man who was rescued from your crate... did he have the flask with him? No—right. As you said, he had nothing. And you are concerned about where it is, yes?”
“Very.”
“You’re afraid he may have opened it and set loose the demon, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Or he might simply have dropped it into the sea.”
“I have to find that out.” She explained to him about Kirst being sent to Blackbone Detention Camp in Montana, about her plans to go there—
“I wouldn’t advise that. If there really is a demon such as you have described, then you are hardly equipped to deal with it.”
“But people have to be warned—”
“By you?” Yazir laughed. “Please, between us I am the Middle Eastern folklore expert—though I must admit you have exceeded me in this area—but I would not risk my professional standing by publicly claiming that a twenty-five-hundred-year-old demon is loose in Montana. No one would believe me. And as for you... this German might be headed for a prison camp, but where would they send you?”
Tears formed in Loring’s eyes. She pleaded with Yazir. “If it’s loose and it’s traveling with Kirst, God only knows what it can do. I need help.”
“From me?”
“Yes. You do know the folklore better than I do. You know how to research the deterrents—ways to deal with this thing—weapons, spells, incantations—I don’t care how wild! I need whatever you can come up with—and fast! Don’t you see? I brought that thing out of the ground. Whatever happens now is on my conscience! I have to do something!”
She stopped and stared at Yazir desperately.
Yazir sighed. “Remember what they say in Islam....” He laid a hand on her cheek. “Kutibat. It is written.” His hand dropped away. “The fate of those who come in contact with the djinn is already history.”
Chapter 6
One hour west of Aberdeen, South Dakota, Corporal Strann was getting impatient. He wanted to see the Missouri River. His daddy had always said it was a hell of a sight. “If you’re ever traveling west on the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul & Pacific,” he had said, “don’t be caught napping when she crosses the Missouri. The river’s five miles wide at that point and the grandest sight you’ll ever see. When she passes Mobridge, get out on the platform and soak it up.”
It was night, though. Shouldn’t matter much. Lots of moonlight.
Kirst was staring at him with the blankest eyes Strann had ever seen, even for a kraut. Ever since leaving New York, Kirst had been a zombie, hardly acknowledging when he was spoken to. Next to him, the other MP, Kalmus, was asleep, dead to the world. Strann growled to himself.
Fuck this detail. Thought you were a real smart sonofabitch, getting out of the infantry t
o become an MP. Well look what it gets you. Three days’ duty transporting a kraut across country to a prison camp in Montana, for Christ’s sake. A kraut You used to kill krauts.
Strann ran a hand over his grimy face and felt the harsh stubble. He sniffed his armpit. God, he reeked.
Can’t even take a slower watching this lousy kraut And Kalmus does nothing but sleep all the time. Hope he wakes before Mobridge.
Strann considered kicking Kalmus awake and blaming it on Kirst. Then maybe there would be some sparks. He glanced over to be sure Kirst was still handcuffed to the seat.
Christ, I wish he’d close his eyes or at least stop looking at me.
Strann cupped his balls. “Hey, kraut, want to see something cute?”
Kirst’s head rolled with the motion of the train.
The clickety rhythm must have him in a trance. Some guys are like that. Bet the bastard stares at me all the way to White Sulphur Springs.
Strann unzipped his fly and hauled out his penis. He winked at Kirst. “Hey, kraut? Ever seen Yankee cock before? Hey, I’ve fucked a lot of kraut girls with this, and the kraut guys with my gun. You know the difference? One is for shooting—the other’s for fun.”
No reaction.
Strann’s smile faded. He put his penis away. “Know how many Germans I’ve killed? Nine. That’s right, kraut. North Africa, with PattOn. Right there in the goddamned desert, I killed nine of you fuckers. And what have you been doing? Sneaking around the Atlantic in a fucking U-boat. They’re gonna love you at Blackbone, kraut. They’re MPs like me. They’re gonna cut your goddamned balls off and put ‘em in your soup. Krautball soup! What do you think of that? Huh? Hey—you might at least blink!” Strann snapped his fingers under Kirst’s eyes. “Lemme know you’re alive!”
Something gleamed briefly in Kirst’s eye.
Strann missed it. He thought he saw a flicker of interest, but then it went right back to that cold stare. Strann growled again, then he kicked Kalmus.
Fifteen minutes later, the porter came by to make up the berths. While Kalmus held the muzzle of his .45 to Kirst’s chin, Strann unlocked the cuffs. Then he pushed the German down on the bunk, handcuffed him again, and threw a blanket over him.
Kirst never took his eyes off Strann. He never spoke either.
“I’ll take the first watch,” said Kalmus.
“Like shit you will,” Strann replied. “Park your ass in that upper berth. I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Okay, okay.” Kalmus had learned not to argue with Strann. He hoisted himself into the upper berth and watched Strann walk up the aisle.
Strann opened the vestibule door and was struck by the cold wind, the racketing noise, and the back and forth motion of connecting cars. He released the door and it shot closed, leaving him in the open vestibule. He hauled out his Camels and cupped his hands to light one. When he looked up, the train was passing through Mobridge.
The Missouri River was less than four miles away.
Blackness stirred inside Rolf Kirst. It flowed through his organs, sluggishly searching for the arteries where the blood pumped in rhythmic jets. It flooded his chest cavity and seeped into his heart, where its molecules thrashed excitedly with every beat of the muscle. The blackness thinned and flowed like soup heating on a stove. For now, Kirst generated enough energy to sustain his unwanted guest and, as he lay immobilized on the bunk, his mind dulled by a soothing, shrouding narcotic, he was driven to laugh inwardly at the ludicrous bracelet chaining him to the bunk.
He wasn’t going anywhere, not without his guest’s permission. From the hospital bed in Brooklyn clear across this strange new country, Kirst’s awareness had been stifled by the gloomy darkness inside him.
His whole body went limp as the thing fed on his circulatory system. The green metal of the upper berth casing swam before his eyes, turned liquid, and flowed into his brain, merging with the black, swallowed up in it until all was quiet and Kirst floated in limbo, and the blackness filled his body, gathering strength for its first foray into the world in centuries.
Kalmus sat with his legs dangling over the side, bored. Most of the other berths had been made up and their heavy green curtains were already drawn. There was a lady up the aisle in a long flannel nightgown, brushing out her hair in front of a portable mirror she had hooked to the upper bunk. She was at least forty-five, but Kalmus didn’t care: he hadn’t seen anything so sweet and domestic since leaving home and joining up. His mother used to stand like that, combing her hair. But Kalmus wasn’t thinking of his mother. He was thinking it would be nice to trot down the aisle and pull up that flannel nightgown and let his hands roam over the woman’s flesh....
She finished brushing, then shook her head and let her hair fall naturally. Satisfied, she reached into the upper bunk for a whiskey flask and passed it to someone unseen in the lower berth. Then she bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and chatted quietly with whoever it was.
Kalmus’s eyes were glued to her ass, the curve of it prominent beneath the flannel. The flask was returned. She took a long pull, then a man’s hairy arms came out of the berth and pulled her in. She gave a sharp laugh, then the curtains were drawn.
Kalmus sat still, contemplating what old hairy arms was up to.... Gradually, he became aware of a gentle pressure on his leg and looked down to see what it was. Kirst’s hand settled on his ankle and held it. Kalmus kicked it away and jumped off the bunk.
Kirst’s hand groped involuntarily, his fingers clutched and unclutched. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. Kalmus felt an inner chill as he watched. The fingers twitched again, extended, then curled, and for one brief instant the hand was a quivering claw, then it relaxed and dropped, dangling outside the bunk.
Kalmus hesitantly picked it up and placed it on Kirst’s chest. He wondered if the sonofabitch kraut had died on him. Only one way to tell. He leaned over and placed his ear to Kirst’s chest. He listened. There was a heartbeat, slow but steady. He moved his cheek to within an inch of Kirst’s open mouth. He felt hot breath on his skin. Hot like the man was on fire. Kalmus laid his palm on Kirst’s forehead. Odd. It was cool. Hot breath, cool forehead.
Kalmus shrugged and decided to forget it. He pulled Kirst’s curtains then climbed back into the upper. He swung his legs up and relaxed against the pillow. Okay, Strann, he thought. You want to go stand out in the cold, fine. Me for comfort.
The nightform spilled out of the lower berth and flowed across the floor, a thick black vaporous substance that hugged the shadows to remain unseen. It hovered just above the rattling floor, trying to make sense of its surroundings, disturbed by the sensations of speed and noise.
But it couldn’t wait any longer. Avoiding the aisle lights, it undulated toward the vestibule door, its excitement mounting. What it hadn’t tasted in eons lurked only a few feet away. It burbled with anticipation. Tendrils of oily blackness whipped above the rolling mass and snapped at the air. In all the time it had lain dormant, nothing had changed. Men were still quick to feel fear, and fear was emotional turmoil, and from that could be drawn power, power to live and to grow, and the greatest fear of all was fear in the certainty of death. When death stared man in the face, his emotions boiled at fever pitch, and from that could be drawn energy for growth, the energy of victims, supplying the strongest power of all. Because the host was constantly aware of the parasitic presence inside him, he was in a perpetual state of fear and panic, and that energy could be drawn upon to sustain the seething blackness harbored within the body. Whenever this feeding took place, the host would be plunged into paroxysms of fear that death was imminent. The fear and feeding would then build on each other. Eventually, death would come to the host, but long before that his energy would be depleted. So even now the nightform probed the air for a replacement. It would not be needed for some time yet: there was still good feeding in this host, but soon...
The nightform gathered itself against the cold steel of the vestibule door, angered at the obstruction. Goo
d feeding was outside. It would not be held back. There. A narrow slot. Room to slip through.
Beneath the vestibule door, a black smudge flowed through and emerged unseen by the man outside. It rolled past his boots, buffeted by the wind but holding its ground. Even in its weakened, unfed state, it was stronger than any mere natural force.
It reared up a few inches and tasted the air—the man’s thoughts, emotions. In a moment, it knew exactly what to do.
Strann stood at the platform railing, fighting the sway and the bumping tracks clacking beneath his feet. He stared out at the Missouri River, at the broad expanse of moonlight-spackled water, the twinkling lights of Mobridge dwindling in the distance. He watched for a long time, drawing on his second Camel and wondering why he was disappointed. What the hell had impressed his father so much? It was just a huge goddamned river, just flowing water. Nowhere near as thrilling as killing krauts.
He thought of the nine men he had killed in North Africa. Nine in two days. And the pride he had felt after the job was done and everybody was counting. No thrill in standing there waiting as they advanced across the desert, wondering if they were going to get him or he was going to get them. No fun in that at all. It was the killing itself, then the luxury of success that he liked.
Germans. With those coal-scuttle helmets and sand- colored uniforms, they mocked him in his dreams, inviting him to come back and fight again, because next time they would get him.
“Fucking krauts,” Strann grumbled, trying to banish them from his thoughts. He knew that killing nine men in two days was pure luck. That’s why he had become an MP. If he had to go through it again, those nine men might still be alive, and it might be his bones lying in the sand, bleaching under the sun. He could still see them— the Germans—slogging across the desert ahead of their tanks, coming closer, right up to his position, so close he could see the fear in their eyes. He looked up at the roof of the next car.
One of them was up there, big hands wrapped around a rifle stock, holding it steady, aiming it directly at him. The rifle swayed slightly with the motion of the train.
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