Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Strann rocked from side to side, his eyes fixed on it, knowing it was a figment of his imagination. He almost laughed, but the sound choked off in his throat.

  Something’s wrong. This is no dream. There is someone up there—

  He couldn’t see a face, but there was a coal-scuttle helmet and one ferocious eye sighting down the barrel at him.

  Then the rifle flashed fire and something ripped past Strann’s cheek. Wood splintered behind him.

  Strann turned in shock and stared at the jagged three inches of torn frame.

  Impossible! A goddamned German soldier—on this train?

  The next shot clanged off the steel platform and ricocheted away in the dark. Then all at once Strann was in motion, scrabbling for the .45 at his belt, digging it out and firing back.

  The bullets flew in both directions as Strann scrambled backward, trying to find cover. But there was no cover—it was the perfect trap.

  Kirst! Gotta be someone trying to rescue Kirst!

  The rifle flashed again and again, so close, right in Strann’s face it seemed. But why didn’t the bullets hit? Or was he already dead, with the bullets going through him like hot blades through butter? He flinched with each shot and jumped around, watching the goddamned rifle follow and fire, follow and fire.

  He twisted against the railing and leaned over the edge of the train and saw the water below. He thought of the door, of jumping back inside and hollering for help. But the German was firing round after round into the wood around the door, warning him away.

  That’s water down there, you fucking idiot. Come on, you can swim. Go for it.

  He leaped up on the railing—and then the shots were banging into the steel at the edge of the car behind him, ricocheting wildly. It was now or never. He felt the sensation of jumping and, as he jumped, he saw his mistake. He saw the west bank coming up just underneath, and a long sloping wall appear under the bridge. He saw it come up fast and heard the shots still echoing, and then he felt himself hit the wall with all the force of a cannonball.

  Somewhere between consciousness and the murky certainty of approaching death, Corporal Michael Strann slid helplessly down that rough wall and into the cold embrace of the Missouri River. Blackness closed over him, enveloped him, and seemed to suck the desperation and terror from his body. A scream finally tore from his mouth and, as it echoed around him, he thought he heard distantly the whistle of the train and the rattling wheels.

  By the time Kalmus got his ass out of the upper berth, grabbed his weapon, and nudged his way past the other passengers stepping into the aisle, the shots had stopped and that awful sustained scream had died. He bulled his way past and got out to the platform. Wind lifted him back against the vestibule door, and he stumbled over a dark mass at his feet. The lights were out. He couldn’t see a thing. He held his .45 ready and blinked to get accustomed to the gloom. The Missouri River was a half mile back and they were coming up on Moreau Jo, then suddenly they passed the first light and Kalmus glimpsed the thing at his feet.

  It was Strann, sprawled shapelessly on the platform, his back against the wall, his jacket up around his chest as if he had slid down the wall. His eyes were stiff and glazed, and his gun was in his hand.

  A steward appeared with a lantern. He stared bug-eyed at Kalmus kneeling by the body on the platform. Then Kalmus shouted at him to get a doctor. Kalmus snatched the lantern and shoved him away. The steward plunged through the vestibule door and tried to push through the crowd, but they flowed past him and, in the next second, there were ten people on the platform.

  Kalmus took the .45 from Strann’s hand and touched the barrel. It was still warm. He checked the chamber—empty. He ran a hand over Strann’s face. The eyes moved. Strann was alive. Kalmus smelled something disagreeable and ran his hand under Strann’s ass to be sure. Christ, the guy had a full load in his pants.

  Passengers were mumbling around him. The woman in the flannel nightgown stood above Kalmus, asking if the other soldier was dead. Kalmus shook his head and stood up. The steward came back with a doctor, an elderly gentleman with a white goatee and a thick southern accent that flowed like syrup as he shooed the passengers off the platform.

  “What happened?” he asked Kalmus. Kalmus shrugged. The doctor knelt down by Strann, took his face in his hands, and studied the eyes. “Shock,” he declared, and rummaged in his bag for smelling salts.

  Kalmus stood up and studied the platform. What had Strann been shooting at? Kalmus swept his gaze up to the top of the next car. He raised the lantern to see better and discovered that bullets had chewed up the roof. Kalmus frowned. He searched the platform on his side. If Strann had been shooting at someone up there, then shouldn’t there be evidence of returned fire? There was nothing. His side of the vestibule was intact, untouched. Kalmus turned and stared at Strann, who was starting to come around, and starting to cry uncontrollably.

  During all the ruckus, before the steward arrived with the lantern, the nightform had slipped down from the roof of the next car, rolled back under the vestibule door, and drifted along the shadows, past milling feet, until it had found the closed curtains of Rolf Kirst’s berth. Frustrated because it lacked the power to complete its feeding, it licked at the air and tasted the confusion. It had come close. It had found the victim’s weakness and preyed on it but had been so weakened over the dark ages of imprisonment that the final moment, the climactic release of terror, had slipped out of its grasp. And something else—these people were stronger. In its own epoch, man had known that demons lurked in the void and had been properly frightened and therefore easier to feed upon. It made his task that much more difficult—dealing with a race of men who had no universal concept of evil, no instinctive awareness of what to be terrified about. No matter. The nightform would teach them.

  Without a sound, it was swallowed up in the darkness behind the curtain.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 7

  Chilton stood at the door to the officers’ rec room, waiting for Hopkins to finish his favorite joke. After the obligatory laughs, Chilton called to him softly.

  Hopkins excused himself and went out, following Chilton up the road past headquarters.

  “Got it through the grapevine, sir, just what we were looking for. Kinda skimpy, but I have a line on where to get the full story.”

  “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, it appears that while stationed in France, Lieutenant Colonel Gilman disobeyed a direct order and subsequently lost his entire battalion.”

  “Lost?”

  “Wiped out, killed.”

  “Everybody?”

  Chilton nodded vigorously. “Gilman was relieved of command, busted to major, and sent home.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Hopkins whistled. “Jesus H. Christ! Why didn’t they throw the book at him?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “How did he end up here?”

  “Well, sir, you have to look at where here is.” Chilton grinned.

  Hopkins glared at him. “Where here is happens to be where we are, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And personally, I don’t like the idea of associating with some prick who can’t obey an order.”

  “You want me to keep on it, sir?”

  “Yes! I want all of it! Every goddamned detail.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll keep going until I have every scrap of information available, and then and only then we can discuss that leave, sir.”

  “Leave?”

  Chilton reminded him of their deal. “San Francisco—one week’s leave.”

  “Well, Corp, you just keep that in mind.”

  “Yes, sir. We all need motivation.”

  “I’ll motivate you with a boot in the ass if you breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “Yes, sir. I am fully motivated, sir!”

  Hopkins turned up late for the officers’ meeting. He banged into Gilman’s office and grabbed a chair. “Sorry, sir,�
� he said to Gilman, fixing the clipboard on his lap and opening up his silver-plated pen.

  “Help yourself to the coffee,” Gilman said.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve had sufficient.”

  Gilman turned back to his agenda. As he went through it, assigning tasks, Hopkins doodled on his clipboard and waited for the inevitable pile of crap that would be coming his way. But Gilman handed even the shit jobs to Cosco and Blish.

  Lieutenant Cosco was the adjutant—trim, well-built, and under twenty-five. His job was to shuffle paperwork, cut orders, requisition supplies, and expedite with clean efficiency. Nobody ever complained about Cosco’s work, and Gilman was mindful of that.

  Lieutenant Blish was head of the MP detachment. Though stocky and gruff, he was not known for his initiative. It was rumored he was a secret drinker, but it never seemed to affect his ability to carry out orders.

  Major Borden, the medical officer, was a retread from World War One. He was fifty years old and resented having been called up out of private practice to serve his country once again. And he doubly resented being sentenced to Blackbone. But Borden had integrity; he was dependable, knowledgeable, and a crackerjack doctor. He spoke German and was the only reliable interpreter in the camp. Borden was pasty white, with an iron-gray crew cut that showed off his Clark Gable ears. He smoked too heavily and hacked when he laughed. His glasses had lenses as thick as Coke bottles.

  Gilman tore off the next page of his agenda and handed it to Cosco. “Type this up and see that everyone gets a copy, then let’s go to work on it. Basically, it’s everything we’ve discussed about making up shortages, fixing leaks, moving that fence, passing the prisoners’ mail through without holding it up six months for censorship—all that stuff. Hopkins, I want you to take the list around and personally make sure that every guard in this camp understands my policy. The prisoners are not our playthings. Anybody who can’t live with that gets transferred out.”

  Hopkins nodded sullenly. “Yes, sir.”

  With business concluded, Gilman broke out drinks. They switched from coffee to scotch. Cosco declined; Blish made a show of sipping quietly. Borden wanted to talk about the ‘14-’18 War, how much tougher and nastier it was. Hopkins interrupted.

  “That’s old news. I’d like to hear what’s happening now. Major, what’s going on in France?”

  Gilman was silent a moment then said, “If you’re reading the papers, you know as much as I do. They’re not hiding anything.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean the political shit. I mean the inside poop. You were a line officer in Europe. How tough was it?”

  “Some other time.”

  “Oh, come on, Major. We’re stuck here on the back side of the moon. We don’t know what the hell’s going on. Fill us in.”

  Gilman remained silent.

  “What’s the matter, Major?”

  “Lay off, Hopkins.” Borden swirled his scotch at Hopkins.

  “I wasn’t addressing you, sir.”

  Borden’s gaze zeroed in on the single line of ribbons on Hopkins’ jacket. “Never been in combat, have you, Captain?”

  Hopkins stiffened, then smiled. “That’s why I’m asking the major. Maybe he can pass on some experience—tell us what real fighting is all about.”

  “If you really want to know, Captain,” said Borden, “put in for a transfer. Go up on the line. Then you won’t have to hear it from old farts like me. You’ll get your experience firsthand.”

  Hopkins went red. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “No... just out of line. Some men don’t share your zeal for war stories, old or new.”

  Hopkins returned Borden’s stare.

  You old bastard. I’ll take care of you.

  Gilman polished off his scotch and stood up. “This meeting is adjourned,” he declared.

  The others finished their drinks and filed out Hopkins took his time. Gilman studied him, wondering if his questions were as innocent as he had taken the trouble to make them sound. Hopkins finally tossed Gilman a smile and left.

  Gilman shut the door and leaned against it. His mouth was dry and his palms were damp. He rubbed them on his trousers.

  France. Window Hill. Second Battalion.

  Gilman’s face screwed up. A wave of nausea sent him hurrying to the bathroom.

  Chapter 8

  Central Park was thickly carpeted in white after the first pre-winter snowfall. Loring Holloway huddled inside her thick camel’s-hair coat and braved the icy wind to get to the West Side. Cabs were scarce in wartime and after the first snowfall all but extinct.

  Yazir was lecturing at Fordham University at 10 a.m. She reached the lecture hall at 10:30 and stood next to the radiator in the lobby drying out for a half hour. Yazir came out trailing students at each elbow, fielding their questions, looking tired and preoccupied. He spotted Loring and made his excuses, then hurried to meet her.

  “Let’s go sit down,” he said, pulling a woolen scarf up around his ears and jamming a tweed cap over his head. He led Loring across campus to the faculty lounge, where they sat and had tea.

  “Once a week, I do an hour lecture at Fordham, subbing for a friend of mine. I tell you, the exertion of getting around town in these times, and in this weather—Any more word on your German officer?”

  “No. But I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Still set on going.” She nodded. He managed a smile and a frown all at once. Two slack-jawed, white-haired professors came by carrying trays and pausing to grunt at Yazir. He acknowledged them, then returned his full attention to Loring.

  “I hope you understand that when we met before I was obliged to be skeptical. It would have been unwise for both of us to get carried away.”

  Loring nodded.

  “I have gone back into my research and talked with some colleagues—Islamic mullahs, holy men. As I indicated before, I had heard the story of Korbazrah but, like a lot of the folklore, thought it to be merely legend. You apparently discovered enough hard evidence to earn him a niche in the real world.”

  “You believe me then?”

  Yazir pursed his lips. “I believe your evidence. Whether it all adds up to a living, breathing demon is what we are here to discuss. If you go chasing after it, you must be scientific. You can’t just barge into a prisoner of war camp and tell the same story you told me. You’ll be back on the train in no time flat. You must devise certain tests to prove to yourself and to anyone else that the demon really exists. Of course, this may be impossible; you may find nothing, in which case it would be best to assume that the flask was lost at sea. You will look a bit foolish but at least your conscience will be eased.”

  Loring wasn’t so sure of that.

  “The Arabic belief in the djinn is mostly superstitious, but superstitions usually have their roots in reality. Once on this earth perhaps there redly were demons. Perhaps Korbazrah really did trap one, but he could have invented it, too. Realizing that Nebuchadnezzar would eventually succeed in capturing the city of Ur-Tawaq, and that he would be put to the sword along with everyone else, he might have convinced the king that he had captured a demon and could use it to disrupt the city, create a panic, and ultimately bring about a surrender. But, for the moment, let us say that you are correct and something supernatural was involved.”

  Loring eyed him coolly. “Go on.”

  “The mullahs that I spoke to, as I said, were aware of the story. One of them had in his possession a very old book in Latin which we spent much of last night translating. In it there is a section that describes the Babylonian sacking of Ur-Tawaq. The siege was accompanied by a general panic that came about because of a series of mysterious deaths. There was a man who killed his friend, believing the friend had slept with his wife. Another man was driven to hang himself. Another drowned in his own home when a nearby well flooded for no apparent reason. Others died by suffocation, by fire, beneath collapsing buildings. Another died of heart failure believing he was being pursued by imaginary beasts.... In many
cases, they succumbed to their own worst fears, which magnified the fears of those who survived. Surrounded and cut off from the rest of the world by the Babylonian Army and terrorized from within, they were collectively isolated, virtually imprisoned in their five-walled city while something natural or unnatural preyed upon them.”

  “The djinn,” said Loring.

  “Perhaps. There is no mention of a demon in this Latin text. The Light of Days, which you have quoted to me, is pure folklore. The other texts on your list are of questionable authenticity but—”

  “As you said, superstitions have their roots in reality.”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “So let us make the leap for the time being and accept that the terror in Ur-Tawaq was caused by a demon that preyed on the fears and weaknesses of its victims. All of these incidents occurred at night, leading us to conclude that the demon is inactive during the day, probably lying dormant inside the host—whoever or whatever that happens to be. By night, though, it goes out and does its work. You suggested that it was working for Korbazrah. I find that unlikely. A demon has no need for employment. It does what it wants, when it is convenient. I think it is more likely that Korbazrah supplied it with a host—his assistant—who then remained under the sorcerer’s control. The demon used the assistant’s body. Korbazrah merely exploited the situation.”

  Loring leaned back, awed. Yazir’s hypothesis made sense. “But the silver flask...”

  “Yes, well, silver is one of the things that can be used to combat a djinn. Silver, salt, the mystical symbol of the pentangle—there are a number of reported deterrents, but it’s hard to know which if any have the desired effect —to banish the demon or capture it... or kill it.”

  “Are you saying that it’s not known which of these things will do what?”

  “I believe that you will have to apply certain tests— first to determine if the djinn is there, second, to discover how it can be affected. Certain of the djinn—the lesser demons especially, the relatively harmless ones—are known to hide inside inanimate objects such as trees, bushes, rocks. The larger, more fearsome, dangerous ones take up residence inside animals, and it is often impossible to determine if a beast is so possessed, unless you are present at the very moment when the djinn emerges to do its work. There is in the folklore an even more dangerous type of demon who will venture into a human being and become an unseen parasite, draining the host of energy and using him as a base from which to attack other victims. This would seem to be the nature of Korbazrah’s demon. And it is, as you can imagine, the most dangerous of all.