Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Loring was quiet a moment.

  “What else are you going to do? What about the salt?”

  Loring reminded Cuno about the coffee. Gilman angrily hoisted Kirst up and yanked the rod out from beneath him.

  “Look!” said Borden.

  The black bruise was still there on Kirst’s belly. As they watched, it continued moving, as if the magnet were still manipulating it. It burrowed up to Kirst’s throat and pulsed there, changing color back and forth from black to gray, then it shot back down and described figure eights on Kirst’s chest. Borden choked on a laugh.

  “Oh, Christ,” said Loring. “It’s playing with me.”

  As if it heard her, the black spot stopped moving and gradually disappeared. Steuben reached for a chair and sat down. Loring leaned back, some of her anxiety going. It was there, no longer a figment of her imagination. It really existed. She had chased across half a continent to find it and now she knew—

  There is a djinn. And it’s inside Kirst.

  They sat around a card table and had coffee, and Loring told them where it came from, how she had found it, how it draws energy from fear, how it gains power by killing its victims, how it thrives on an atmosphere of chaos.

  The djinn moved inside the body. It used Kirst’s eyes to watch the little group around the table. It had mixed feelings about the woman. On the one hand she was a nuisance, but she could be dealt with. She could sit there and talk to them until the seasons changed, but they would still not be convinced. The djinn could sense that they didn’t believe her yet, and that was good, it gave him more time. Confusion, indeed. The djinn chuckled and rolled inside Kirst—How could she know she was only adding to the confusion? And when she finds out how little she has accomplished her fear will return. And that will bring us to the other hand: she too could make an excellent new host.

  “If it’s not stopped,” she was saying, “it will kill everyone within reach.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t understand this,” Borden said. “You mean at night Kirst walks around like some zombie and does these things?”

  “No. The djinn comes out of Kirst in some way, does what it wants, and goes back in. All it requires in order to function is a host to live in during the day and the regular consumption of emotional energy.” She glanced at Kirst. “It’s in there right now. We’ve got to keep it in there.”

  “How?” Gilman said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Gilman’s chair scraped loudly as he got up. He went all the way to the back of the infirmary, found a sink with a medicine cabinet mirror over it, ran some water, and washed his face. He couldn’t decide whether or not he believed her. He didn’t want to believe her, that was the whole thing. Would it make his job easier if he did? God, no. He reached for a paper towel. She was standing a few feet away.

  “I’m a scientist,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to gain by promoting a load of hogwash. What has to happen for you to believe me?”

  He chucked the towel away. “It just seems so convenient. The thing never shows itself, yet people get killed. I’m not as scientific as you claim to be, but I want proof.”

  She glanced around to be sure the others couldn’t hear. “The biggest danger we’re facing right now is that it wants to get outside this prison compound and into a more wide-ranging host. And if that happens, there’s no way to stop it. It can go on and—”

  Disgusted, Gilman walked away from her. She followed him back to the table and watched him sip coffee. She felt angry and hurt but tried to get past that.

  “This thing has a history,” she went on. “It’s been written about. There are similarities between some of the deaths it caused in Ur-Tawaq and what’s been going on here.”

  “What similarities?” Borden asked.

  “Major Steuben, why did Eckmann kill Schliebert?”

  Steuben hesitated. “He imagined Schliebert was making love to his wife.”

  “Which sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  Steuben was silent.

  “But suppose Eckmann really did see Schliebert with his wife? Suppose he didn’t imagine it but believed he was seeing it. It was as real to him as I am to you. Were Eckmann and Schliebert friends or enemies? Did they like each other or hate each other?”

  Steuben thought carefully. “It was... Hoffman and Dortmunder, and a few others, that Eckmann didn’t get along with. Schliebert was a friend.”

  “So why would Eckmann imagine the worst of a friend? There would have to be a history of frustration and mental pressure with Schliebert at the center of it. Even a psychotic behaves within a discernible pattern. But the djinn doesn’t care about human motivations. It induces psychosis! It feeds on the fears of its victims, setting friend against friend—you see, there were two victims in that murder. Schliebert and Eckmann!”

  They still weren’t sure. Loring grabbed a notebook out of her suitcase and slapped it on the table. She flipped pages until she found the one she was looking for.

  “Here. This is an account of two citizens of Ur-Tawaq. A blacksmith, believing that his wife had been unfaithful with a carpenter, killed the carpenter. But his wife was able to prove her innocence—she had never even met the carpenter. Just before he was to be trial for the crime, the blacksmith hanged himself in despair.” She closed the notebook and looked at Gilman. “I think that’s goddamned similar, don’t you?”

  No one answered.

  Loring shot a finger in Kirst’s direction. “It worked so well twenty-five hundred years ago that the djinn thought it would be swell to try it again! Don’t you see what you’re up against?”

  Borden frowned skeptically. “How does it accomplish these things?”

  “By conjuring delusions. There’s a lot of fear and demoralization floating around this camp. It capitalizes on that, provokes more of it by applying a form of hypnosis to weakened, fearful minds. It can pick these men off one by one or in twos or—In the city of Ur-Tawaq, eventually there were mass delusions!”

  Gilman’s hand lashed out and swept his tin coffee cup off the table. It clattered off to a corner. Fixing Loring with an angry glare, he said, “You’re not making things easier, Miss Holloway. You’re telling Major Steuben that there’s a monster after his men.”

  “It’s after all of us, Major. It’s only starting with the prisoners.”

  “Presuming you’re right, how do you propose to stop it?”

  She indicated the tray. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. We’re testing it.”

  Borden shrugged. “Why don’t we just kill Kirst?”

  Steuben jumped up. He assailed them with a string of German epithets. He shouted and thundered then stopped abruptly and crossed to the cot. He stared at Kirst.

  “I guess that’s one vote no,” said Borden.

  “We may have to at some point,” said Loring, “if only to expose the djinn, force it out in the open, deprive it of its host. But it won’t do any good—in fact, it would be more dangerous—unless we have a surefire method of killing it.” She looked at the cot and raised her voice for Steuben’s benefit. “Kirst is going to die anyway. He can’t last long with the djinn draining him this way. He’s not really in a coma, you see. There’s just... nothing left of him. No will, no emotions, no thoughts of his own. Arid now that the djinn knows we’re aware of its presence, it has to find a new host. And soon.”

  “How will it do that?” Gilman snapped.

  “I don’t know. The same way it got into Kirst, I suppose”

  Steuben studied Kirst’s staring eyes. Some of his superiors’ orders had defied credibility, but this woman put them all to shame. She was remarkable—so convincing!

  Bruckner is right—the Americans are up to something. They brought her here, just like they brought Kirst. They’re all in it together. But why? What are they doing to us?

  He moved to the tray and picked up the bag of herbs. “What is this for?” he said. At that moment, his gaze fell on the window and he saw something happening
outside, between Huts 9 and 10, that made his blood freeze.

  Ten minutes earlier, Hopkins had entered the camp alone, armed with a .45 automatic holstered at his waist.

  He felt like the marshal walking into a town full of bank robbers, cattle rustlers, and mother rapers. That’s all the Germans were to him anyway: the bad guys, the black hats in the Saturday matinee serials he had devoured back in the thirties. In high school, while the other guys had spent their weekend afternoons lining up dates, Hopkins had wallowed in fantasy at the movies. It had never mattered to him that he couldn’t find a “nice girl” to go out with. He had known a few who weren’t so nice, and they had suited him fine.

  Hopkins had learned a lot from Tom Mix, Buck Jones, and Hoot Gibson. He had learned that if you really wanted to show them who was boss, you had to do it alone. You had to buckle on your six-gun and walk onto their turf. You had to go looking for it.

  He knew the Germans were responsible, that the deaths of Gebhard, Eckmann, and Schliebert were all part of some vast, well-coordinated kraut plot, and that Bruckner and Steuben were the ringleaders. Gilman couldn’t see it, because Gilman had no experience with Germans, except to lose his fucking command to them in France.

  Spreading the story hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. The MPs were too uneasy over the recent mysterious deaths to concern themselves over something Gilman had done in Europe, so Hopkins had decided to dispose of the mystery first. One step at a time.

  The Germans were using lengths of board to clear snow off their volleyball court. He felt their eyes on his back as he swaggered past.

  That’s the way it should be: they hate me and I hate them, and no bones about it.

  He walked on, contemplating means and ends. Their scheme was obvious: murder a few of their own and blame it on the Americans. Hopkins would expose that. But Gilman would never mete out sufficient punishment and, among the MPs, that would be a strike against him. They would come to Hopkins and say, What’s with this asshole, anyway? Then Hopkins would remind them of what they had ignored before. Gilman in France—Second Battalion—Window Hill—weak jerk-off coward Major former-Lieutenant Colonel David Gilman. Well, what do we do about him? they would ask. Give him the treatment, Hopkins would suggest. Put the screws to him, let things go wrong, make him crack, make him request a transfer. In the middle of winter, the brass wouldn’t bother sending up a new C.O. They’d look around to see who was already in place, holding all the crap together. They would discover Hopkins. The number two man would become number one. It was easy, the best plans always were.

  Hopkins walked on, smugly satisfied.

  Yes, sir. Can’t miss. Like sliding into home.

  Hopkins went between Huts 8 and 9. Damnit, where was Bruckner? Should be out somewhere walking that fucking dog. Step number one, shake Bruckner up. Invite him to the shower hut for a conference, pretending concern for what’s been happening. Once alone with him, Hopkins would grab him by the throat, shove the automatic down his pants, and threaten to blow off his cock if he didn’t squeal and say exactly who had cut Gebhard’s water, and who had stretched Eckmann’s neck. And if he didn’t talk, maybe Hopkins would accidentally shoot his fucking dog.

  A twig snapped. Hopkins glanced back. There were four Germans strolling up behind him, hands jammed in their pockets, blank-faced. Ignoring them, Hopkins rounded the corner of Hut 9.

  Three more of them were blocking his way. Hopkins stopped. They closed in on him a bit, then they stopped too. Hopkins braced his hands on his hips and glowered at them—the marshal surrounded by black hats.

  “Well, sprechen me zum English!” he barked. He figured they wanted something, some complaint or other. He could deal with it quickly and still find Bruckner.

  But it was Bruckner who stepped into view next, around the corner of Hut 10 with the dog cm a leash. In broken English, Bruckner said, “How did you kill zem, Hopkins?”

  Hopkins glanced back. Surrounded, he decided to bluff it out. “With my prick, kraut.”

  They glared at him. An alarm went off in his head. Mentally, he spelled the word backfire. “You think I did it?” he said.

  Bruckner nodded.

  “That’s funny. I think you did it.”

  Bruckner shook his head—universal gesture meaning a flat no. But to Hopkins it translated as, I’m calling you a liar. And that made him mad. He hitched up his pants; his right hand settled on the butt of his automatic.

  Bruckner wasn’t fazed. Carefully he enunciated, “And who will you kill next?”

  Hopkins started to worry. As they drew closer, he saw hatred in their eyes. They all had a few days’ growth of stubble. It made them look like derelicts, like the angry and haunted jobless he recalled from the early years of the Depression. Robbed of their self-esteem, their only solace lay in occasionally beating the crap out of somebody better off than themselves.

  Fury broke in Hopkins’ brain. He yanked out the .45. He was grabbed from behind. He tried to get his index finger through the trigger guard, but they took the gun away from him and pinned his arms back. He started hollering. They threw him to the ground and shoved his face into the snow.

  Standing over Kirst with the bag of herbs in his hand, Steuben saw through the window what was happening between Huts 9 and 10. With a guttural curse, he flung the bag down on Kirst’s cot and bolted for the door.

  An instant later, Gilman ran after him.

  Chapter 21

  The wind was up, whipping at Steuben’s clothes as he bellowed in German at his men, flung them aside, and reached down to help Hopkins up. Hopkins scrambled away and backed against a wall. “You fucking krauts!” he screamed. “I’ll rip your fucking balls off! You’ll all end up like Eckmann... !”

  The man holding Hopkins’ gun leveled it at him. Steuben’s fist came around so hard the man was knocked flat on his ass in the snow. Steuben scooped up the .45 and pointed it at his own men. They froze, their own anger checked by the fury in Steuben’s eyes. Slowly they backed off.

  “Give me that,” Hopkins growled, his hand outstretched toward Steuben. “Hand it over right now, Major, or you’ll be playing oom-pah with the Pearly Gates Band.”

  Steuben’s gaze shifted to Hopkins. His finger closed on the trigger. Gilman stepped between them and said calmly, “I’ll take that.”

  Steuben relaxed and handed it to him.

  Brushing snow off his clothes and retrieving his cap, Hopkins joined Gilman and balefully eyed the Germans. “Jumped me, sir. I was just out here minding my own business—”

  “Alone. And they took your weapon away,”

  “Well, yessir, but—”

  Raising the automatic over his head, Oilman fired till it was empty, snapping off an entire clip as the Germans flinched around him. When the sound of echoing cracks had died, he glared at Hopkins. “Loaded, too, huh?”

  Hopkins glanced at the Germans. They were grinning. “Sir, are you insinuating this was my fault?”

  “Hopkins, the dumbest MP in our barracks wouldn’t walk in here armed and alone with the prisoners out of their huts. You could have gotten yourself killed, which I can promise you would not make headlines in the Army Times. Or they could have used your gun to kill someone else, in which case you’d be court-martialed!”

  “You’d give those krauts a medal if they killed me.”

  “I don’t understand how you ever made captain.”

  “I don’t understand how you only got busted to major!”

  Gilman stiffened then abruptly grabbed Hopkins, propelled him around Hut 10, and slammed him against the wall. “You think you know something?”

  “I know plenty “

  “Do you know where your asshole is?”

  “What are you gonna do, Major? Punch me like you did the general?”

  Gilman hesitated, listening to Steuben, around the corner, angrily dismissing his men. Shoving the .45 back into Hopkins’ holster, he released him and said, “Get out of here.”

  Hopkins saluted stiffl
y and stalked off.

  Steuben fell in beside Gilman and they walked back to the Krankenhaus. Steuben was apologetic for the behavior of his men. Gilman brushed it off. “As far as I’m concerned, Major, the incident was provoked. It’s over. Nobody gets punished.”

  Steuben thanked him, then added, “I must tell you, Major Gilman, there is suspicion among the prisoners that your soldiers were responsible for the deaths of Eckmann and Gebhard, and that Hopkins himself was behind it.”

  “Do you believe that”—Gilman opened the door to the Krankenhaus and gestured inside—”now?”

  Steuben shook his head. They went in.

  There was an empty space where Kirst’s cot had been. For a moment, Gilman and Steuben both stood staring at it, thinking the worst—that Loring Holloway’s demon had somehow broken loose and demolished the bed, Loring, Cuno, and Borden in one stroke, and now it was loose somewhere in the camp.

  Gilman edged farther into the ward, looked around, then in great relief heard voices coming from the back. They found everyone in the rearmost cubicle, gathered around Kirst’s cot.

  “For a light sonofabitch, it just about threw my spine out to carry him,” complained Borden. “She made us drag him back here. She wants him isolated.”

  Gilman checked Kirst. He was still out. “What have you got in mind now, Miss Holloway? More tests?”

  “No.” She was opening the bag of herbs and carefully sprinkling them over the bedclothes and around the cot on the floor.

  “What’s that going to do?” Gilman asked.

  “Hopefully, keep the djinn from getting out tonight,” Loring said. “One or more of these herbs should have some effect and conceivably could keep the thing at bay.”

  “Like the tar?” Borden said with a grin.

  “I take it you have an explanation for that, Major Borden?”

  Borden’s grin faded and he shook his head.

  Loring sprinkled the last of the herbs at the rear threshold, just beyond the cubicle, then she turned to Gilman. “You’ve got three dead men, Major. If you don’t want more, I suggest you stop laughing at me and post some guards in here tonight—men who can stay awake! I want Kirst watched! If you’re not convinced I’m right, at least humor me.”