Gilman got up, pulling Loring with him, trying to reach the door, but the wind gathered force and propelled them across the room toward the fire. Sparks and salt blew around their heads. The floor around the stove was already an inferno, and the east wall was burning.
Steuben scrambled from beneath his table and tried to run for the kitchen. Boards splintered under his feet. He tripped and nearly fell through the floor. Blackness rose through the opening and gripped him. He screamed.
Grabbing one of the half-empty salt bags, Gilman threw it to Steuben, who turned it bottom up and emptied it over the lower half of his body. The blackness howled again, immediately released him, and shrank out of sight beneath the hut.
Steuben struggled to climb out of the hole as Gilman moved to help him. The wind blasted Loring backward. With a shriek, she crashed into the tables and was shoved back with them.
The nightform came billowing in on the wind, through the gaping hole in the west wall. It formed a black tornado in the center of the room and spun around at incredible speed. As Loring fought to disentangle herself from a crush of tables and chairs, Gilman struggled to free Steuben from the hole in the floor.
With a lurching shudder inside the tornado, the nightform abruptly became the djinn.
It stood stooped beneath the ceiling, its reptilian hide covered with dark, greasy fur. From the waist down, its body was goatlike, with yellowed cloven hooves. Long, powerful arms with clawed hands lashed out at Loring and Gilman, separating them. It took another swipe, and one of its talons hooked into the chain at Loring’s throat. She screamed as it was yanked away. The chain and Yazir’s silver talisman were flung into the flames.
Inches from the spreading fire, Steuben crouched and stared at the djinn’s burning eyes, its flicking tongue, its blood-flecked teeth.
Shoving a hand inside his coat, Steuben groped for the knife. He pulled it out and signaled Gilman to get Loring out the door.
Loring stared into the flames, searching for the talisman, but she couldn’t find it. As Gilman lunged toward her, the djinn swung at him and tore a strip off his coat. Steuben jumped between them and plunged his knife into the djinn’s thigh. The knife sliced deeply into thick flesh but drew no blood. Steuben wasted no time and yanked the knife out for another stroke, but the djinn caught him with a backhanded stroke that knocked him to the floor.
As fire roared along the north wall, descending from the burning roof, Gilman caught Loring about the waist and headed for the door with her, Seeing Steuben jump back up and crouch to attack the djinn with his knife again, she cried, “No! You can’t fight it this way!”
Gilman shoved her out the door. As she sprawled in the snow outside, he whirled to see the djinn backing Steuben into the fire. Something cracked above Gilman. He dove backward as a section of burning ceiling crashed down where he had been standing.
Looking up from the doorway, he saw that he was cut off from Steuben and the djinn. Through the flames, he could see Steuben thrusting and slashing with the knife. The djinn danced with him, intermittently snarling and roaring, imitating fearsome animal cries to frighten him.
Gilman tried to edge around the fire. He saw Steuben thrust again, then the great claws slammed downward and ripped away half of Steuben’s coat. Steuben bellowed in pain. Across his exposed side, Gilman glimpsed blood welling up from three gaping streaks. The flesh hung in strips.
Smoke from the fire was filling the mess hall, and it stung Gilman’s eyes. Coughing, he was driven back to the door and strained to see through the flames. Steuben vainly and furiously continued to slash at the djinn, which took his cuts with mocking laughter.
Then it abruptly evaporated into black smoke. In a soundless rush, it wrapped itself around Steuben and tried to crush him. He slashed at it frantically. Fire rose up from the floorboards around him.
“Steuben, get out of here!” Gilman called.
Flames shot up in front of Gilman, obscuring his view. The heat was intense. Smoke billowed into his face. He was forced out into the snow. Loring jumped up to help him.
Choking, Steuben continued to slash the air with his knife. Through eyes nearly blinded by smoke, he finally realized the blackness was gone from around his body, but now he was surrounded by flames. Panicking, he lunged through them toward the open wall.
The djinn rose up in front of him and forced him to stop with his body standing in fire. His trousers ignited. One of the djinn’s immense arms snaked around his shoulder. The djinn clutched him to its body and pressed its face close to his. Its jaws opened and the forked tongue darted out, leaving an acid burn on Steuben’s forehead.
Steuben stabbed upward with the knife, intending to disembowel the beast. But its free hand snapped his wrist. He screamed and dropped the knife. Both of the djinn’s hands went to his throat. Claws dug deeply into the back of his head. Roaring, the djinn lifted him off the floor by the neck and shook him violently.
One thought blossomed in Steuben’s tortured mind as the djinn ripped him in half—while he had lost the certainty of ever going home again, he had never lost hope. And now, he was truly on his way.
Loring pulled Gilman away from the mess hall only seconds before the entire west wall exploded outward. Splinters and fragments of board were scattered in the snow, and among them was Steuben’s mangled body.
Gilman instinctively moved toward him, but Loring yanked him back. “He’s dead—there’s nothing you can do for him.” She had seen the djinn standing in the flames, turning to whirling blackness and beginning to spiral out through the burning roof.
They ran for the nearest hut and crashed against the door. It was wedged shut. They banged on it and kicked it, but it wouldn’t open. Stumbling off the steps, they looked back. The mess hall was engulfed in a pillar of fire, lighting up the camp, spraying smoldering ash into the snowfall, dirtying the white blanket around them. Gilman wondered if the MPs were still watching from the fence on the hill and if they would obey his last order and stay out.
He could no longer see the djinn. The black whirlwind had disappeared, changing into something else. Loring tugged on Gilman’s arm and together they floundered through the snow to the next hut—the Krankenhaus.
The door was open.
They stumbled in and slammed it shut. Gilman searched for a lock then remembered there were no locks in the prison huts. He leaped across the room and, grabbing a chair, braced it against the door.
“You think that will keep it out?” Loring asked quietly.
Gilman glanced at her. She was shaking. He sagged against the wall to catch his breath. “It finished Steuben,” he said. “Why didn’t it finish us?”
“I think—” Loring choked back a nervous sob. “I think it only wanted to separate us from the salt.”
“The salt, hah! What good did that do?”
“Didn’t you see what happened when Steuben poured salt all over it?”
“It got out of the way, but it didn’t die.”
“Because it was in that cloud form. That’s like an in- between state for it. But when it takes on substance, I’m willing to bet—”
“Don’t bother betting.”
“Look, Gilman,” she said with a hard edge to her voice, “Major Steuben got in the way, so it killed him. But it wants us alive. One of us has to become the host.”
Gilman knew she was right. Maybe he had outsmarted himself by insisting they face it alone. “If we don’t kill it,” he said, “we might not walk out of here alive. If the djinn doesn’t get us, those men waiting on the hill won’t open the gate. And if they see us still walking around tomorrow and no sign of the monster, they may assume that .we’re it Then—bang, bang.”
Loring reflected on that while Gilman moved to a window on the east side and stared out at the burning mess hall. Steuben’s body was disappearing under a layer of ash and snow. The fire was dying down slowly.
“Do you think we can hold it off till dawn?” he said. “And if we do, will it die?”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know, but if it’s as desperate for a host as I believe, and it doesn’t get one, something will change.”
“Christ, we’re operating on two volts of guesswork.”
Her eyes flared. “I’m sorry. The only thing I’m sure of is that it will come after us—soon. So we’d better be prepared.”
“You and me and the Boy Scouts.”
They searched the entire hut to be sure the djinn wasn’t already inside with them. They peered under the cots, between the sheets, unfolded the blankets, studied jars of medication, shook out towels. Gilman had no idea what they might find, what form the djinn would be inclined to turn itself into, or how they would recognize it.
They turned the back rooms inside out but found nothing, nor was there anything in the rear cubicle where Kirst had spent his last hours. They searched the medicine cabinet and found only a sealed bottle of iodine and a sponge.
There was still a closet left to search just ahead of the back rooms, but Loring was tired. They had been up all night, and she was beginning to fade. There wasn’t much time left until dawn, and she reasoned that if the djinn were going to make a move, it wouldn’t bother hiding in some stupid closet.
In a cupboard Gilman found a windfall: a large brown bottle filled with salt tablets. Loring found saline solution bottles and Gilman hit on the perfect weapon.
“Molotov salt cocktails.” He unstoppered the solution bottles, dropped a couple of salt tablets in each, then stirred them, increasing the ratio of salt to water. He hefted one like a grenade. “Should be enough to make that overgrown pain in the ass piss in his pants.”
Loring was too tired to tell him how clever he was. Gilman lined the bottles up on a rolling cart and left them unstoppered. Stuffing more salt tablets into their pockets, they tried to think of what else to do.
Gilman rolled the cart to the window and looked out again. The wind had died down completely, leaving a light snowfall descending in the night. Gilman leaned against the wall and thought of his childhood winters, of snow blanketing his parents’ home in Pennsylvania. He closed his eyes and saw the woods, thick stands of pine, branches heavy with snow, pools of slush, the sun warming the chill ground....
The djinn’s face loomed before him with jaws distended and fangs dripping gore.... His eyes snapped open and he jumped upright. He blinked and realized he had gone to sleep standing up.
Loring lay on the nearest cot, one hand massaging her forehead as she struggled to stay awake. She was worried now. Yazir’s talisman was gone, and with it any semblance of safety and security she had felt since arriving here. She had grown dependent on it, but what good had it been? Would anything work against the beast? Then she recalled how violently the djinn had reacted when she slashed it with the talisman, how it had drawn black blood, and how Steuben with his peculiar knife had stabbed at it, pierced its flesh but had been unable to harm it. Why? What was the difference between her attack and his?
Then she realized what it was. “Silver,” she said aloud.
The knife was made of steel, the talisman of silver. The talisman had drawn the djinn’s blood. The knife had not.
“Silver,” she repeated, looking at Gilman. “Something made of silver might hurt it. If we can get close enough.”
Gilman reflected for a moment then walked to the back cubicle. A moment later, Loring heard a loud crash. She forced herself to get up, though she was so tired she just wanted to stay on the bed no matter what.
Gilman returned carrying the jagged remains of the medicine cabinet mirror. He tossed the pieces on a cot. “Mirrors are glass backed with silver, right? Choose your weapon.”
Loring nodded. “Brilliant.” She dropped onto the bed again.
“Don’t go to sleep. It’s not that long till dawn.”
Loring braced herself on one extended arm. Gilman admired the swell of her breast beneath the open coat. She was gazing out the window.
“Sky’s getting lighter,” she said.
Dawn was coming. The djinn had to move soon or lose its chance.
They waited.
Gilman sat on the cot next to Loring. Her face was close to his, her eyelids drooping. She leaned against him. His arm went around her shoulders. He moved a length of hair out of her eyes and bent to kiss her cheek. She didn’t respond. He kissed her lips then covered her mouth with his. Her eyes were almost dead with tiredness, but her arms went around him and pulled him down.
Something scratched at the door.
Chapter 29
Flooding out of the burning mess hall as Gilman and Loring ran off, the nightform shot away into the camp, the djinn anticipating where they would go and determined to complete the trap it had laid. In the center of its consciousness, the djinn was furious with them for interfering in its hellish war. Anger turned to rage as the djinn realized that, if it failed to find a new host before first light, it would lose all it had gained and be completely at their mercy.
Fear drove it now, welling up from an awareness of its vulnerability, its need to keep feeding on the fear of others to gain energy, its compelling drive to create chaos and havoc and death so its power would grow. If not allowed to range outward and escape the compound, its power would eventually turn inward and feed on the djinn’s own fears. The one emotion upon which the djinn depended so heavily for its own sustenance could slowly destroy it from within, creating an inner panic greater than that of any of its victims. And now, concern over this possibility threatened to cloud the djinn’s judgment with irrational, desperate need.
It rushed forward across the compound, skimming over the icy white earth, hell-bent on preserving what it had carefully created—the image of vast, overwhelming, all-consuming power that no human could hope to defeat. Yet at the forefront of its mind lurked the knowledge that its enemies already held the key to its corporeal destruction. The djinn had used up too much power dealing with these frightened animals and, since it no longer possessed the element of secrecy, finding a new host became imperative.
With its appetite for energy growing in direct proportion to the amount expended to kill, it now felt a hunger unlike any experienced by mortals, and that hunger was rapidly, insidiously driving the djinn mad.
A muffled whine accompanied the scratching. Loring stayed absolutely still on the cot while Gilman slowly rose and both listened.
Scratch. Scratch.
Gilman moved cautiously to the door. Loring rolled off the bed, adjusted her clothing, and followed.
Scratch.
More whining. Gilman put his ear to the door and listened.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
A pitiful, lonely whine.
Gilman grunted, recognizing the sound, growing certain of what it was, or what it should be. Loring was at his shoulder, intent on the sound.
“Bruckner’s dog,” he whispered.
“Don’t be so sure.”
Gilman went to the rolling cart with the row of salt cocktails. He picked one up and, returning, moved the chair and reached for the door handle.
Scratch. Scratch.
Gilman opened the door.
Churchill darted inside, scooted directly to the nearest cot, and dove under it. Gilman stared after him, ready to throw the salt cocktail. A chill spread from the open door.
“Sure looks like a dog,” Gilman said.
Loring shut the door quietly and moved the chair back into place. Churchill poked his head out from under the cot and watched them, his eyes flicking from one to the other.
“Come on out, fella,” said Gilman. “Come on.” He handed the salt cocktail to Loring then crossed to the cot. Loring followed, her arm back, ready to throw the bottle.
Bending over, Gilman gently snapped his fingers at the dog. He whistled through his teeth and flashed a friendly, encouraging smile. The dog just stared at him.
“What do you think?” Gilman said.
“I don’t know.” Loring turned on all the feminine charm she could muster and coaxed the dog. “Come on
, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Are you cold? Want to get warm? Can’t be too warm under that cot. Why don’t you climb up here and we’ll rub you down with a blanket? What do you say?”
Churchill’s front paws edged out, then he stopped and eyed them uncertainly, making up his mind if they were worthy of his trust.
“Nice doggy,” Loring said. “Come on.”
They both stood over the cot, coaxing the dog. He emerged inch by inch, making a game of it. He came out a bit, they offered approval, he came out a little more. At last he wriggled free, stood on all fours, and panted up at them.
Loring let him lick her hand then rub against her leg. Gilman got a shard of mirror from the other cot. “Maybe we shouldn’t take the chance,” he said.
She glanced at the shard of silver-backed glass in his hand then shook her head and gave him a firm “No.” Gilman tossed the shard back on the cot. Churchill sniffed Loring’s legs then rose abruptly on his hindquarters and planted his front paws against her knee. Loring leaned over and let him lick her chin. “Why do they call him Churchill?” she asked.
“I think it’s supposed to be a joke.”
“Oh.”
Gilman crouched and extended a hand. Churchill obediently came to him and licked at his fingers. “Probably hungry or thirsty,” he said.
“Don’t give him anything,” Loring said. “He’s as much a potential host as we are.”
Glancing up, Gilman saw Loring pour some of the salt solution into her palm then extend her hand toward the dog. While Gilman tickled Churchill’s ears to distract him, Loring quickly rubbed the salt solution into the dog’s fur. She yanked her hand back and waited.
Churchill swung his head to gaze curiously at the wet spot. Disappointed in Loring, he slunk back under the cot.
Loring was relieved. “It’s not the djinn. It really is a dog.” She managed a tired laugh then apologized to Churchill. “I’m sorry, old boy. That was a nasty trick. I should have asked first, right?”
Blackbone Page 29
