A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Chet Williamson

  Lopez suddenly found himself to be the last one standing among the crowd. He sprayed the horse and rider with a quick burst from his MAC-11 machine pistol, but the 9mm slugs seemed to have no visible effect on the hellish duo. He pulled a grenade from the front of his flak vest and, pulling the pin, lobbed it beneath the dancing hooves of the dark stallion.

  A burst of fire and shrapnel swallowed them for a jarring instant. Lopez peered through the pall of smoke and dust, trying to detect the ruined remains of the dark bandit and his savage mount. Suddenly, the two emerged from the dissipating vapor, fully intact. The Mexican rocked in his saddle, throwing back his sombreroed head with uproarious laughter. “Nice try, amigo!” he grinned with crooked gray teeth, then aimed the 9mm pistol and put a round through Lopez’s left shoulder.

  The mercenary stumbled backward with the force of the gunshot and landed on his back in a tall stand of thorny thistle. He ignored the lancing pain in his shoulder and struggled to his feet just as the black head of the horse probed through the high stalks, razored teeth gnashing furiously. Lopez knew then that retreat was the only defense against the madness he now faced. He tore through the prickly mass of brier and bramble, heading back down the mountainside.

  For a while, Lopez could hear the crazed bandito crashing through the brush behind him, whooping and hollering and firing his pistol into the air. The dark beast—which actually seemed to be a living part of its rambunctious rider—crashed through the dense thicket, snorting like a fire-breathing locomotive. But as Lopez escaped from the bramble and emerged into the greenery of the open forest, he became aware that he no longer heard the noise of pursuit dogging his heels.

  He continued on down the eastern face, putting as much distance between himself and the dark bandito as possible. Once, he heard a shrill screech sound from overhead and was abruptly dive-bombed by a gray and black feathered hawk. He batted at the pesky bird for a frantic moment, then chased it away with a burst from his MAC-11. The hawk flew onward down the mountainside and vanished into a dense, grove of lofty oaks.

  Lopez ran out of steam halfway through the grove and stopped to rest. He recalled the horrid defeat of Green Team, the way they had been mowed down by the bandito’s guns and slain by the hooves of the black stallion. He took the canteen from his belt and bathed his face with lukewarm water, trying to cleanse away the sweat of exhaustion and fear. He was about to call Hendrix on his radio and inform him of his team’s loss, as well as the dark threat that stalked the mountain, when a low guttural hissing drifted from the foliage overhead. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the treetops and froze in horror.

  A huge snake was uncoiling itself from the tree that he stood beneath. He recognized the serpent, for he had encountered quite a few during his warfare in the jungles of Nicaragua. It was a giant anaconda, a thick gray snake with black oval spots decorating the considerable length of its body. Lopez was stunned by the sheer size of the reptile. Most of the anacondas he had come across were no longer than sixteen feet long. But this one was surely twenty-five feet from head to tail, if not thirty.

  Lopez dropped his machine gun and drew his machete from the canvas sheath on his belt. He brought it down upon the neck of the descending serpent, intending to hack the anaconda’s head from its body. But the jungle knife had no effect. The edge didn’t penetrate the skin. It only threw sparks as it glanced off the scaly hide time after time.

  Suddenly, the mercenary found himself entwined within the steely coils of the great snake. His arms were pinned against his body by the tightening spiral of reptilian fury and his convulsing hand lost hold of the machete, which was bent and broken from its fruitless attack. Gradually, Lopez felt himself being lifted from the earth. He was spirited into the treetops by the anaconda, whose tail was wrapped around an upper branch of the oak. Lopez struggled, but there was no slack in his imprisonment. He could feel the coils of the snake constricting, first expelling the last breath of air from his lungs and then crushing every bone of his skeletal structure. Agony gripped him as the pressure within his body built, pushing the limits of his physical being. Then the coils of the serpent contracted rhythmically, wringing the last bit of life from his tortured body.

  An explosion went off in Daniel Lopez’s head as his brain hemorrhaged and a fountain of gore shot from his nostrils. The last thing the mercenary saw before death claimed him was the glittering black eyes of the anaconda. And the last thing he felt was the coldness of its black tongue licking the blood from his face as if it was the sweet nectar of victory.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Jackson Dellhart was in the dark as to the events taking place on the surface of Pale Dove Mountain. He had attempted to make contact with Frag Hendrix by way of his walkie-talkie, but the density of the rock and coal that surrounded them played havoc with the radio signals and all he got was heavy static. Distant echoes of activity thrummed through the core of the mountain every so often, tremors that were probably caused by explosions. Dellhart couldn’t tell for sure, but then he really didn’t concern himself with the progress of the operation outside. Hendrix and his men were professionals who had hired out to dozens of armies and fought dozens of wars in the past. Surely the conquest for Pale Dove Mountain would prove a much easier task for the battle-hardened mercenaries than many of the conflicts they had experienced before.

  “There’s a light up ahead,” Vincent Russ told him quietly. “And I hear voices.”

  Russ was right. The darkness of the tunnel was gradually giving way to the faint flickering of firelight a few yards farther on. Also they could detect the indecipherable murmur of human voices echoing from an inner chamber of great size. “You two behave yourselves,” Dellhart warned Rowdy and Alice. “Remember, I’ve still got my gun on the kid.”

  As if in reply, Dale kicked back with the sole of his sneaker, skinning the man’s shin for the fourth time since their descent into the heart of the mountain. Dellhart tightened his grip on the boy’s arm and shook him roughly. “Try that again, you little bastard, and I’ll kill you. Understand?” Dale calmed down a bit, but the youthful eyes behind the glasses continued to glare up at Dellhart in bitter defiance.

  A few minutes later, they were out of the cramped corridor and emerging into a massive cavern of glistening gold. Dellhart stood there, stunned by the vast amount of precious metal that coated the inner walls of the chamber, but he wasn’t foolish enough to drop his guard. He and Russ herded the three captives onward. As they made their way into the open cavern, they spotted the multitude of tiny hovels that pocked the golden walls. The openings were dark, but they were not unoccupied. Things cowered there in the shadows, their pink eyes glimmering in the sparse glow of the torches.

  Dellhart and Russ directed their captives toward the mouth of an inner chamber, where voices drifted from within. They hid against the outer walls and waited for the inhabitants to emerge. They appeared a moment later. Dellhart recognized most of them from the photos in his project files. First came Glen Tucker and Mable Compton, then two albino women carrying the injured Gartrell Mayo on a homemade stretcher constructed of cut samplings and interwoven vines. The last two to leave the chamber were Jenny Brice and another albino, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Lance LaBlanc, the pagan publisher of Satyr magazine.

  Dellhart waited until they had all cleared the passageway, then reached out from behind a stalagmite of pure gold, grabbing Jenny by the arm. “Time to trade hostages,” he said, pushing Dale away and drawing the blonde closer. “Maybe you’ll be easier to handle than that blasted kid.”

  Glen whirled just as Dale stumbled toward him. “Dale, what are you doing here?” He took the frightened boy in his arms and saw Rowdy and Alice joining the others. Then he spotted the big blond man standing there with a revolver pressed to Jenny’s temple. Suddenly, the confusion as to his son’s presence there became secondary. He pulled the .357 from his belt and leveled it at Jenny’s captor.

  “Drop the gun!” demanded Vincent Russ, stepping o
ut of the shadows. He held the Browning automatic in his hand.

  “Do as he says,” said Dellhart. “All of you drop your weapons, or the lovely lady gets her head blown off.”

  For a tense moment, there seemed to be a Mexican standoff, guns drawn and on the verge of discharge. But they soon realized that Jenny’s safety took precedence, and they complied with Dellhart’s demand. Glen tossed his Magnum to the stone floor, while Miss Mable discarded her MAC-10 machine gun.

  “You sure carry some heavy artillery, grandma,” chuckled Russ, stepping forward and kicking both guns out of reach.

  “You!” exclaimed Miss Mable, eyes hardening with contempt behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “Should’ve known you’d show up for the final act.” She then directed a withering glare at the man who held Jenny. “And I reckon you’re that greedy jackass from Eco-Plenty, ain’t you? That Jackson Dellhart fella?”

  “Yes, ma’am, in the flesh,” said Dellhart, flashing a deceptively charming smile. He walked over to the stretcher that Gart Mayo lay on, never easing his grip on Jenny for a second. “Well, it looks like you survived that ambush my boys cooked up for you.”

  “Yeah, and it’s a damned good thing I did, too, you sorry son of a bitch!” declared Gart, rising to his elbows despite his weakened state. “Because when I get outta here, I’m gonna do everything in my power to put you away for a good long while.”

  “That’s a very interesting threat, Sheriff,” said Dellhart. “Except for one little fact. You won’t ever be leaving this place…none of you will. I can’t allow the details of my quest for Pale Dove Mountain to be discovered by the state authorities. It could prove to be very embarrassing to the stock holders of my corporation and put a damper on this pet project, as well as others I have in progress around the globe. Therefore, you must all resign to the fact that you will be remaining here, entombed inside this mountain when I leave.”

  He nodded to Russ and watched as the man took one of the grenades from his jacket pocket. Russ pulled the pin and tossed the bomb into the access tunnel they had recently traveled. Five seconds later, a roaring explosion rocked the cavern and the corridor belched a cloud of black dust as the alternate passageway collapsed beneath tons of coal and rock.

  “Now we’ll make our way toward the tunnel that leads to the peak,” Dellhart said, recalling the colorful readings of the infrared map. “But first I must confront the one who has made this particular business venture a real pain in the ass for me.”

  “And who would that be?” asked Lance LaBlanc with a smile of amusement.

  “That freaking bastard who has been leaving me those damned warnings,” said Dellhart. “The one you call the Dark’Un.”

  “The one you seek is not here with us, but outside on the mountain, battling those that you hired to eliminate us. And it sounds as though they are losing the fight.” Once again the faint rumble of an explosion sounded through the thick walls of the golden chamber. Dellhart had given Hendrix instructions to avoid using explosives unless absolutely necessary. From the sound of the conflict raging above, the need for such force had presented itself.

  Dellhart scanned the vast cavern and spotted a large portal that was guarded by two brawny albinos. “What’s in there?”

  LaBlanc blocked his way, his smile fading into concern. “You may not enter there. It is the lair of the Dark’Un.”

  Dellhart’s eyes sparkled with cruelty. “Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I can put a little hurt on the bastard after all. Hand me one of those grenades, Russ.” His right-hand man dug another grenade from his windbreaker and tossed it to his boss. Then Dellhart headed for the dark hovel, dragging Jenny with him.

  “Don’t!” said Alice, her voice almost pleading. “You could end up destroying an important scientific discovery.”

  “I don’t give a damn about scientific discoveries, Professor. This Dark’Un has been a burr under my saddle and I’m going to return some of the misery he’s given me lately.”

  “No!’ yelled LaBlanc. “You must not!” He ran to Dellhart and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I won’t let you commit such an atrocity against our kind.”

  “I’m not asking your permission, freak.” Dellhart turned and clubbed the albino leader across the skull with the long barrel of the .44 Magnum. LaBlanc relinquished his hold and dropped to the ground, stark red blood trickling from a gash in his pallid forehead.

  The wrestler and linebacker who guarded the entrance of the lair stepped forward threateningly, flexing their pale muscles. “Out of my way, or you’re dead,” Dellhart commanded. When they continued to advance toward him, he aimed the Magnum and fired. The hollow-point slugs opened large holes in their broad chests. The albinos shrieked shrilly as they dropped to the cavern floor, clutching their wounds.

  “What the hell is this?” breathed the corporate executive as he stood and watched them thrash in bizarre death throes of rapid transformation. Their screams were replaced by a loud crackling as the two creatures underwent a terrifying process, their flesh and bones melting down, then reforming just as swiftly into a diverse parade of pale-hued forms. They changed from men into birds, from rabbits to snakes, from deer to naked women. Dellhart watched the incredible chain of metamorphosis, until he could watch it no more. He aimed the .44 again, putting bullets through the heads of both creatures and ending their lives with thunderous finality.

  Jackson Dellhart was shaken by what he had seen, but that did not stop the mission he had given himself. He marched onward, while Russ held the others at bay with his pistol. But Dellhart never reached the mouth of the Dark’Un’s private lair. Before he got there, he was aware that he was being watched—from above. He looked up and saw hundreds of pink eyes blazing feverishly down at him. The timidity of a few minutes ago had left the hidden creatures and, instead, rage had taken place. At first, Dellhart thought that the change of emotion was due to the slaying of the guards, but that was only a part of it. More precisely it was his threat against the lair itself…and whatever lay beyond the shadowy entranceway.

  For a moment, the hidden creatures did nothing. Restraint held them back; a passivity that the strange race had endured for countless centuries. Then, abruptly, that temperance was broken. A combined chorus of crackling filled the vast chamber, echoing off the golden walls, louder and more damning than any spoken accusation. They were changing like their murdered brethren…changing into something horrid and deadly in direct response to the slaughter he had dealt from the muzzle of his gun.

  “Come on, Russ. We’re getting the hell out of here.” He forgot about the lair of his dark enemy, more concerned now with the intentions of the pale army that amassed in the dark pits overhead. He stuck the hand grenade in his pants pocket for safekeeping.

  Jenny struggled to get away, but he continued to drag her along. “Why are you taking me?” she demanded, scratching and kicking. “Why don’t you leave me here with my friends?”

  Dellhart placed the warm muzzle of the .44 against the smooth flesh of her throat, stopping her resistance. “Because you might come in handy as a hostage later on. Besides, you don’t want to stick around with these deadbeats. After I seal off the last access tunnel, they’ll end up suffocating…and an artist like yourself deserves a much more colorful demise than that.”

  He hauled the woman across the open floor of the cavern. Russ followed close behind, still keeping his gun trained on the others. They were halfway to the exit tunnel when the deafening sound of the mass transformation stopped. Silence hung in the air like a tangible presence, the kind of unnerving silence that stood human sanity at the precipice of utter madness and threatened to fling it, wailing, over the edge. Then the albinos acted. They left their collective hovels as one terrifying force.

  A flock of gigantic white bats swooped down from out of the golden walls, vengeance blazing in their brilliant pink eyes. All were the size of year-old calves and their leathery wings spanned nine feet from tip to tip. The worst feature of the airborne m
onstrosities were the gnashing maws of their demonic faces—jaws bristling with jagged fangs sharp enough to flay muscle from bone as easily as a knife peels the rosy red skin from an apple.

  Luckily, Dellhart and his hostage reached the tunnel before any of the mutant bats could attack them. Russ was a little slow, but he joined them a second later, firing his 9mm at the flying creatures. The three crowded into the passageway, escaping the shrieking squadron, and began their steady climb upward. “Seal the tunnel!” Dellhart said when they were fifty feet up the corridor.

  Russ produced the last of his grenades. He pulled the pin and rolled it down the steep incline to the mouth of the passageway. A flash of fire and concussion erupted, bringing the ceiling and walls down behind them, blocking the others off from the outside world.

  “What now?” Russ asked as they moved upward.

  “Now we make it to the top of Pale Dove Mountain and call in one of Hendrix’s choppers to chauffeur us home.”

  “And what about the girl?”

  Dellhart’s flawless grin was visible even in the darkness. “She must be disposed of, just like her meddling friends. We’ll dump her body into the Little River on our way back to Memphis.” He laughed deeply as if his plan were some clever practical joke, then he pushed the pretty blonde onward.

  Vincent Russ said nothing in reply. The tunnel was so murky that he could barely see his superior ahead of him. Once during the journey, he raised his gun at arm’s length, tempted to put a bullet through the back of Dellhart’s skull. But it was too dark in the tunnel to take chances. He couldn’t tell which blond head belonged to Jenny and which to Dellhart. He finally decided to hold off on his planned betrayal for a while. Once they reached the outer world, he might find an opportunity to rid himself of Jackson Dellhart in a more constructive manner than mere assassination.

  Back in the depths of the golden cavern, the others surveyed the damage done to the exit tunnel. Dust filled the air where a heap of huge boulders choked the mouth of the passageway. “There must be a ton or two of solid rock sealing us off,” Rowdy said grimly. “It’d take a week to dig our way out of here.”