Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman snatched a grenade from his waist as Cain accelerated even more, approaching a bridge over a river and raising an MP-5, firing back blindly over his shoulder.

  Seeing the weapon raised, Soloman rolled away as the blast tore a jagged steel path across the trunk and with the slow-motion acuity that comes only in combat knew everything in a vivid second, desperately pulling the grenade pin with his teeth as the car hit the bridge at a hundred miles an hour.

  White water flashed past in freezing wind as Soloman cast a wild glance toward the guardrail and moved on it, twisting back to smash the grenade through the window. Then in the next second he slammed his foot violently on the edge of the trunk, hurling himself into the night.

  Soloman sailed over the side, narrowly missing a girder to be engulfed by cold. Then he was falling through endless dark as the night behind him exploded in a roaring white light and he spun to see a fantastic circle of fire pin-wheeling down the bridge.

  With a vengeful scream, he hurled up a fist.

  Struck the water hard.

  *

  CHAPTER 12

  Blood seeped slowly through gauze binding the wound in Soloman's forearm. He didn't remember being hit by a round as Cain fired the MP-5 through the window but a single bullet had indeed caught him, cutting a narrow hole through muscle and skin.

  But the bleeding had almost already stopped and no bones were broken, no nerves cut. And he felt the quickly administered morphine injection freeing his mind from the pain as he analyzed the situation.

  Cain's car had been demolished by the grenade, cart-wheeling down the bridge before spectacularly striking the guardrail and going over the edge in a mushrooming firestorm. It descended over 150 feet to collide like a meteor with the river where it slowly vanished in hissing steam and flame leaving a superheated fog on the waves.

  It was the last thing Soloman saw before being savagely pulled down by the undercurrent, a drowning deliverance that tumbled him over and over through deep moving water until he frantically tore off the heavy vest and equipment belt and fought clear of the suction. Without hesitation he threw over two thousand dollars' worth of equipment into the brink, but that was the price of war. Equipment was expendable; men who could effectively use the equipment weren't. It was a fundamental part of elite commando training to sacrifice money and equipment for lives.

  Straining to the last moment to hold exploding lungs, Soloman inhaled violently as he reached the surface, finding himself a hundred yards downriver, and amphibious assault training took over once more. Fighting the current, he made it to the shore.

  The surviving Delta soldiers quickly lifted him from the water and as Soloman saw their shocked expressions he knew that they held him in new respect, as always happened when soldiers witnessed another soldier do something so daring in the field.

  They weren't men who impressed easily, he knew, but they regarded him with something like holiness as he sat silent and bleeding, having paid the price for his true authority. And he knew that it would last; they had seen him in the field now, knew he was for real.

  All of the commandos were Navy trained as corpsmen and a few minutes after they'd lifted him from the water his wounds had been completely tended, his hand being the most seriously injured with glass embedded in the skin. Even the bullet wound wasn't as serious because a through-and-through hit to an extremity almost always caused less damage than people anticipated and rarely prevented a soldier from fighting. But if a man's hands were injured, then his ability to return force was instantly and severely limited, which could lead to far more serious complications—like death.

  Questions began immediately by confused police and the Los Angeles Watch Commander dealt with Ben personally, backing down because he'd been briefed by higher-ups—men of cautious political instincts who knew this involved national security. No one with rank objected to surrendering authority of the situation to the major general. But angry street officers, reflexively antagonistic to federal agents of any kind, were openly resentful that they had to clean up a situation they hadn't created.

  Ben came up to Soloman as a commando finished bandaging his hand, and Soloman gazed up like a man too exhausted to be angry. He was trembling violently from adrenaline and cold, and a wool blanket had been draped over his shoulders. Abruptly he noticed that he was holding a hot tin of coffee; he had no idea who'd given it to him.

  "Well," the general began, morose, "we lost six men. They're dead. And Chatwell's leg is broken but he'll live. He wanted to stay, but he's a liability now, so after they fix him up I'm sending him back to Bragg. And I've called for the county rescue boys to start dragging." He stared, licked his lips nervously. "Sol, do you think ..."

  Knowing what it was as the question faded, Soloman shook his head. "There's no way to know whether I finished him or not." He took a deep breath. "He was hit hard, but he's been hit hard before. I'm not going to believe he's dead until I see it."

  Rising slowly, Soloman began a weary path up the rocks. "Let's get back to the safe-house," he added. "And have somebody get back to the museum to pick up the priest. I need to talk to him."

  "What?" Ben's eyes hardened. "You're not going to bring a priest to the safe-house, are you?” He stared. “C'mon, Sol, you can't do that. If the JCS finds out, they'll have both our heads on a stick."

  "Just trust me on this," Soloman said as they reached the chopper. "He's got information that we need. I'll take a stint at Leavenworth if it burns down."

  "That happens," Ben muttered, "we'll be sharing a cell."

  ***

  Enraged, Malo stalked the floor.

  "As God is my witness, I'm gonna kill that thing," he growled over and over. His swarthy beard virtually stood on end, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he added, "He killed six of my men and nobody kills my men and lives. Nobody."

  It had only been an hour but members of the Los Angeles County Rescue Team were already searching the river. Yet Soloman, shocked by Cain's display of superhuman strength, feared they would find nothing but the scorched vehicle itself.

  He had simply witnessed too much. Had seen Cain survive almost measureless damage only to counterattack like a Force of Nature, killing and killing and killing, then escaping again. He was beginning to fear that nothing could destroy whatever it was that Cain had become – and was becoming.

  It was rare that Delta commandos showed emotion in combat; they were trained to subdue it. But the superhuman strength and sheer animal brutality that Cain had displayed had shaken all of them, even the normally implacable Malo. And now, because blood had been shed, the game had forever changed and Soloman wasn't sure how solidly he could control either Malo or the rest of the Delta unit.

  Soloman knew it was almost impossible to keep a hard hand on soldiers who were taking and returning fire – men more concerned about staying alive than following a bellowed command. And, as it was in this situation, a chaotic battle with high casualties left the survivors superheated for vengeance.

  Standing dark and menacing before the lead-reinforced window, Malo had already hotly disputed Soloman's recommendation to reconstitute the team with new men. Turning to stare down, the lieutenant persuasively argued that this ... this thing was outside the parameters of any combat training they'd ever received, so what was the use of getting more men?

  "They don't exactly train us to fight monsters, Colonel," he growled. "At least we've seen what this thing can do. And we won't be taken by surprise again. But if you bring in more men who can be taken off guard by that thing's speed or strength, maybe even guys who've never seen any combat, then you're going to have a lot of dead soldiers on your conscience."

  Soloman understood the reasoning, and in truth half-agreed with it. He also knew that Malo and the remaining commandos, knowing what they did and as heated as they were about putting Cain in the ground, were probably worth three or four flesh squads.

  It was one thing to see Cain's inhuman power on tape; it was another to narro
wly evade those talons and fangs while frantically tracking for a shot. That kind of combat experience can’t be replaced.

  Yeah, Soloman thought after a moment, with good luck and a good plan they might neutralize at least a measure of Cain's inhuman superiority. And, for certain, none of them would ever underestimate the terrific scope of that bestial force again. When they hit him the next time they would hit him together and wouldn't stop firing until every round and RPG was spent.

  Lighting a cigar and listening closely, General Hawken wisely let the debate reverberate between Soloman and the Delta lieutenant, although he could have pulled his formidable rank. And Soloman respected him for it, knowing it wasn't something a lot of generals would have done.

  Out of sheer pride they would have thrown in their considerable weight, taking charge over those who knew far better than they. But Ben was from the old school, the old Army, and had long ago learned that in the field you had to trust those who knew the true nuts and bolts of combat.

  Finally Soloman agreed to proceed with a single unit of seven men, and Malo stared down a moment, seething. "I'm going to kill that monster, Colonel. As God is my witness, I'm going to kill it."

  Father Marcelle, sitting silently across the room, smiled slightly. And asMalo lifted the MP-5 he cast a glance at the priest. Then Malo crossed himself before dropping his hand over the hilt of a wicked-looking bowie knife strapped to his gunbelt.

  "Pray for us, Father," he said coldly.

  Marcelle nodded without expression to gently cut the blessing in the air. "Dominus vobiscum coram inimico vestro."

  Malo, as fierce and warlike as any soldier Soloman had ever seen, bowed his head a moment to bless himself again and repeated, "In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen." Then with a frown he vanished through the darkened door, head bent like a medieval warrior casting himself upon some doomed quest.

  Ben turned and picked up the phone as it rang. When he laid it down he stared at Soloman, gloomy. "Cain ain't in the car," he said. "They found it, and he ain't in it. They're gonna drag the river for his body but ... but I wouldn't hold out hope."

  "I don't," Soloman mumbled, lifting a hand to his head. Somewhere in the chaos his face had been cut and he couldn't even remember how. A slender gash ran from the corner of his eye to his mouth. "This guy is going down hard, Ben. As hard as it gets."

  "Well," Ben began, "let's talk truth, old son. You already gave it to him hard. If you can't put him down with that much ordnance, you probably can't put him down at all."

  "He died once. He can die again," Soloman said simply. "We've just been playing the wrong game." He shook his head. "We've been playing his game fighting him with brute force. But that's not going to work because he is brute force. We have to neutralize his advantages, somehow. Have to put him in a position where he can't use that strength and speed. We have to put him on a human level."

  A heavy silence held, endured.

  "Cain ain't human, Sol." The general's voice was flat with conviction. "I don't know what the hell he is. But he ain't human."

  "He's an animal." Soloman closed his eyes, released a tired sigh. "He's an animal. And that's how I'm gonna hunt him. That's how I'm gonna hunt him. That's how I'm gonna kill him."

  ***

  "Your analogy of an animal is quite probably accurate," Marcelle said after he'd retrieved another hot cup of coffee for Soloman. The priest walked slowly away, thoughtful. "Cain may indeed be an animal. But, to your advantage, he may also be a confused animal. I believe you possess more advantages than you realize."

  Finishing a slow sip, Soloman set the cup down on a table, staring for a moment. "There's always advantages, Marcelle. The difficult part is rationally implementing them in a condition of pure terror. That's why so few plans survive the first thirty seconds of combat."

  The priest walked forward. "Yes, I agree. But I believe that Cain revealed a weakness tonight. Nor do I think that it was a ruse. It was something he did out of pride – as always."

  Casting a glance to see Ben's scowl, Soloman was glad that the general didn't fully understand the true nature of the discussion. Ben was a good man, and he had his own suspicions, but the last thing he needed right now was yet another debate about supernatural forces at work. Marcelle apparently also realized it, tempering his terminology.

  "Expatiate," Soloman said.

  "It was expressed by Cain himself, Colonel." Marcelle was eminently priestly, standing without moving. "Cain said that he would remember all that he knew, which means he does not remember everything at this moment. And that may be the key."

  "Yeah," Soloman agreed. "But remember what?"

  "There is no way to be certain. This concupiscent misuse of Nature creates too many unknowns. Even Cain, who is more aware of his power than"—he glanced at the general—"than any other, has no certainty. But he is definitely frightened of something."

  "Earlier you said he fears time."

  "Time is only a measure of what he fears. There is something within time that he fears."

  "How can you know that?"

  "Because Cain's unnatural strength has virtually no limitations. He can kill and kill and kill almost without limit and could be, for all practical purposes, immortal. Even these men surrounding you possess only a slight chance for success if they again engage him in combat. And your narrow victory tonight may or may not be repeatable. You injured Cain primarily because you retained the remarkable presence of mind to tactically out-think him. But it is not a feat you are likely to repeat – neither you nor any other. Because no measure of human will and skill, or even courage, can match the force that Cain has become and is continuing to become."

  There was a dead silence before Soloman replied, "All right, Marcelle, you're saying that Cain is afraid of some kind of event that he has a limited window to meet? What would that be?"

  Marcelle frowned. "You told me that Cain said something mysterious and confusing when he was in the water treatment plant." He began to stroll, lighting a cigarette. "Perhaps the answer lies within those words. Can you tell me what Amy—is that her name?"

  "Yeah. Amy Milton. She's asleep in one of the bedrooms. Her mother is in there with her."

  "Yes, I thought so. In any case," the priest continued, "can you tell me what Amy repeated? Can you tell me what Cain said to her before you engaged him in battle?"

  "She said Cain talked about the moon and planets. It sounds like some kind of Black Magic or something. And since Cain says he can't remember everything he needs to remember, that fits with our theory on The Grimorium Verum."

  "I agree." Marcelle concentrated. "And I believe that there is one within the city who may throw even more light on this mystery. A man of great learning, and great wisdom."

  "Who?"

  "The Archbishop of the Jesuit Order, Superior General Anton Aveling. He is knowledgeable about all things occultic, ritualistic and demonic – more knowledgeable than I or any other." Glancing down at his watch, the priest added, "In a few hours the child will awaken. Then, with your permission, I could ask her a few simple questions. I believe I can accomplish the task without undue disturbance, and perhaps overturn a stone. If we are fortunate, the answer may reveal something of merit."

  Soloman waited a moment before he nodded. "All right. We'll do it after Amy's good and awake." Bowing his head, he rubbed his eyes. "Right now I've got to get some rest … while we've still got time."

  Feeling the numbness of the morphine taking an edge off his concentration, Soloman picked up his shotgun and walked to the door, opening it to step into the cold heart of an utterly shadowed and dooming night.It was frosty on the porch, and Soloman zipped up his jacket as he moved outside.

  Malo, motionless, was close beside the door, leaning on a rail. He'd lit a long cigar, smoked meditatively, and Soloman mirrored the lieutenant, leaning against the opposite post. He didn't especially want to talk to Malo right now but there was no place else to go.

  None of the
m were straying very far from the safe-house.

  Four of the Delta unit were snatching sleep and one was in the front yard, roving. A sixth was out back and the seventh was monitoring an array of starlight and infrared cameras in the attic that covered every approach to the house, providing them with a small sense of safety.

  Finally Malo looked over, chewing what looked like a Cuban cigar. Then the big Delta commando silently took another one from his jacket, offering. Soloman stared a moment into the impassive face and cigar and accepted with a grateful nod.

  He also took a lighter from the lieutenant that had the lightning bolt of the 101st Infantry emblazoned on the side. After a brief silence Malo exhaled and spoke, his voice remarkably subdued considering the short period that had passed since his outburst.

  "So, Colonel, where to now?"

  Soloman continued to light. "Not sure, Lieutenant. Maybe New York. It's too early to tell."

  "Huh. Been there."

  "Yeah, I figure you have." Soloman blew out a long stream of smoke, felt a faint buzz from the cigar mingling with the morphine in his veins. Yeah, it was Cuban.

  "How did you get this thing?" he muttered, gazing down.

  "Got a buddy in Miami. Customs." Malo stared into the faraway morning light that vaguely articulated skeletal trees against a cobalt-blue sky. "He comes in handy sometimes."

  "Is that where you grew up? Miami?"

  "No," Malo responded distantly. "Monterrey. The Chipinque Mesa beneath the saddle. Left after my folks died in that cement shack and made my way north when I was about six years old. I crossed the Rio up around San Diego back when the PD was still running BARF squads through the night, trying to catch the bandits. It was a real serious experience – for a kid."

  Scowling, Malo shook his bearded head and Soloman knew he was remembering the horrific confrontation with Cain. "But that was nuthin' compared to this, Colonel. Even Delta qualifications seem like a keg party compared to huntin' this guy. The general's right about one thing, for sure. This don't belong to the military. It belongs to God."