“I’m just here to make sure you don’t do anything too stupid,” he said.
“This is no time to baby-sit, old man!” Wodan shouted.
Before Agmar could reply, Brad swung his heavy rifle about and shouted, “We’re the biggest badass killers they ever was!”
“That’s right, Brad!” said Wodan. “Let’s go save those girls! Show no sympathy, none whatsoever! Kill anyone who gets in your way!”
The slaves tumbled out of the back and Brad led the way. Wodan and Agmar looked at one another. They knew that the thing that was unleashed would not go back into its cage unless it was dead – and it would tear the whole world to pieces before that could ever happen.
* * *
A great bonfire burned where the Ugly celebrated the Feast of the Eclipse. Many scarred, naked men were gathered to take part in a ritual that would invoke the black sun. They held down the women and, through rape and learning to ignore screams of protest, they hoped that the symbol of the black sun would eclipse the conscience that had hamstrung them since birth and replace it with something more powerful. The high priests of the Ugly taught that man was born with one soul, and that soul was the soul of a sheep; he was born to be food for demonkind, his natural superior. Now several Ugly youths, who had already passed the test of self-mutilation, gathered with the elite and cut their victims and burned them and raped them repeatedly so that the old soul, the old way of thinking, would die and they could be reborn as creatures more fit to inhabit the world of the demons.
No longer sheep, but wolves. Not quite demon, but also no longer quite human.
Barkus, leader of the Right Arm of the Ugly, sixth level initiate in the Rite of the Demon Theory and accomplished reader of the Leather Book, also called the Book of the Red, stood atop a crate and looked down at the tableau of misery that played before him. He wore the long, shimmering robe of the Theorist, which was open at the chest to display his rat’s skull. His two massive handguns hung low on his belt. In one hand he held a whip that was tied to the neck of a girl who sat in the sand below him. In the other hand he held the Red Book, a leather-bound tome filled with arcane lore, a priceless thing made over the course of years by artists initiated in that society. Barkus watched Wallach, shaped like a shaved pink bear, as he groaned atop a small girl suspended in the air by two laughing Ugly. He turned to the book and read from it.
“Now the earth had one language and one flag. And the people said, ‘Let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the black and milk of the heavens. Let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the universe.’ ”
Barkus tugged on the whip so that the girl choked. He read on, saying, “But the Ghost came down to see the city and the tower which the sons of men had built. And the Ghost said, ‘Indeed, the people are one and they all have one language, and this is what they begin to do. Now nothing that they propose to do will be withheld from them. Come, let us go down and confuse their language, that they may not understand one another’s ideas.’
“So the Ghost, in his jealousy, scattered their thoughts over the face of all the earth, and cut them off from one another. And they ceased building the city.”
Barkus raised his eyes and saw the engine of suffering before him. “The demon lashes out at what is beautiful!” he said. “To be Ugly is to be his friend. We listen to the book and sacrifice our flesh to submit ourselves to the demon’s will. The flesh is nothing - cut it! burn it! rape it! scar it! Be as the Holy Ghost, without flesh or will or hope, and survive. The sun is rising on a new world.”
Barkus closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He smelled the stench of sex and burnt flesh. He could hear the girl beneath him muttering quietly to herself. How proud, those complicated little minds stuck in the same flesh as any animal! He had to smile. How laughable was the human condition! How perfectly illustrated it was in the very fact that over and over he and his men could gather hundreds of slaves, who would then sit and wait for their next order, perfectly content to…
He heard a stampede. He turned his eyes to the night and saw some kind of giant beast thrashing, limbs flailing, covered in awful, terrible eyes. Then he saw that it was dozens of primitives racing toward them, guns raised! Without a moment’s hesitation Barkus leaped from his pedestal and sped across the sand. He did not waste a moment to warn anyone. Like a thunderclap guns fired, he saw rapists hit the ground, saw their eyes and mouths wide open in shock.
A steel hornet whizzed by his ear, then the hand that held the Leather Book was stung, and he saw his long index finger bounce in the path ahead of him. He cried out, stumbled, dropped his priceless book, then rose and ran faster. Nearby, Wallach dropped his victim and turned to flee as well. Barkus unsheathed one of his massive guns and fired blindly behind him, not caring whether he hit friend or foe. The two ran together, away from the bonfire and into the safety of darkness.
* * *
“Kill!” Wodan screamed. “Kill them all!”
Again and again they fired, their bullets charging forth and stampeding anyone who ran, tearing bodies apart and erasing their awful ritual. Soon a great cloud of smoke hung over the rebels and they could no longer aim. The victims of the ritual clung to the ground, unsure what was happening, then the naked rapists had the idea of crouching among the victims to save their own skin. The rebels poured out from the wall of smoke, found the scarred bodies and guilty faces, then beat them savagely with the butts of their rifles or shot them at point blank.
The poor victims of the ritual realized they were being saved and tears streamed down their faces. They fell into the arms of their sweaty, stinking saviors. Wodan saw many of them lashing out at the corpses of their oppressors. “Don’t worry about them!” shouted Wodan. “Get the guns! Get the guns, all of them! Don’t pick up those torches, we need darkness!”
They looted the battlefield, their feet and ankles covered in wet clumps of black sand. Wodan saw Agmar lift a heavy book from the sand and stick it into the folds of his robe. Before he could question him, Brad rushed to his side and said, “What do we do now?”
“Let’s get the truck. We can’t all fit in it, but we can use it for cover. There’s probably some Ugly guarding the horses, and it would be better if we had something to hide behind.”
“They’ll take out the tires,” someone said.
“That’s fine. We’ll want it disabled, anyway. If they don’t do it, we will.” When Wodan saw that the battlefield was looted and the victims of the ritual were either supported by others or had armed themselves, he took off running from the direction they had come.
Clansmen cried out in the night. Gongs were beaten madly. They saw torches flare far behind them. The Ugly were gathering. Wodan turned on the radio at his side and heard Wallach’s static-choked voice say, “- to the horses, west-east-and-south, close in on the slaves, north to the horses, west-east-south to the slaves, close in on the slaves, north line to the horses, west-east -” and he left the radio on and smiled, for he had the enemy’s tactician hanging on his own belt.
He changed direction when he saw the single torch that hovered near the truck. He could see the line of far torches shifting slightly. He skidded to a stop near the truck and ripped the keys from his pocket. “Anyone know how to drive this thing?” he said.
A wiry man with a handlebar mustache stumbled from the mass, panting heavily. “I kin,” he said. “Use’ta drive one o’ these when-”
“Great!” said Wodan, throwing the keys to him. “Tell me all about it when we’re free. I’ll be on top of the cab. Turn this way, the horses should be in that direction. I’ll be your eyes, so keep those lights off!”
The man nodded and hauled himself into the driver’s seat.
“Listen to me,” Wodan shouted. “Any of you that can’t walk, or are wounded, climb into the back. I need a bunch of you to climb up top. You’ll be our lookouts, so shoot to kill if you see any Ugly! Hurry, that’s it, get up there! The rest of you,
walk along both sides. Keep your eyes peeled, they’re going to be organized soon!”
Like angry ants they covered the truck. The engine shrieked, then smoke poured from its exhaust pipe and the thing lurched forward and back. Sand gathered around its massive tires, then it lumbered ahead slowly. Wodan climbed on top of the cab, giddy and lightheaded. He heard the primitives whooping with glee and his blood sang to know that he’d released this wild force into the world. He looked back and saw Brad bellowing and pumping his fist, then saw others imitate the motion, raising their guns like conquerors. A lady with a deep gash across her forehead held his arm and smiled through a mask of blood.
Wodan listened for the horses, but could hear nothing over the roar of the engine and the shouting. He leaned forward, decided it would be a good idea to run ahead of the truck and see what he could find, and at that moment the sharp report of gunfire rang out. He heard the whistle of metal piercing the side of the truck, then several men and women fell.
“Get down!” Wodan shouted. Everyone crouched low, then Agmar shouted and pointed off to the right. Wodan could only just make out the glint of light on steel stirrups and rifles flashing in the dark.
“Fire!” shouted Wodan. “Fire! Fire!” Rifles blasted all along the truck. They heard the panicked neighing and collision of two or more of the beasts. The enemy returned fire, the rifles blinking white as the riders sped ahead of them. Wodan heard men fall and rifles clanging heavily against the truck. A heavy weight fell onto his back. Wodan recoiled as a dead man with wide eyes tumbled over him and slid across the windshield, then came to a rest on the vibrating cab of the truck.
“Can’t see a goddamn thing!” shouted Brad. “Getting slaughtered shitless, man!”
“They can’t see us, either!” said Wodan, realizing that it was a mistake to take the truck. “Just stay low and keep firing!”
“We should get off this thing,” said Agmar, scanning the darkness. “We could at least hear them if-”
Lights and sharp reports, now on the left. There was a dull thud below. The truck hunkered down on one side as its full weight bore into a crippled tire. “Over there!” screamed a wild-eyed primitive, and they turned and fired blindly into the night. Wodan aimed and fired at the racing fireflies until his body shook and his clip ran dry. As he reloaded, he saw several walkers only a few feet from him stumble, clutching open necks and bellies filled with metal. As the primitives reloaded the night filled with the sound of horses crying like devils and men cursing in the night.
The truck sat still. Wodan leaned over the windshield and saw the driver sitting in eternal repose, hands still gripping the steering wheel, head leaned back.
“Off the truck!” said Wodan, scrambling to the ground and jerking the key from the ignition. “We run from here!”
The primitives clambered down and Wodan saw that they had not fared well, but Brad, Rachek, and Agmar were still among the living. He saw bodies lying in the sand and felt his will weakening. In the stillness that followed, he could hear many horses crying out just ahead; he felt panic, thinking that they would be overrun, then realized that it must surely be the horses they sought, not the riders hunting them down.
While the others gathered near Wodan, he picked up the radio set, pushed a button along its side, and said in as deep a voice as he could, “They’re leaving the truck, they’re heading back to the rest of the slaves.”
Almost immediately the thing crackled to life and Wallach said, “That wasn’t me or Barkus, continue with orders, maintain radio silence.”
They heard the beating of hooves on all sides. Suddenly several riders flew from the ink-black darkness, but their riders were just as surprised as the primitives. Most flew past as quickly as they came, but one leaned over to change his course and raised his rifle. The primitives saw him immediately and blasted, tearing up the ground and churning horse and rider into a flailing red mush.
Another rider, now wise to his enemy’s position, rode past them and, without slowing, raised a thick piece of dull metal. Smoke poured from the rear, then something bounced off the side of the truck. The primitives fired but the rider returned to the darkness.
“Run!” Agmar shouted. “That thing is –”
As the primitives dispersed, Wodan saw a flash of light and a heavy blast picked him up, pushed the air from him and deafened him, then flung him to the ground. Wodan saw the sides of the truck cave inward like paper in a storm, then saw two legs tumble through the air as if fleeing the scene without their owner.
Wodan’s mind was dull and numb. He lifted himself on his elbows and felt an awful wave of nausea overtake him. Bodies and limbs lay all around. Then, amidst the rush of dust and smoke, he felt a terrible drum pounding the earth.
They’re coming, he thought. They’re going to finish us now.
His rifle was nowhere to be found, but a dead man lay nearby with a handgun held straight out at Wodan like an offering. Wodan took it and pulled back the cold barrel to load a bullet into the chamber. He felt rather than heard the satisfying click and knew that his neck was on the razor’s edge.
Two riders charged out of the black hell before him, one in front of the other, their bodies covered in red scars and thick leather, and they moved slow and heavy as if in a dream. The rider in the fore carried a rifle, and took both hands from the reins so that he might aim into the victims that lay in the sand, and the killer in the rear bore a heavy rocket pregnant with the same kind of grenade that had laid waste to the primitives earlier. Wodan clutched the automatic in both hands, raised it in front of him so that the line of the barrel lay between his eye and his enemy. The rider scanned the ground, swung his rifle towards a fallen man - then shifted his eye in response to some primal instinct and saw Wodan. The rider’s eyes widened. Wodan pulled the trigger, and the gun jumped in his hand, and Wodan could feel the empty shell spin in the air. The horse jerked under the rider as a flap of skin swung under its eye and slapped into its ear. Wodan shot again and a hose loosened from the horse’s neck and sprayed red into the air. The horse locked its knees and stumbled forward, and the second rider jerked his mount to the side but still slammed into his companion. Eight legs buckled and the sands rose to accept the flailing limbs of the riders. The dust settled with nightmare slowness. The rifleman laid against his horse, raised his rifle and fired immediately – but Wodan was gone. He looked about, then his eyes shattered as Wodan approached from the side, firing again and again, dissolving the raider’s face into glistening shards.
The second rider crawled away from his horse, holding his broken arm and casting his face about in panic. Wodan’s gun clicked empty. The raider mumbled something that Wodan could not hear, tears streaming down his face. Wodan glared at the man as he felt about for a spare clip, then remembered he’d taken the gun from a dead man. Suddenly the man’s neck and body jerked about, spouting leaks. For a split-second Wodan believed that the man must have exploded due to his hateful stare, then turned and saw several rebels standing and firing. They remembered the mercy that the Ugly had shown them when they were enslaved, and returned it in kind.
There were about thirty of them, shaken and weak but still alive. Twisted shrapnel and pale limbs smoldered in the sand. Agmar twisted a finger in his ear and worked his jaw, looking more annoyed than traumatized. Rachek helped others to their feet, constantly glancing over her shoulder. Wodan saw Brad pointing and shouting silently. Since his rifle hung limp, Wodan gathered that he must be able to hear the horses kept nearby. Wodan nodded, shouted for Brad to help gather the survivors, then ran ahead.
* * *
The mass of slaves huddled against one another, more terrified of their captors than ever. The Ugly circled them, cursing and spitting like madmen. When mothers cried out for lack of their children, the gunmen lashed out with insane oaths that often were not even intelligible.
Because the perimeter had drawn in, the outside world was utterly dark. The tent, the truck, and even most of the horses had been ab
andoned. If the bodies of their brothers were being eaten by demons in the night, then that was the concern of the dead.
A handful of horsemen stood about, some drooping so low in the saddle that they appeared to be asleep. Others complained loudly, so loudly that Barkus himself had to listen to every ding-bat who’d never been on a successful slave run explain in great detail exactly how he would have run the operation.
“Shut up!” Barkus bellowed, sending a nervous twitch through his horse.
“Shooting in the dark, ridiculous!” said an Ugly. “Ridiculous!”
“I said shut up, god damn you!”
Wallach, still naked atop his horse, edged his mount alongside his master’s as he spoke into his radio unit. “Anyone not with the slaves, report,” said Wallach.
There was silence while the beaten killers waited. Wallach finally turned to his master and said, “I count forty-seven of us. Goddammit, that’s all I can count. All I can make out.”
“Fachimundi!” Barkus yelled, the veins in his neck standing out like wounds. “Fachimundi, what have you got?”
[Demonworld #1] Demonworld Page 28
