Matt raised his hands, defensive. "I don't know. Keeping an eye on the locals, I guess."
"No. She would have said before she left."
"She's had our back since day one, Blossom."
"She is secretive. Do not forget why she joined ICAP, who she worked for and with. She knows many things she did not reveal, and I am certain she knows much more. Her agenda is not ours, and her loyalty lies with her brother."
Matt opened his mouth to say that Dawkins was dead, and closed it. Janet had never done anything to make him doubt her loyalty, and though her allegiance lay first and foremost to her brother, Dawkins had, in the long run, turned out to be right about the demonic corruption behind Jade and ICAP. "You're right."
"So you don't trust her."
He shook his head. "I do."
"A mistake."
"I'll be careful."
"You must."
* * *
Janet locked the bathroom door and pulled a vial from her purse, setting it on the chipped tile next to the sink. Scooping a nail-full of gray powder from the plastic bottle, she held it under her nose and snorted it. A black haze filmed over reality as the dried, mummified flesh poured its psychic energy into her, forming a fragile, tentative bridge between life and death.
"Sister, help." Her brother's voice cracked with pain and desperation, a ghost of will broken down by madness and loss. "I need… I need something to take the edge off."
"You need to fight, D. Someone made a bridge, found his way back. If he can do it, you can do it."
"We tried. We tried and it didn't work. I just need something to take the edge off."
The trap Janet had laid to free her brother had been designed to trade Matt Rowley's soul, but had instead ensnared his wife, plunging Monica into a hell meant for Janet's brother, an endless plain of broken hypodermic needles with just enough smack to taste, but never enough to remove the desperate craving. Janet had seen it, felt it, drowned in it for the split second before Gerstner had shattered the spell, freeing Monica and plunging Dawkins back into the hell she'd reserved for him, an act of spite from a creature with eternity to waste.
"We almost made it, D. And we can again. You can escape from that side."
"I don't need to escape, I just need—"
"GODDAMMIT." She flinched, pulling her fist back from the broken mirror, knuckles a bloody mess from the impact. "You don't need drugs, you need to come back to me."
His sensation faded, and as it did she took a moment to clean up her bloody nose, powder her face and wash her hands. How the strongest man she'd ever known had become such a useless coward she would never understand. But coward or no, she would free her brother, no matter what it took.
* * *
Straddling the man tied to the chair, Conor Flynn grabbed his victim's nipple with a pair of pliers and twisted, tearing the soft flesh from the muscle beneath. Blood welled in the open wound and Conor sucked at it, chewing through exposed meat with Ben Case's half-rotten hippy's teeth. It tasted like chicken-fried steak and baked potatoes, a living man's banquet on a dead man's tongue.
Writhing and screaming through the towel duct-taped over his mouth, the man's anguish shuddered over the psychic bridge, shoving back the crushing weight that threatened to snap it. Conor did the other nipple, then seared both wounds closed with the soldering iron, flicking red droplets onto the living room rug between passes to let the metal tip come back up to temperature.
Hot smoke wafted up, succulent charred flesh and acrid burnt hair, and Conor sucked it in, fed it to the bridge, always hungry, drowning in thirst. He had had no idea it would be so demanding.
The woman – wife, girlfriend, or mistress, Conor neither knew nor cared – lolled in her own chair, the remains of her face a gnawed, ruined mass of cauterized red. The dark sockets of her eyes didn't even twitch, and her breathing came too soft, too regular. Useless until she woke up. Their boy lay crumpled on the floor, limbs twisted at odd angles, eyes staring at the black nothing the righteous and innocent got when they died.
Useless forever.
The bridge didn't care about life or death. Only pain kept it open, and every day it demanded more.
He patted the man's cheek then drew the pliers in a line down his jaw. "Sorry, pal, might is right is might, and you're the awake one so it's still your turn."
The man murmured. Flynn leaned in, tore off the tape, and pulled the cloth out of his mouth. "Try again?"
"Just don't hurt her anymore."
The revelation smacked him upside the head. Flynn smiled. "Thanks. Brilliant idea. I hurt her, you do the suffering, the bridge stays open."
"No, please. I—"
He stuffed the gag back in place, ignoring the vain attempt to bite his finger, cut the rope holding the woman's left hand, and lifted it to his mouth. The man whimpered as Conor sucked her index finger, and screamed through the gag as he bit down, grinding his teeth until the first knuckle gave way. He pulled back, swallowed the meaty nugget whole, and giggled.
She felt nothing, but her lover's anguish bled through like an open wound.
The bridge sighed in pleasure, and strengthened. Across its expanse, figures moved in the darkness, attracted to the light and life on the other side. Flynn shooed them away with a flick of his mind, and took another bite.
After a moment's thought he closed his eyes, stretched his mind across the bridge, and called them back. "Right is right, boys. Maybe I've got a use for you."
CHAPTER SIX
"What do we have?" Matt shifted his weight to accommodate the helicopter's sudden bank.
Though Janet sat right next to him, her voice carried through the headset more than through the air. "Local PD put someone matching Case's description on Ambrosio José Gonzales Court last night at eighteen hundred hours while we were finishing up at Lake Barnacle. It's hard to miss that hair."
Seven miles from the Walmart where he'd purchased the phone, Gonzales Court continued the century-old tradition of naming cul-de-sacs, highways, and bridges after heroes of the American Confederacy, only in this case the cul-de-sac consisted of a quarter-mile loop enclosing a small park little more than half a basketball court and a shoddy, rust-studded playground. Single and double-wide trailers ringed the loop, half hidden under a canopy of trees just beginning to turn.
"Anywhere from there?"
She shrugged. "Not that they know."
The helicopter touched down in the center of the track, and they disembarked to a growing crowd of curious onlookers ranging from naked toddlers to gray-haired men stooped with age, all spilling out onto stoops and into lawns to gawk at the commotion. A pit bull charged, a black and orange brindle dragging a chain still attached to a pinch collar, a shirtless black kid in his early teens chasing after it. It reared up under the rotors, barking and snarling and leaping into the air.
Matt took one look at the berserk nub of a tail and grinned, holding out his hand and stepping forward. The dog barked again and shied back, dropping low on its front legs before bounding a few steps back. The boy skidded up and grabbed its collar, jerking the animal away from the dying noise of the rotors. His suspicious brown eyes darted from Matt's pistol to Sakura's, and down to the dog.
Matt crouched to his haunches. "He friendly?"
"Yeah. Ain't never seen a helicopter, though. You a cop?"
Matt shook his head. "Federal Agent. But don't worry, I won't hurt him. What's your name, boy?"
The boy approached, the pit pulling at the chain despite the collar until he could slobber his wide, pink tongue over Matt's fingers and palm. "He's Booger, I'm Chris."
Matt let the dog lick his face, then stood. "Nice to meet you, I'm Matt."
"You're the guy with the kid."
Biting his tongue, Matt pulled his phone from his pocket. "That's me." He brought up the image of Case smirking at the came
ra. "Have you seen this guy around?"
Chris shook his head.
"You sure? Cops spotted him out this way last night."
Chris shrugged. "You don't forget a fro like that on a white man. He dangerous?"
"Very. Thanks." Matt approached the gathering crowd, phone in the air, while Sakura circled toward the trailers behind them. "We're looking for this man. Caucasian, six feet, brown curly hair. If anyone—"
"I seen him." A scrawny white man with hair the color of corn silk stepped forward, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his dingy jeans, torso almost covered by a threadbare Confederate Flag T-shirt emblazoned with 'Keep It Flying' in peeling white letters. "On my way back from the store, hitching a ride from Terri Deuel."
"Which way?"
"North."
"And what do they drive?"
"Minivan. Kind of dark red."
Matt asked for the spelling and put 'Terri Deuel' into his phone, leaching information from government databases and public records in a fraction of a second. He looked at the pilot and spun his finger in the air. As the rotors started churning he thanked the man and got on-board, pulling on his headset to relay information to Sakura and Janet even as they boarded and took their seats.
Bobby Deuel, eight years old, had been marked absent at school that morning. A phone call home resulted in no answer. Matt tried, then called Jason Deuel's work. He hadn't reported in to work, a first in three years of employment.
As the chopper landed in their yard a few minutes later, Matt took note of the Deuel's maroon minivan and gray sedan in the driveway. A yellow, vinyl-sided two-story colonial with black shutters on a half-acre yard, they had no neighbors within a half-mile, and a small, rusty playground in their back yard complete with a sandbox and slide. No one came out to look at them as they circled twice.
Matt left his helmet under his seat in favor of an ear bud – without a swarm of Dragonflies relaying data to it, the helmet would do more to restrict his vision than protect his head – and with the possibility of collateral targets he opted for the REC7 rather than the AA-12.
The 5.56mm rounds of the NATO-issue REC7 didn't have the impact or versatility of the AA-12's multiple loads, but at Matt's insistence the STB still used ceramic composite 'bonk killer' rounds. ICAP's collapse left several million boxes on shelves all around the world, and Janet had managed to appropriate most of them before the reality of the egregoroi threat had quashed any relief at the disappearance of bonks. Every round had been blessed by as many religions and creeds they could find, with no idea whether any of it helped.
Sakura opted for a REC7 as well, supplemented by a .357 and a pair of monofilament knives, sharper than the sharpest steel.
They hovered next to the driveway, downwash scattering leaves across the well-manicured lawn in eddies of mixed brown. Matt and Sakura leapt out, then the pilot banked upward, carrying Janet away from any potential hostilities.
He approached the front door, scanning for threats, while Sakura disappeared around the back.
"Back is clear, door is locked."
He peeked inside, and didn't bother to ring the bell. Congealing blood slicked the floor in a smear of black-red. At least three bodies lay in heaps in the living room, entrails strewn about the furniture like holiday garlands. They shimmered a dull red-black in the infrared, no warmer than their surroundings.
"Sakura, to the front."
She appeared at his side a second later. "I see it."
"Janet, we have multiple casualties. Call FBI for forensics support, and get local PD to set up a perimeter. Tell them no leaks."
"Roger. Tactical assist?"
"Hold off." Since augmentation, he'd never found a hostile situation that would be improved by the addition of normal friendlies, but to the book Janet asked him every time.
He tried the doorknob. It turned, so he opened it and spun inside, raising the REC7 as Sakura passed him, disappearing into the kitchen area in a blur. He rolled right, cleared every room on the ground floor, and met her at the bottom of the stairs.
Nose crinkled at the acrid, almost burnt smell overlaying the blood and shit, she looked down at the bodies.
"Upstairs is clear."
Blood covered the wooden floor, soaking the woven rug under the coffee table and running under the couch, TV console, and bookshelf. Two wooden chairs sat in the middle of the room, facing each other, loops of wire around the front legs and armrests. The mutilated bodies lay in pieces, so mangled that only the general shape remained to identify a leg, a torso, or a skull. Red-brown streaks covered the walls, occult symbols and archaic or made-up writing in human ink.
"Meaning?" Sakura asked. Though brilliant and quick-thinking she didn't possess Matt's eidetic memory enhancements.
"It's gibberish. Wiccan here, Druidic there, a little Aztec, even some Process Church, but none of it goes together. It's like something you'd find in a high school poser's notebook."
"So we go outside."
He took another look around. "Yeah. Wait for the techs to tell us what happened, here."
The mutilated skull next to the couch opened its eyes.
Matt shied back, raised his rifle. "Watch it!"
Sakura spun left, weapon up, and scanned the room. "What?"
A bubble rose out of the bloody mess, expanded, growing ever more translucent, then popped. The curtains danced, pushed around by an impossible wind. The blood receded, pulling in toward the skulls lying in the red pool.
"Fall back." He backpedaled toward the door, careful not to step in the shifting gore.
Meat surged upward, pulsing and solidifying around a growing column of blood topped by the three skulls. Jaws flexed and silent screams pierced Matt's mind, an unheard shriek of mad suffering. He opened fire, and Sakura joined him.
A skull shattered in a mess of brains and bone. Holes appeared in pink muscle, punching straight through to pepper the wall behind, and red-brown liquid leaked from the wounds.
Brimstone filled Matt's nostrils, burnt matches and rotten eggs, and the psychic shriek became physical. Jarring dissonance filled the house, shooting through his teeth and up his spine, a white-hot dagger to his temples.
A ropy mass shot from the pillar of meat, and Sakura moved. Her form blurred around it, and streams of old blood splattered the ceiling before her rifle hit the floor. Matt fired at the base of the tendril, punching black holes through the knot of tissue.
The thing twisted, four more arms springing free from the growing tower, which now brushed the ceiling. Chunks of recognizable flesh stuck out of the amorphous mass, bone and gristle, ribs, a small hand with dirty fingernails. Matt fired into it, and direct hits on the column did nothing. He took aim at an unrecognizable face, ears, nose, and lips cut off, skin burned away in blackened lumps.
His rifle barked. The head disintegrated, but the wailing didn't quiet. "Sakura, get out of there!"
Sinuous ropes lashed out, wrapped the muzzle of his REC7. Meat sizzled against the hot metal. He pulled the trigger. With a sharp hiss the weapon bucked. Streams of metal peeled away from cooking flesh, the barrel a wasted ruin. Hot muscle enveloped his wrist as he grabbed his WildStang. It squeezed, grating bone against bone, the sharp pain a reminder of his injury earlier in the week.
Blackness blurred across his wrist, and monstrous flesh fell away in bloody strips. Before he could react Sakura had already moved on, spinning and ducking, black-bladed knives leaving trails of devastation in their wake.
He raised the pistol and fired, .50 caliber bullets blasting holes in the inhuman form. A tendril grabbed his ankle. Then the other. Still firing, his muscles strained against the pressure, but it pulled him closer to the wall of meat.
The pistol clicked dry. He let go and it sucked from his hand, disappearing into the creature.
Boots hard against the floor, he pushed back. A wet rippi
ng sound accompanied renewed freedom, and he shifted back half a step, and then another. His legs burned with the effort, cramping with the effort to shift back again.
It released him, and he fell backward.
The column fell with him, a thousand pounds of dead weight pushing, reaching, tearing at his armor, clothes, and flesh. Warm, squirming tentacles wormed their way up his nostrils, pushed past his teeth and tongue down his throat. The slimy film on them tasted like rot and shit. His lungs burned as he tried to suck in a breath, eyes squeezed shut against unrelenting pressure, trying not to throw up.
Stars formed in his vision. Fire scorched his lungs as he wormed his left hand toward his belt.
His chest armor tore free, composite plates coming off in sections, replaced by hot, pulsing meat. Skin split as tendrils writhed over his fused breastbone and ribs, worming their way across his body, searching for purchase, tearing his clothes and weapons from him. A shudder wracked him as a knot of gristle punctured his abdomen.
Red cracks formed across his vision, and the shrieking wail turned to triumph.
His thumb hooked a metal ring as the pulsating wall of meat sucked in the orb attached to it. Tension pulled at the ring, then released.
A shockwave pulsed through the fleshy thing.
It shuddered, and its grip slackened. Matt forced his arms up, grabbed at the slick, ropy masses smothering his face, and pulled. Fire blazed up his throat, sliding out his mouth and nose. He gagged, turned, gasped in a breath.
The air reeked of body odor and blood, a salty funk that clung to his nose and tongue. He sucked it in greedily, took another breath, and squirmed up, boots clawing for purchase against the wooden floor.
Hands grabbed his, small but strong, and heaved him half of the way out.
Sakura stood above him, face drenched in blood, and re-drew her knives. Missing her left ear and half her scalp, white bone shone through a sheen of red that spilled down her face and neck to drench the tattered remains of her shirt. Without looking away from the monster she said, "You're alive."
Jade Gods Page 6
