I made it to the front of the long sanctuary and saw something sticking out of a swath of shadow. It was a pair of black winter boots, the thick tread visible to me from a dozen yards away. I stopped and held up a hand. Carl didn’t see me. He kept walking, running into my hand. He jumped, snapping his head forward to look at me. I didn’t speak, not knowing what was in the room with us. Carl started to open his mouth. I widened my stare and shook my head, moving a finger up to my lips in the universal sign for shut the hell up already.
I pointed two fingers at my eyes to signal he needed to look and then pointed toward the pair of boots. He gulped and looked back at me, searching for direction. I held up a hand and pointed down at the ground, signaling him to stay and watch. I hunched down to try and use the pew for some kind of cover and moved silently toward the feet. I scanned the room around me, feeling magic seeping into my skin. It was crawling with the sensation, and my paranoia was wide awake and screaming that something was hunting me.
The feet were attached to a body. A body that had been torn and ripped to pieces. There was enough blood that I could smell it on the air. As I got closer, I could see that it was a guy who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He had been wearing a black suit at some point, but there wasn’t a whole lot left of the blazer or white shirt beneath.
A long slash on his stomach had been pulled open to expose muscle and organs. Something had pulled his intestines out. There were pieces of half-chewed viscera, and his stomach was a nearly empty cavity. I fought the taste of bile that crept up the back of my throat. I forced myself to look away, trying to maintain as much situational awareness as I possibly could considering the circumstances.
I’d seen enough chewed up bodies to know that something had started to eat the guy, and given what I saw, it probably hadn’t had the decency to wait for the poor bastard to die first.
I knelt down, careful to not set my knee in any of the blood. I used my left hand to pat down the leftovers. There was a bulge under his left arm that had to be a gun. I flipped the jacket open. There was just enough light to make out what I thought was a Sig 220.
Something creaked.
I spun, punching the 320 out in front of me, an ounce of pressure already on the trigger. I wasn’t taking any chances. Carl and I were trapped in the room with a something that needed a good murdering.
My eyes searched the darkened corners of the room. I know I’d seen something, but I couldn’t find anything as I focused in.
I turned to look back toward the entrance of the sanctuary. Something caught my attention.
Floating through the air, a single feather danced and fluttered as it arced back and forth as it fell. My eyes moved with it for a moment before looking past the feather and up into the rafters of the high ceiling. The stained glass windows were cut lower in the walls, and the ceiling was nothing but a black blanket of mystery. I could hear myself breathing in the silence.
I stepped around the body, careful not to get blood on my shoes, and walked toward the falling feather. I didn’t look directly at it, straining my eyes to see anything in the darkness above me. My finger was still firmly on the trigger as I moved the weapon over the patches of darkness.
The feather hit the floor in a patch of pale green light. It looked like it had come from a tawny owl, if the owl had been five feet tall. The feather was at least eighteen inches long. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked up from the feather and tried in vain to see anything in the shadows above. I’d seen feathers like that before and just hoped there was only one of them.
A sharp shriek cut through the air. It reverberated off of the stone walls. I fought the instinct to cover my ears. It was loud enough that I felt it in my chest and immediately regretted that I didn’t have my electronic earplugs. It was loud, and it was only going to get louder.
Something dislodged itself above me. Dropping, the thing fell ten feet before opening up a pair of massive wings, twelve feet tip to tip. Tawny feathers caught the air, and a screeching face appeared in the pale light. Tangled hair draped down around a face that was only vaguely feminine in its high cheekbones and angular lines. Dark liquid covered the Harpy’s mouth, and I would have put money on it being blood from the poor bastard behind me.
Harpies aren’t anything to sneer at, but in the world of Hellions, they aren’t exactly anything to write home about either. They roost in concealed peaks and forests most of the time.
Imagine an owl, anywhere from four to six feet tall, massive wingspan, and instead of bright eyes and the occasional hoot, they have a head that looks like a horrible rendition of a human woman, almost like someone who’d never seen one tried to draw something they’d read in a book. They have needle-like teeth and a fondness for eating the guts of their victims. Their breath almost always smells like shit, because you know, they eat it.
Every once in awhile, Harpies take up roost in larger cities at the top of skyscrapers, which explained why it had naturally sought out the highest point inside the church. The biggest thing to worry about with a Harpy is their talons, six inches of razor sharp death. That and the fact that they tend to travel in mating pairs. They also prefer to eat their prey while it was still alive.
Out in the open with plenty of room to maneuver, Harpies can be a hassle, especially if you happen to run into several of them at once. Inside the church, it would be limited on how much it had to move around.
I put more pressure on the trigger, feeling it break. The 320 barked as it spit out a 9mm hollow point. I may have been using junk ammo at the range, but I’d made sure to load up some 124 grain Federal Premium hollow points once we’d finished.
Not one to be stingy, I kept on the trigger, filling the air with hot lead.
The Harpy screeched as the rounds punched into it. Puffs of white undercoat down burst into the air with each hit, like shooting a pillow. I kept firing, hammering rounds into its chest before concentrating my fire on the right shoulder joint, where the wing connected with its torso.
The Hellion swept in, taloned feet extended in front of it. I dove to my right, landing between two pews. Black talons tore into the oak, splintering it as they slammed into it.
“Carl get down!” I screamed.
I couldn’t hear a damn thing as my ears rung. I hoped he’d heard me. The gunshots were deafening inside the stone church.
I popped up into a crouch and used the pew as a shooting stand. The Harpy tried to turn, but there wasn’t enough room. It was forced to land on the stage at the front of the room, knocking over the lectern as it did. I sighted in and dumped the rest of the mag into its back. I glanced a look back at Carl as I ejected the mag with the flick of my wrist and grabbed a fresh one. He was standing, gun out in front of him, frozen. I could see it in his eyes; he’d shut down.
“Son of a bitch.”
I dropped the slide and got back to my feet. The Harpy had turned around to face me. It screamed, flecks of torn flesh and spittle coming out of its mouth as it did.
I didn’t bother screaming back. I opened up again. I fired five times. Three rounds hit it high in the chest, one shot took it in the throat, another shattered cheekbones. It jumped back, tripping over something. I took my chance, running forward as the thing struggled to get back up only using its left wing.
I didn’t give it a chance to do more than struggle to get up. I stomped a foot down on its damaged shoulder joint and felt hollow bones break. I pressed my foot down further, pinning it. The damn thing looked up at me and shrieked, spittle flying out its open mouth. I unloaded the rest of the magazine into its skull. I fired twelve times, pulling the trigger until the slide locked back, and its face was nothing but a puddle of blood, bone fragments, and tiny bird brains.
The sulfurous stench of Hellion blood wafted through the air. My pants were splattered with black ichor.
“Dammit,” I muttered. I was getting tired of ruining good jeans.
“Deckland!”
I turned to Carl. I didn’t have a chance
to do anything more than that because a freight train hit me. My feet left the ground, and I was slammed down. I tried to twist around, but something heavy and feathery was driving me into the ground. Taloned feet squeezed my chest, and my ribs groaned, my vest the only thing keeping the talons from my flesh. I had enough time to realize a Harpy was shrieking in my ear before I was airborne. White feathers rustled around me as it took off, flying back over the pews.
Gunshots cracked the air. The Hellion roared, letting me go. I dropped a good fifteen feet, limbs flailing and landed on the pews. Pain exploded through my shoulder and hip as I collided with solid oak craftsmanship and bounced off it, tumbling off the pew and flopping on the floor.
A few more shots ripped through the air and then stopped. The Harpy continued to scream.
I shook my head trying to orientate myself. I wasn’t quite sure where I was or who had been shooting. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been me. Then it clicked.
Carl.
Carl had snapped out of whatever haze he’d been in and shot the damn thing. A flash of pride swelled inside of me, but it was quickly stomped out when I realized that that meant the Harpy probably let go of me to go after him.
“Son of a… mother… asshole bird.” I mumbled a half a dozen other things as I reached up and grabbed one of the pews and pulled myself up to my feet. I could see Carl fumbling with the P64. The gun had a European style mag release located in the heel of the gun. We’d spent all of our time practicing his reloading with guns that had a mag release by the trigger guard. I knew he’d figure it out eventually, but the extra seconds were about to cost him his life.
The Harpy had circled around. Carl was underneath the mezzanine, and there wasn’t enough room for the damn thing to fly in and get to him. It was forced to land on the back of one of the pews and hop toward him. It was the only thing that saved Carl’s life.
“Die devil bird!” I screamed, ripping the 38 out and jumping up onto the pews. I ran across the wooden benches toward the Harpy. It had its back to me, concentrating solely on the perceived threat in front of it. Big mistake.
I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, jumping over the pews. The Harpy finally heard me and rotated its hideous face back to look at me. It was too late. I was already there.
I roared like an angry animal and leaped onto the thing’s back. I snaked my left arm under its chin grabbed a fistful of stringy hair.
Sputtering, the damn thing took off, leaping out from beneath the mezzanine so it could maneuver. I wrapped my legs around it, trying to use my heels to hold on as it leaped into the air, trying to get to the darkness that cloaked the ceiling. I jammed the .38 deep into its shoulder and unloaded five rounds of +P. By the time the hammer dropped on a spent chamber the damage was done.
The Harpy flapped its wings, and something inside the shoulder joint broke. I felt the snap, and then we were falling. The thing dropped like a rock. We crashed into the ground in a mess of feathers and splintered wood. The wounded Hellion screamed. I summoned enough energy to groan back at it.
We’d landed between pews, and the heavy wooden benches were the only reason I was still alive. Otherwise, I would have been crushed to death by the flapping demon owl that was thrashing above me. It shrieked and squawked but couldn’t manage to get up.
I didn’t have a lot of room to move underneath the Harpy. Instead, I dropped the .38 and pulled out the Halo V. I deployed the knife and pushed to the side to give myself a little more room and then went to work.
I jammed the Halo V into the feathery mass bouncing around above me. The blade sank to the hilt. I felt it glance off of bone. The Harpy squealed in pain. I twisted the knife, feeling the vibrations as it grated against bone, and yanked it out. A stream of oily blood came pouring out from between the white feathers. It leaked over me as I continued stabbing, twisting, and repeating. The damn thing finally stopped squawking after a minute of stab and repeat. I stuck it a few more times after it stopped moving to be safe.
The only thing I wanted to do was put my head back on the ground and close my eyes. Unfortunately, I was lying in the middle of a growing puddle of Hellion blood that stunk like a someone took a dump in a jar, and a left it in the sun with the lid on for a month.
I grabbed my .38 and pushed with my feet, sliding across the concrete floor. The blood made it pretty easy to ease out from the pews and into the aisle.
“Deckland!” Carl said, running up.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked, looking for a clean section of clothing to wipe my face with. I was out of luck unless I wanted to check my socks. “You make all this fuss about wanting to come and then leave me to do all the work.”
Carl was at my side. “I don’t know what happened. When I saw it come out of the rafters I just… I froze.” His face was white as a sheet.
I sucked in a tender breath. “Don’t sweat it. Happens to the best of us.” I didn’t think anything was broken, but everything hurt.
“You’re bleeding,” Carl said.
“Nah, that’s the other guy.”
Carl leaned forward. “You sure?”
“Not really.”
I rolled over and crawled on all fours. Carl helped me to my feet. I could see him trying not to touch any of the Hellion blood. I was drenched. From the chest down I was soaked in black sulfurous sludge. My arms were black to the elbow, and I could feel it more of it starting to dry on my face as well. I looked like I’d just struck oil.
“We gotta get out of here,” Carl said. “The cops have to be on their way.”
“Just a sec,” I said. I walked gingerly back to the body at the front of the sanctuary. My left hip ached, and I knew that I’d be walking with a bit of a limp for the next few days.
“What are you doing?”
“Guy at the front here was packing. I want the gun.”
“Deckland!”
“What?” I turned back as I walked. “It’s not like he’s going to need it anymore.”
I got to the corpse and knelt down. I opened his blazer and pulled the 220 out of the shoulder holster. I looked up at Carl.
“I dropped the 320 over by the other Harpy.” I pointed in the direction of the stage. “Go find it for me.”
He looked like he wanted to say something but walked away silently.
I turned back to the corpse. I found two spare magazines on his belt. I pocketed those and starting going through his pockets. I don’t think you can technically call it grave robbing if the person hasn’t been buried yet. I wasn’t getting paid to kill the Harpies, so coming up a new gun and some cash would be plenty. I dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. I pocketed it and kept going. I didn’t have time to go through it all at the moment. I opened the right flap of his jacket, on the off chance that he had another inside pocket and found something interesting. There was a magazine and it was definitely not for a handgun.
I opened the strap and pulled out a magazine that was meant for a long gun. The memory of hearing automatic gunfire came back. I got up and started looking around. I didn’t see anything. I pulled out a Streamlight Stylus flashlight. I shined it around, looking.
A light bulb clicked in my brain, and I got on the ground, shining the light underneath the first pew. I found what I was looking for against the back of the pew. I crawled forward and grabbed it. I pulled out a short barreled Sig 552. The stock was folded. The guy must have needed it in a hurry if he hadn’t even had time to unfold the stock. There were tattered ends of a single point sling as well. It looked like it had been cut in two by a Harpy talon.
I looked and saw a selector switch was set to full auto. It had been under there the whole time I was getting my ass kicked trying to fight Hellions with a .38 and a knife.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“Deckland,” Carl said.
I didn’t look up. An overbearing sense of dread was spreading through me, like ice water being injected into my guts. Sigs were swiss made guns. They we
re used all over the world, but there was a specific group I knew of that used them exclusively. I pulled out the leather wallet I’d taken off the body and ripped it open. I found a passport inside. A diplomatic passport issued by the Holy See in Vatican City.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Deckland.”
I didn’t turn. I was too busy feeling my paranoia strangle me.
“Deckland!”
“What?”
I turned. Carl was standing on the stage. He had the P64 up and pointed at someone. It took a fraction of a second to take it all in. Standing at the edge of the shadows with his hands up, was a man dressed in all black. It wasn’t the Johnny Cash look that grabbed my attention. It was the white collar at his neck that stood out against the black shirt and his dark skin. He was dressed like a Catholic priest, and that was the last bit of the puzzle that fell into place for me.
9
I unfolded the 552’s stock and pulled it to my shoulder. I checked the chamber as I walked up the stage, finger on the trigger. I was ready to shoot the bastard if he blinked in a way I didn’t like.
“Carl, go get the truck and bring it around to the side of the building.”
I could see the green glow of an exit sign in the shadows, and I wasn’t about to go out front covered in blood and carrying a small arsenal of guns.
Carl didn’t move.
“Carl, go!”
Raising my voice did the trick. He lowered the P64 and took off at a run to the front door.
I kept my focus on the man in the shadows. He looked like he was in his late forties. Well over six feet, he was slender and lithe. He had short hair and a goatee that had grey mixing in with the black.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
His eyes were steady in the darkness despite the gun pointed at him and the Hellions corpses. It wasn’t his first rodeo. Interesting.
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