The Haunts of Cruelty

by R. G. Ryan

  An inhuman cry suddenly cut through the night, carried along on a cruel wind.

  “’The hell was that?” Washington muttered.

  I knew.

  I knew exactly what it was and from whose throat it had been torn.

  Paul Morgan was on the prowl.

  “That was Paul Morgan, or what used to be Paul Morgan. Who or what he is at present remains to be seen.”

  “Well,” Washington said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not meet whatever it is that made that sound.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Washington and I walked a bit in silence, each of us on high alert.

  The wind, blowing steadily from the southeast, knifed through our tactical jackets and body armor as if they weren’t even there. It made me wonder what Cassie wore to fend off the cold. Based on Eddie’s description, I imagined that it wasn’t much.

  The same inhuman cry came again, raising involuntary hackles along my neck.

  “You really think that’s coming from Morgan?” Washington asked.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Washington was sweeping the area behind and to the side of us with his weapon light.

  “I didn’t think a human throat was capable of making that kind of sound.”

  “I know. But it’s him.”

  “Sounded to me like someone or something—“

  “In great pain?” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “Now that you mention it…yeah.” Then he shouted, “I swear, anything that moves out there is DEAD!”

  “What do you say we keep moving?” I asked over my shoulder while keeping my eyes on the narrow trail in front of us.

  “Heard that.”

  Having walked steadily uphill for thirty minutes, the narrow trail finally seemed to level out somewhat and now paralleled a steep drop-off. Two more times we heard the cry and each time we stopped moving in an attempt to pinpoint a direction of origin.

  Unsuccessfully, I might add.

  Washington said quietly, “I would feel much better about life if we knew where that noise was coming from.” He swept the beam from his weapon light across the area we had just traversed and continued, “Don’t be hatin’ on me now, but I’m starting to think that I don’t want nothing to do with that—“

  As the beam illuminated the battered form of Paul Morgan, to Washington’s shame, he shrieked like a girl.

  I added my light to Washington’s, and together they revealed a face right out of a nightmare. Morgan was standing, reeling actually, about twenty feet behind us. He was swaying; his breathing was ragged and you didn’t have to be a medical professional to see that he was in rough shape.

  “Well, Mr. Moriarity,” Morgan croaked. “We meet again.”

  “Agent Washington with the FBI!” Washington said loudly as he drew down on him with his .500. “Show me your hands and get on the ground. You try to get squirrely, and I will personally blow you to hell and gone! So, you stay cool, you hear?”

  Laughter erupted from Morgan’s lips, chilling me far more than I would have believed possible.

  I stared at the man…at least, I think he was a man. His face was disfigured from either a beating or a fall. Knowing my niece, I was figuring the former. Whatever the case, his features, as I remembered them, were unrecognizable. But there was something more. Whereas before I had merely speculated regarding some form of multiple personalities at work, I was now convinced.

  As Morgan’s laughter died down he said, “And what if I don’t comply, Mr. FBI man? You really going to kill me?”

  He followed the question with more insane laughter.

  “Paul!” I said sharply.

  For some reason the laughter immediately stopped and his head swiveled until his one good eye found me.

  “I’ll assume you are referring to me, Moriarity, although I can’t say for sure that I still exist.”

  The voice coming out of that ruined face was completely normal, which only increased the inordinate terror that seemed intent on reducing my resolve to tatters.

  “Paul, I want you to take us to Cassie.”

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Cassie. Our blue-eyed, flaxen-haired goddess of desire—delight of all who have sampled her charms—“

  “Hey!” Washington hollered. “I gave you an order. Now get on the ground, or I will put you there and I guarantee you, you will not like that experience one bit. Now, do as I have requested, and you won’t be hurt.”

  “And I won’t be hurt? Hmmm, won’t be hurt.” Morgan suddenly bellowed, “Don’t you mean I won’t be hurt more than I already am?” He pointed to his face. “Look what she did to me! Won’t be hurt! Well, someone is going to be hurt, I promise you that. When I find your niece, Moriarity, and her meddling little girlfriend, I will kill them both, exquisitely and slowly.”

  Rather than respond to his raving, I said, “You mean you don’t know where Cassie is?”

  “I know exactly where she is!”

  Washington leveled his gun at him.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of whatever this game is. Let’s go,”

  “Oooh, is this the part where you threaten me again if I don’t cooperate?” Morgan mocked. “Oooh, I’m so scared. Stop. Please stop!”

  Washington didn’t seem to know what to make of the situation. And when he glanced my way, I saw something in his eyes that really concerned me.

  He shouted, “That’s it! I’m not going to tell you again, Morgan.”

  “Ummm, I don’t think so.”

  Almost faster than we could follow he was on us. There is no way for a healthy man to move that quickly, let alone someone as seriously wounded as he. Nevertheless, the fist I found arcing toward my face was very real. Having successfully ducked the first blow, I felt Washington moving beside me. I could tell immediately that agent Washington was no stranger to street fights. That experience, plus his size, was currently being employed to pile-drive the already battered Morgan into the rocky surface of the path.

  With his opponent lying helpless on the ground Washington relaxed his stance and backed slowly toward where I stood.

  “What are we gonna’ do now?” he asked, breathing heavily.

  “We wait around for him to come to.”

  “And, why we wanna do that? Just asking.”

  “He’s the only one who can lead us to Cassie.” After a beat, I added, “So we have to find a way to take him with us.”

  “You mean, like carry him or something?”

  “Or something.”

  My peripheral vision picked up movement and I turned just in time to see Morgan crawl to his feet in no apparent pain.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Washington said in disbelief right before Morgan lifted him effortlessly off the ground and tossed him into the ravine. Sounds of thuds and grunts carried upwards to my ears as Washington’s body tumbled down the steep incline.

  As Morgan turned to face me, I tossed my HK aside and sprinted toward him. Most people aren’t prepared for an opponent running full-speed toward them, having been trained to adopt one stance or another and duke it out like real men. In full stride, I hit him right under the chin with my right hand, lifting and driving him backwards until his feet went out from under him and then slamming him onto his back against the unforgiving surface of the path.

  While he was still coming to terms with what had just happened, I pinned his left arm under my weight, reached across his body and grabbed his right arm pulling it behind his head, and started beating the bloody hell out of his face. While I was doing so, he turned his good eye toward me and maneuvered his misshapen mouth into the semblance of a smile.

  “That’s all you got, Moriarity? I’m different from the last time you put your hands on me.”

  And with that, he threw me off of him and jumped to his feet.

  Now, Paul Morgan is about 5’9” and all of a buck-sixty, but he threw my 6’1” and two hundred and twenty pound bo
dy to the side as if I weighed nothing.

  It was right about then that I realized my decision to take him on in hand-to-hand combat was most likely ill advised. I also realized that the dilation I had seen earlier in the pupil of his one good eye was almost certainly what I had suspected—that he had ingested some kind of designer drug.

  He stood there, utterly still; not saying a word. Just staring at me with that lone, bulging eyeball. Then, without warning, he threw back his head and let loose with another one of those unearthly shrieks. I was getting really, really tired of it.

  He bellowed, “How do you like me now?” and started to run toward me.

  I say, “started”, because at the last second he veered sharply away from me and ran up the path in the same direction we had been going.

  The sound of heavy breathing caused me to jump up quickly with my weapon leveled and ready to fire. Washington had crawled the final two feet of the ascent and now lay collapsed on the narrow pathway, breathing heavily.

  I walked quickly to help the fallen agent.

  “Washington, you all right?”

  “I think so. Just give me a minute here to catch my breath.”

  “Does it feel like anything is broken?”

  “Believe it or not, no. I’m pretty scratched up though.”

  I played the beam of my weapon light over him.

  “I don’t see any deep gashes. Your clothes have seen better days though.”

  With obvious effort, Washington rolled to one side and using his arms pushed himself into a sitting position.

  “Oh baby, that hurts.”

  “Where?”

  “Well, let’s see…my ribs, my neck, my back—shall I go on?”

  I smiled wryly.

  “No, no that’s all right—I think I get the picture.”

  “I think the only place where I don’t hurt is my arm pits. No, cancel that. They hurt too.”

  “Think you can stand?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Washington slowly gathered his legs under him as I stood to assist.

  “That’s actually not so bad. Let me try a step or two.”

  “Want some help or do you want to try it on your own?”

  “Let me give it a try and see how far I get.”

  He took a tentative first step, wincing with the effort, but discovered that his ankles and knees seemed to be relatively free from serious injury.

  “I think I can do this. I mean, I may not be running any races, but I can walk. Where is Morgan?” he asked while retrieving his pistol.

  In answer, I gestured up the trail.

  “We were in the middle of a tussle, and he had started to charge me when it was almost like he had received a message that countermanded his decision. He took off up the trail moving at a faster clip than either one of us are capable of executing at present.”

  Washington was shaking his head.

  “Even more weird shit to add to the growing pile. You think he was going after Cassie?”

  “I’m sure of it. I have to keep moving even if you aren’t able.”

  “I think I’m good to go,” he replied. “Gotta tell you, though…that little bastard scares the shit outta’ me! I’ve never personally encountered anyone under the influence of one of those drugs. It’s creepy! I mean the way he just picked me up and threw me. Hell, Jake, I’m two hundred and fifty pounds buck-nekkid, and with all of this gear on…”

  “I know. It’s pretty amazing what the human body is capable of when the brain’s natural protective tendencies are overridden and muscles can achieve full contraction without the brain stepping in to prevent injury.”

  “So, you sayin’ that every time he does shit like that, his body is breaking down?”

  I said, “I don’t know enough about it to offer anywhere near expert opinion, but think about it: an out of shape, slender-framed man like Paul Morgan manhandled the both of us. The stress on his ligaments and tendons, let alone the potential tearing of muscle fibers, has to catch up with him eventually. Drugs or no drugs, he’s still flesh and blood, gristle and bone. You can only mask pain for so long.”

  “And what if he has another one of those little pills? What then?”

  Indeed.

  “Well, I guess I’d have to say that eventually his heart will blow up.”

  Washington nodded.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  And with that, we started walking toward the spot on the map where we believed we’d find the entrance to the mine, hoping like hell that Paul Morgan wasn’t waiting for us.

  Chapter Forty

  Cassie opened her eyes in the subterranean darkness, the dizziness, headache, and nausea now more intense than ever before.

  Something hissed.

  Snakes!

  She hated snakes more than death itself.

  Could snakes climb up the sides of the cart? She wracked her brain trying to recall what she had read in the past about certain reptilian species.

  But, what if it wasn’t a snake? What if it was something unique to subterranean environs—an undiscovered species?

  “Hold it together, Cass,” she whispered.

  Her first attempt at standing produced results that in any other circumstance would have been deemed comical. The cart had moved slightly throwing off her equilibrium and causing her to windmill her arms for balance, ultimately winding up back where she started.

  In the silence, whether actual or as a result of an overactive imagination, she was certain she heard the sound of scales scraping across rusty rails.

  Many, many scales.

  Maybe getting out of the cart wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Resting where she had fallen, Cassie mulled over the prospect of climbing out of the cart and stepping on top of a writhing, coil of serpents.

  “Not gonna happen,” she breathed.

  Then again, what if there weren’t really snakes out there? What if she had imagined it? She hadn’t seen any when she ventured out before. Then again, she hadn’t been able to see anything, nor could she now.

  Pulling herself up by the edge of the cart, she strained her eyes in a futile attempt to pierce the darkness.

  It was no good. All the effort produced was a return of the churning nausea.

  “So, I either sit here and die, or I get out and die? That’s it? Those are my options?”

  She sat down and had just leaned back against the side when she suddenly blurted out, “Nope! Gotta’ go.”

  Using the pick for balance, she stood and faced the edge of the cart, trying to fight off the dizziness long enough to throw her leg over the side and climb out.

  Then she paused, saying out loud, “I have absolutely no idea where to even start looking for a way out.”

  By simply following the tracks back the way you came, wouldn’t you eventually come to the entrance?

  The thought lanced suddenly through her consciousness, like a lightening bolt splitting a summer sky.

  “Where did that come from?”

  An inhuman cry from some distance away pierced the silence causing her body to jerk violently in fright.

  If gravity got the cart down here, then what did they use to get it back to the surface?

  She shook her head from side-to-side as if clearing away the cobwebs.

  Look for a pulley system.

  “This isn’t happening!” she shouted into the darkness.

  It’s not beyond your reach.

  “Not beyond my reach? What the hell does that even mean?”

  Were those her thoughts? Had to be. Who else…

  “Okay,” she said loudly. “Who is this? Is it, like, God…or something? Is that what’s going on?”

  As before, the scream caught her by surprise. This time, though still distant, it seemed closer.

  It’s not beyond your reach.

  For no other reason than the fact that she couldn’t take
it anymore, she stood on tiptoes and threw one leg over the side intending to get out of the cart and in so doing felt her head collide with something overhead. Feeling in concentric circles all around, gradually working higher and higher, her hands finally encountered what felt like a rope. As she worked her way slowly back along its length, she came to a large iron wheel that could only be a pulley!

  It’s not beyond your reach.

  “Oh…”

  As for the rest, it wasn’t hard to figure out. She gave the rope a tentative pull and was rewarded by the cart moving slightly. How many times over the past twelve hours had she told herself that it was over, that she was spent? And yet she now felt a surge of energy.

  The image came literally out of nowhere—Paul Morgan, feet planted firmly, hands on hips standing defiantly right in her path illuminated by a light source beyond her comprehension.

  “You’re not real!” she shouted into the darkness.

  “I am as real as you are and if you come any further I will destroy you.”

  “You’re not real, Morgan. You’re dead. I killed you…remember?”

  For an apparition, he seemed convincingly substantial.

  That is, until he vanished.

  “Losing it here, Cassie. Losing it big time.”

  Fear not.

  “Look, whoever you are, if you want to know the truth, I’m scared to death and I won’t pretend that I’m not,” she yelled back at the voice in her mind.

  After another attempt at fighting off the vertigo, she renewed her efforts at pulling on the rope and felt the cart moving beneath her with relative ease. She recalled a thrill-ride she and Michael had ridden the previous summer where the gondola went along for a bit on level ground and then without warning, started up an incredibly steep incline. So steep that the only thing that prevented them from plummeting backward were the cogs in the gears on the undercarriage that allowed it to claw its way to the top. Little by little, it became clear to her that eventually she would face a similar situation—only there were no gears, just her two hands and a rope. No sooner had the thought entered her consciousness than she found herself at the climb.