The constant need for food, an ancient covenant inherent in the genetic make-up of the creature, had awakened him hundreds of times before to grasp new life in a grim paradox: to suck the blood of his prey for life-giving nourishment while his victims became cold and eternally still. Suddenly he grew quiet and listened.
The rip of a burst of automatic rifle fire echoed from some distance away. Adramelech sniffed the air. War? Images of wounded soldiers lying helplessly on the battlefields with great, gaping, bleeding wounds immediately flooded into his head.
If there was a battle, he fervently hoped for living among the causalities. Though he could feed on the dead, he ached for a victim with a pulsing heart to drive coursing rivulets of warm, sweet blood down his throat; to allow him to benignly nurse at a well-opened artery like a contented babe. Once satiated, healed and rested, he would regain his powers of shape-shifting and move undetected among mankind as he continued his work.
The horror rose and moved swiftly through the tropical ferns and palm fronds of the Panamanian jungle, an unholy expectation surging through ice-cold veins.
The Awakening heralded the coming of a remorseless aberration – a spawn of hell had risen to lay siege once more to the Forces of Light. Soon even the Hated One would be forced to acknowledge that evil had triumphed over goodness and Ball-Zebub would retake the name Lucifer and begin his rightful ascension into the Light.
As the Beast moved, he could taste the sweetness of life. Humanity would soon taste the bitterness of death.
~ 2 ~
Tonight, Clay Montague knew he might die.
But as a U.S. Lieutenant with the 3rd Ranger Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment out of Fort Benning, Georgia, now engaged in nightly missions against Panamanian Hunter Platoons along the Panamanian coast, he also admitted to himself that this feeling wasn’t particularly unusual. Operation Just Cause was in full swing. U.S. forces poured into the small Central American country to oust and capture dictator and strongmen Manuel Noriega. Panama City had already fallen to American forces as well as the airport, areas near the Panama Canal and Rio Hato. But though the majority of the 16,000 member Panamanian Defense Force (PDFs) had been defeated, there were still pockets scattered throughout the countryside in small garrisons called “cuartels.”
To avoid needless killings, U.S. Forces had created “capitulation missions” and sent Special Forces’ elements with Spanish-speaking liaison officers, to arrange and coordinate the PDF surrender. While most garrisons quickly laid down their arms, contingents of hard core resistance fighters had also fled and night missions had become extremely dangerous. With the PDFs showing unexpected resilience and their Hunter Platoons not to be trifled with on their own turf, Clay’s orders were to find them, coordinate their surrender or neutralize them.
As a fairly serious Catholic, the 24-year-old prepared for his patrols by confronting his own mortality and expressing contrition for his sins; his faith always gave him comfort.
From his crouched position by a scrub palm somewhere deep in the jungle near the Atlantic side of the Panama Canal, Clay straightened his six-foot frame. He wiped sweat from the corners of a wide, handsome mouth. Flint-grey eyes peered from his grease-darkened face and raked the darkened jungle. He brushed dirt off his jungle battle dress.
Not a leaf stirred, not a bush moved.
Removing his M-1 steel helmet, he ran fingers through his thick brown hair now soaked with sweat and bog-tainted humidity. He waited a moment longer before finally shouldering the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, a SAW light machine gun capable of delivering a devastating volume of 5.56 mm slugs at the rate of 725 rounds per minute. He signaled his ten men to get ready to move out from the protective cover of the Mangrove thicket.
SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT....
A small inner voice nagged him, challenging his professional confidence. He ignored it. After all, they merely had to cross a small, unprotected clearing. No big deal...maybe.
He looked up.
The silvery disc of a bloated full moon slipped silently behind a thick cloud and a grey shroud settled over the jungle like a huge, humid blanket. He waved his arm and one-by-one his men moved like phantoms in the night, shadowy, furtive, hunched-over gnomes scurrying frantically for fresh cover in a jungle ripe with hidden peril. Quickly he followed them. Reaching the other side of the clearing, they again concealed themselves amongst the ferns, sedge, and mangrove forest; all motion ceased and they turned to hushed figures of stone.
Silently they waited.
He scanned the area....
Nothing moved.
Grinning inwardly at his own angst, he tried to shrug off the unsettled feeling gnawing at him. His point men were out, the jungle was alive with sounds and there were no fresh traces of the enemy. Every sign indicated they were secure for the moment.
Still the feeling refused to leave. It whispered that somehow, tonight, tragedy was poised to strike. Perhaps in the form of a stray enemy patrol, the deadly bite of a bushmaster or copperhead, or a bunch of coarsely-woven, grass-mat-covered punji pits housing upright, sharpened stakes ready to impale some poor soldier like a hapless butterfly crucified by an entomologist’s straight pin.
Clay was grateful for one advantage. As a prior Panamanian ally, their U.S. unit had availed itself of American jungle warfare training facilities at Fort Sherman Military Reservation and the Pina Range Complex right in Panama. There they had trained throughout 2,300 acres of both single and double canopy jungle, now enabling them to read their surroundings like natives.
WATCH OUT...!
Goddamnit, he was being as careful as he could. He shrugged off the inner voice and glanced down the barely visible overgrown pathway stretching into the night mist.
The motionless air steamed with humidity. Beads of sweat ran down Clay’s face. The moon finally slipped from behind the cloud and bathed the area in a blue-white wash casting deep, fragmented shadows along the jungle trail.
The sounds of feeders seeking their prey suddenly exploded in death screams as the hunted squirmed helplessly in the jaws of a predator. Its life was quickly snuffed out in a squealing, savage tearing of flesh and crunching of bone. Clay felt a momentary sympathy as the screams gurgled shrilly in mid-note and went silent. The hush uttered a finality that only death could bring.
The night scene was beautiful, Clay thought. Possibly more alluring if every patch of black didn’t have the potential to hide death. He glanced up at a break in the leafy forest canopy at the mass of stars winking silently in the black sky. The jungle was alive.
Time to move out.
Clay lifted his hand and the patrol rose as one and made ready to trudge on. Cursing the heat, and nervously swinging their weapons to the left and right to cover the shadows, the men made their way cautiously down the trail. Adrenaline levels surged at the slightest noise or the barest glimmer of movement; restless eyes probed every leafy nook and cranny of the jungle. Silently, they bore the stress of knowing that at any moment an enemy ambush could send a withering hail of fire into their ranks and literally cut them to pieces.
Ahead, Clay held up a hand.
The gesture was repeated down the line of ten men, bone weary in their heavy battle gear. Warily they came to a halt, teeth and eyes shining like beacons through the camouflage grease.
Looking back Clay whispered: “We look like a damn traveling minstrel show.” His half-hearted attempt to ease the tension caused a few men to grin; others made no sign they’d heard. Edgy, Clay thought.
His disquiet lingered.
SOMETHING IS TERRIBLY WRONG....
A quick burst of machine gun fire echoed in the distance. What the hell...?
The jungle immediately grew silent again but his suspicions were confirmed. The enemy was obviously on the move. A few more distant shots rang out. Time to trust those instincts alright, to pay heed to the tiny, visceral voice from his gut that warned of subliminal changes in jungle and animal patterns.
The hair o
n Clay’s neck prickled upward....
The jungle maintained its deadly quiet! How close were they?
Not a bird, not a cricket, not an animal stirred in a jungle that, moments before, had pulsed with a cacophony of life.
Breathlessly the patrol waited and listened, aching, straining to penetrate the sudden silence, to pick up the slightest snap of a branch whipping back on a uniform, the rustle of leaves betraying movement, or the careful tread of a combat boot on the move.
The hairs on the back of Clay’s neck were literally at attention now....
SOMETHING IS NEAR....
The ten men tensed; uneasy and sweating, they waited....
After five minutes of remaining motionless Clay could feel the strain in every muscle and bone. Nerves were strung as taunt as bow strings.
They waited another two minutes....
Still nothing, not a whisper.
The resumption of the jungle sounds began almost as abruptly as they had ceased. The incessant babble of night predators running, slithering, or winging their way through the moist air mixed with the squawk of prey being run to the ground. Insects buzzed madly. A few howler monkeys screamed their rage at being awakened by the distant shooting and their personal instinct for danger; a sudden, heavenly cool breeze wafted through the trees.
Clay breathed a sigh of relief and slapped at an insect whining around his ear. The jungle was telling him there was nothing nearby. Perhaps the fire came from a nervous sentry at a jungle outpost. He checked his map; they were heading for a valley.
He dismissed the persistent little voice that continued to warn of doom and gloom.
Still, it nattered on.
~ 3 ~
FOOD!
Adramelech moved swiftly through the jungle, scales of lifeless tissue continuing to drop from a grotesque body as cells magically divided and multiplied to replace the aged and worn features. But the replacements, while functional, seemed lifeless and misshapen, ugly, mutated caricatures of reality; genetics somehow gone terribly amiss.
In his frantic evolution, this creature of darkness had passed oddity and even monstrosity to become a living nightmare – one that would send most humans screaming into the night. Later, however, when he was at full strength, he would be able to shape-shift into a form more acceptable to humanity, a useful and diabolical camouflage.
But now he cared not, intent only on the desperation of the hunt, the expectation of filling his belly with thick, soupy blood and the wildness of stalking his prey. Running a close second to the need for food, was a crazed desire for revenge, a burning need to kill, to avenge himself for the indignity of the Deathsleep.
Bred for the challenge, this champion of evil knew neither remorse nor conscience. Hunger drove the Beast to conform to the way of the jungle – hunt, kill and eat. Once fed, a diabolical, satanic intellect would awaken and pedagogy – not instinct – would rule his course.
He was a fearsome sight plunging through the night, now almost three hundred pounds of death, glowering eyes scanning the thick, tropical vegetation and long arms ripping leafy fern plants and small trees from his path as he moved. Small and large animals scurried for cover as the rampage quickened. Explosive grunts of effort hissed from his nostrils.
He could smell the blood of fresh kills.
~ 4 ~
Clay squinted at the glowing numerals of his watch: 0200 hours.
After searching most of the valley, they hadn’t found any signs of a PDF outpost. At a brief nod from him, the men shrugged out of their ammo-laden belts and backpacks, rested their weapons and dropped quietly to the left and right of the trail in exhaustion.
Clay waved a rifleman out to relieve the point man.
Strange how a kid from the green hills of Vermont could wind up in such a tropical hellhole. Lately he almost wished he’d finished veterinary school and taken over his father’s small animal hospital in Newport. Instead, as a young man he had been cursed with itchy feet – a longing to see what was over the next hill. His sense for adventure eventually led him to an army recruiting office.
It was only after trading stories with men from his platoon, many who had come from the New York, Boston or Philadelphia projects that Clay realized what a privileged life he’d led in Newport. His youth had been one of a father and mother devoted to him and his sister, Holly. He had graduated from stickball to baseball, cubs to scouts and, as a young boy resisting the company of girls, to adolescence when he desired their company more than anything else on earth. And, as a good-looking, personable young man with New England manners and a healthy respect for the rights and needs of others, he’d never been short of dates either at Sacred Heart High or at the University of Vermont. In fact, his teen-age years were a blur of drive-in movies, bowling, afternoons at the malt shop, swimming in Lake Memphremagog, and backseat adventures with his girl friends. Now, he carried a weapon for his country.
Not that the army had turned out to be half bad for an officer. The recruiting office was only too glad to pick up a fit young fellow with his education. After fourteen weeks at Officer Candidate School at West Point, and then attending the Officer Basic Course, he received his commission as a 2nd Lieutenant. He volunteered for Ranger School and graduated three months later.
Two weeks after graduation, he’d been at his mother’s bedside as she prepared for surgery for invasive carcinoma highlighted by two lumps in her throat. Over the next six month, she’d endured repeat surgeries, and radiation and chemotherapy until her small body was a mere walking skeleton.
In turn, Clay found himself spending more and more time in chapels begging God to spare her; she didn’t deserve this hell. Instead, though the statues of Jesus, Mary and Joseph stared down on him with carefully crafted, plaster-cast looks of benevolence, there was but a cold, empty silence that emanated from them.
Ironically, as though sensing his anger and disappointment with his Catholicism, his mother’s words to him in a thin, reedy, pain-filled voice that was not hers were: “Don’t give up your faith, Clay. God hears. He just sometimes says no....”
Later, with his father and Holly out of the room taking a well-deserved break for a coffee in the hospital cafeteria, Clay felt her pressing her long-worn golden Crucifix into his hands with a request for him not to be sad. “Remember: All that matters in life is love and it never dies; it simply changes.” Moments later, exhausted by a life no longer tolerable, she slipped away. Clay silently left the room, angry with a God that abandoned a harmless, loving woman to such a horrible death.
After a week of compassionate leave spent with his father and Holly, he’d returned to a variety of postings including providing covert support for DEA agents in Colombia, and finally, action in Panama. His father, heartbroken over their mother’s death, sold his Newport veterinarian practice and moved in with Holly in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Four months later, Clay attended his father’s funeral. The doctor’s unofficial diagnosis: his father died of a broken heart.
Clay clicked the safety on the M249. He looked up at his men quietly kneading tired muscles, re-lacing boots and putting on fresh DEET insect repellent. Though prepared for combat, there was a sense of relief in knowing that U.S. forces had overwhelmed the PDFs loyal to General Noriega and that the action had a definitive life measured in days. It was strange how one dictator could make thousands pay for his personal ambitions.
General Noriega was such a man in a banana republic sort of way. But when the general had tried to cling to power by voiding election results and having his irregular paramilitary units called “Dignity Battalions” (DIG BATs) beat up political opposition leaders, it ran afoul of the United States of America. His other mistake was that his regime’s paranoia made daily existence for U.S. forces and other U.S. citizens unsafe. For instance, when the government declared a state of war existed with the U.S., and Americans were harassed culminating with a marine lieutenant being killed, the general assumed his past relationship with the U.S. would ensure everything wo
uld be handled diplomatically. Instead the U.S. State Department decided he had stepped over the line this time. The abrupt departure of U.S. noncombatants signaled the ultimate arrival of a U.S. invasion force.
A low whistle sounded from farther down the path and the point men came back in, nodding quietly to Clay as they passed and slumped down beside the others.
“God, I need a weed,” Sergeant Rufus Token hissed from down the line.
“This is the no smoking section, Sarge,” Corporal Figaro whispered with a grin from the other side of the trail. No one smoked on patrol.
Token, a huge black man of about 30 from Detroit, looked over at the small Italian from Brooklyn. His white teeth glistened in the dark. “I’m gonna whup your ass if you don’t show me no respect, white boy.”
The corporal responded with a crooked grin and threw Token a can of bourbon-flavored Copenhagen chewing tobacco. The man nodded, popped a generous chaw into his cheek and threw the can back.
Clay slapped at another mosquito and cursed as perspiration ran down between his shoulder blades making him itch. He could take the enemy, the dirt and even the insects but the eternal heat and unrelenting humidity sapped his strength and endurance. Yanking his Ka-Bar combat knife out of a scabbard attached to his leg, he probed at a maddening itch on his back.
No doubt about it, when his hitch was finished, there was no way he’d re-up.
~ 5 ~
Adramelech stopped. Gently he tested the air with his nostrils and cursed his dependency on the human nourishment he needed to give him life. Just as the Hated One had shed the sacred blood of His Son to give humanity eternal life, Satan had decreed that Adramelech must rely on human blood to also give him life – an irony ensuring he would wreak havoc on God’s pitiful creations. Blood for blood.
The Plan Page 2
