by N. J. Mercer
Pike’s final scream pierced the air; Martin’s ears pricked up and his hair stood on end. Finally, the earth closed over his friend and muffled his cry once and for all. There were only the sounds of shouting and running from the house now, drifting towards the place where Peter Pike had been dragged into the ground.
It was not far to the perimeter wall, if he kept quiet he would make it, and from there it was only a short distance to the car. He could get away and come back for Rachel again with a different plan. He ran quietly through the night, stealthily, fast, putting plenty of metres between himself and the house. Disciples must be everywhere by now, he thought. It didn’t concern him because even if he was spotted and chased, he would still be able to get to the car before being caught. I’m on the home straight.
**
Through the ground, it felt the vibration from Martin’s frantic run. It knew Martin; his footfall, his breath and the beat of his heart were all very familiar; it even knew the electrical aura of his body. Its tiny brain started to think: Why is he running at this time of night? What has happened to him? Why is he causing such a commotion?
The Bar-Shiyq may well have ignored Martin, but the master had sent it a message – no one was to get away. The feast it had already acquired tonight had really whetted its appetite. Make it one more, it could be years before a chance like this comes along again; treat yourself tonight. Feel him running; feel his heart racing, where does he think he’s going? Does he not know that I am everywhere?
**
In the darkness, and in his haste, Martin did not notice the line of disrupted soil speeding towards him, heading unavoidably on a trajectory that would intercept his run. He fell and cursed the tree root he believed had tripped him. He got up quickly to continue; his foot would not move. It felt as if it was being squeezed tightly and he thought he must have sprained his ankle – and then there was the sensation of something crawling up his leg.
Still gasping for breath from his run, he strained to pull his leg free, just like Peter Pike had earlier. As he did so, he spotted the long narrow line of upturned soil and lawn which ended at his foot. The leathery tentacle that emerged from it had wrapped itself around his ankle and was now sliding up his leg, slowly, silently all the way to the knee.
Tired and breathless, Martin still found the strength to try to free his trapped limb by desperately twisting and turning his body. As he struggled, he looked over his shoulder for the first time since trying to escape and saw four men in long dark clothing exchanging words over the pile of soil where Peter Pike had been. They seemed unaware of his presence. He still had the hunting knife from Pike’s shoulder bag and started slashing at the tentacle – it was all he could do, it hadn’t worked before, he didn’t expect it to work now. With the circulation strangled, his leg was starting to feel numb – and then the jerks started, just as they had done with Peter Pike. He felt his foot being firmly pulled into the ground and crushed. He stabbed and slashed desperately; the leathery hide of the tentacle remained mostly impenetrable to the knife. The hopelessness of it made his heart sink. He had to do something else; the thing simply was not affected by the knife no matter how he used it. Further, intensely painful jerks pulled his leg underground up to the shin. The portion of his limb beneath the soil felt mangled. There was only one thing he could think of to save himself: he whipped off his leather belt and cut off a small section with the knife to hold between his teeth. The rest of it he strapped tightly around his thigh as a tourniquet.
He brought the knife down steadily, penetrating the tissue of his own leg above the knee, almost biting through the leather between his teeth. The pain was excruciating; his desperation made anything possible. The knife sliced back and forth, and the lower part of his thigh became a bloody mess. More than once he almost passed out. He dreaded the moment when he would reach bone and have to use the hunting knife’s serrated edge.
The tentacle tightened and jerked downwards again. He grunted as a new wave of pain shot through him; his leg was now beneath the ground up to his knee.
The sound of laughter interrupted his plight. At first, he thought he was hallucinating; on turning around he saw a familiar figure standing over him – how long this man had been there he did not know.
“Oh, Martin!” said the figure between obscene giggles, gently shaking his head. “Cutting off your own leg – wonderful, Martin – a man cutting off his own leg? Now I have seen it all.”
“Edward, you fucking bastard,” Martin drawled in response to the sadistic figure behind him. He was breathing rapidly, his body suddenly convulsed with pain from the wound in his leg; he let out a scream of frustration and sent the knife spinning through the air towards his tormentor. In a flash, the man in black robes extended his arm and held out the palm of his hand. In defiance of all the laws of physics, the spinning blade rebounded in mid-air as if it were deflected by an invisible wall and completed its flight by landing harmlessly on the grass, not far from its thrower.
“Damn you!” screamed Martin as blood loss from the wound in his leg caused his consciousness to falter. There was another jerk and another agonised scream, and his leg was pulled further into the ground. The dark-caped figure moved closer; Martin was too weak to do anything except lie there and curse repeatedly with fading breaths. The man crouched beside Martin’s injured limb and sniggered as he shook his head. He gently stroked the tapering tip of the tentacle as if he were petting a dog or a cat. The ground shook with a distant rumble that emanated from deep within the soil causing Martin to start suddenly.
The tentacle unravelled itself and slid away back into the lawn. The dark figure, still crouching, stared at Martin intently. Martin looked back, panting, no longer having the strength to even swear aloud. Edward reached over and held Martin’s head between both his hands and stared deep into his eyes. Martin could feel the man’s fingers pressing firmly against his scalp followed by the sensation of ice-cold metal spikes stabbing into his brain. He realised what was happening and allowed himself to pass out, blocking the other man from seeing into his mind. Edward smiled, kissed Martin’s forehead and walked away.
Martin regained consciousness sporadically. He became aware of many hands reaching for him, lifting him off the ground and carrying him away. He tried to thrash around but only had the strength to rock slowly in the grip of his captors, one of whom admonished him gently for his efforts. “Stop moving, it’ll do you no good. You’ll be dead without medical attention – now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” There was laughter from the other carriers.
**
Rachel lay in bed. Beneath her nightdress she wore a sports top and tracksuit bottoms. She had not been able to sleep; this was the night Martin told her he would come. She lay in the dark beneath her duvet, earnestly clutching its top edge up against her chin, anxiously waiting for him. Just be ready, she remembered him saying; she hoped he would come. She tried to remember what she had packed into her rucksack so that nothing would be forgotten, the little bag sitting in the wardrobe, waiting for her to grab it and run away.
A few moments earlier, she had heard noises outside, loud bangs like firecrackers and even a distant scream, it had frightened her terribly. She was unable to bring herself to the window to see what was going on. That horrible scream! Who was that? she had asked herself. Was it Martin? It didn’t sound like him. What were those bangs?
These questions went through her mind over and over again as she lay there waiting. The clock by the bedside showed 3:13 a.m. What has happened to Martin? He said he would come.
She kept her eyes on the timepiece until tearfully she realised nobody would be coming tonight. Finally, tiredness overcame her and she slipped into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 14
Sleeping amongst his friends in the motorhome, Johnny dreamed. He was descending from the sky towards the old woman in the valley, she looked up at him. Unlike the last time, he did not awaken. Instead, he gazed back into her round, rosy face and milky gr
ey eyes. She spoke to him.
“We only have a day,” she said, “a day to maintain Earth’s alignment. Hurry, Johnny! Please help.”
Johnny woke up suddenly; it was not because of the dream. Somebody was whispering in his ear and a small hand was covering his mouth.
“Hey, Johnny, wake up!” said the voice.
With his tired, puffy eyes he could just about make out a small face in the darkness – it was Baccharus. The familiar had returned from his trip to the Council. Baccharus moved his hand from Johnny’s mouth and placed a stubby little finger to his own lips, urging his keeper to remain silent.
“Listen,” he whispered, “and keep very quiet.”
Johnny lay still and listened carefully, just as his familiar had instructed. At first, the only sound he could discern was Boyd snoring away on the lower bunk; then he heard it too. Outside the motorhome there were footsteps scurrying around hurriedly. The steps were too fast and their rhythm too irregular to be human; occasionally, something would gently brush against the outside of the motorhome. He looked towards the window nearest him; the previous cloud cover seemed to have cleared judging by the pale blue moonlight that made the drawn curtains glow, allowing him to see the fleeting silhouettes of nearby figures. He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind to learn who, or what, was out there. The world of the five senses was replaced by abstract imagery and perception. He sensed four living beings around the motorhome; their aura was extraterrestrial and the psychic signature they projected had the distinct flavour of the Disciples of Disorder.
How did they find the motorhome? he asked himself as he lay there, perturbed that their movements had once again been traced. Boyd’s amulet would have ensured that they were psychically undetectable; therefore, they must have been seen and followed deduced Johnny. He remembered the feeling of being watched when they stopped at Page’s Park earlier; could it be that they had been tailed from there? Whatever the reason, Baccharus had raised the alarm now, so maybe this would be their chance to turn the tables and spring the surprise. Johnny shifted his mind back from psychic to physical perception and opened his eyes again.
“There are four of them and four of us – let’s wake everyone up,” he whispered to Baccharus.
The pair moved silently and steadily so as not to make a noise or rock the motorhome. Johnny crept over to Boyd who was still snoring and gave the big man a few gentle shakes. Boyd stirred then awoke abruptly, panicking, before settling down quickly on seeing Johnny who gestured for him to remain quiet and get ready. Baccharus had woken Sascha without any drama and both were already preparing for enemy contact. Neither of them moved far from their bunk – to do so might give them away.
Johnny quietly briefed everybody on what he had perceived from his earlier psychic sweep: there were four Disciples of Disorder outside who were unlikely to be human. ‘Summoned entity’ was the term Boyd had used earlier to describe Mr Kreb, and it could be applied here too, although the aura from this lot outside was nowhere near as potent as that of the demon-man. When Johnny had finished explaining, Sascha quietly retrieved the chainsaw he had found in the airfield hangar. Boyd glanced up at him and quietly commented on how scary the tall, quiet man looked with the power tool, just as Johnny had thought earlier in the hangar. For himself, Boyd took the compact automatic pistol from the special holster and then retrieved the big, high-calibre revolver from his bag. He offered either of his guns to the others; lacking the confidence to use them, they all politely turned him down. With a shrug, he kept a pistol in each hand, loaded and ready. Johnny and Baccharus planned to confront whatever was outside with psychic energy; as a precaution, Johnny also held on to the hatchet Sascha had brought along.
Prepared for combat, the four of them stood quietly and listened while Sascha used a special motion detector of his own design to try to fix a location on the enemy; he stared at the device’s miniature radar display and fiddled with one of its dials. There was a mechanical creaking sound from outside followed by a quiet tapping.
“They’re fucking with my bike,” whispered Boyd angrily, recognising the sounds. Sascha confirmed this with the motion detector. There was a quiet metallic noise from beneath the motorhome and it rocked gently, almost imperceptibly.
“They’re messing with our chassis now,” said Sascha.
“Let’s get the fuck out there before they do some serious sabotage,” said Baccharus.
The companions positioned themselves at three different exit points; the motion detector soon indicated that all four Disciples were now in a suitable location for engagement.
“Don’t let any of them get away,” whispered Baccharus.
Sascha gave a quiet countdown and they attacked. With a blood-curdling battle cry Boyd dived out of the front passenger door, the pistol in each of his hands immediately spitting bullets. On hitting the ground he rolled onto his belly. Much to his personal satisfaction, he was targeting a Demon Disciple while it was in the very act of sabotaging his motorbike, and his aim remained true despite the foul appearance of the creature. The demon was wrapped in a long, black, hooded cloak that barely covered its vile body. It was humanoid in size and shape. Mostly hairless, pale blue skin covered its sinuous build. The face beneath the hood was particularly offensive to behold: the smooth skin was pulled tightly over an elongated, angular skull that housed a wide mouth lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Deeply set, beady, yellow eyes looked on hatefully and there was no nose, just the hint of a snout with two cavernous nostrils. Beneath its cloak it was naked, and between its legs there sprouted long, grey pubic hair from amongst which dangled a thick blue member. It moved faster than any human could possibly have done and lashed out with long callused nails that tapered into razor-sharp points on the end of each finger. The demon screamed in anger and pain as Boyd’s slugs tore into it; the noise it made was unlike that of any earthly creature, an unnatural combination of cackle and wail, the sound of nature perverted.
Chunks of leathery pale skin flew off its disgusting torso as each bullet hit home. The creature tumbled away from the motorbike, still alive. Boyd reloaded quickly and advanced, his two guns blazing before him. Despite its gunshot wounds, the demon had enough strength left to lunge at its attacker; its movements were inhumanly quick. It flicked out its long arm in an arc that sent one of the pistols spinning out of Boyd’s hand while sharp nails removed the very tips of two of his fingers. Ignoring the injury, Boyd continued to shoot with the remaining pistol until it ran out of bullets.
Sascha had exited from the driver’s side door to set upon another of the foul beings; it too was wrapped in a black cloak like its brethren. To human eyes they were all identical in appearance, although there were probably ways amongst their own kind for differentiating between themselves. Sascha ran towards his target with chainsaw in hand, and despite desperate yanks at the cord its motor would not start; he changed his strategy and extended one of his lanky legs, catching the pale being squarely in its chest, knocking it backwards to the ground. The creature was stunned by the surprise attack. It tried to scramble up again onto its wiry legs and hideous paddle-like feet; Sascha kept it pinned to the ground with his own foot while frantically pulling the chainsaw cord to deliver the final killing blow. In trying to do this he had lost the initiative. The creature on the ground used its powerful arms and hands to twist Sascha’s ankle and simultaneously bring its large foot up to strike his testicles. Sascha recoiled and doubled over from this most painful of attacks, but it also caused him to yank harder on the chainsaw cord for that instant and its motor spluttered into life. He brought the buzzing tool down hard onto the demonic entity that lay beneath him, cutting the muscular torso into two messy halves, flicking vile, malodorous fluid and fleshy chunks into the night air. The Disciple of Disorder writhed in agony as it was sliced; its strange, bald head flicked from side to side, its little yellow eyes rolled, and it too produced the unearthly cackle.
Johnny and Baccharus had exited together from the mi
ddle cabin door and were confronted by only one of the demons. They baulked at its twisted face, wild yellow eyes and terrible mouth. Caught by surprise the creature took flight, its powerful limbs pumped away fiercely allowing it to run faster than any man could follow. Baccharus, being capable of actual flight, was most suited to give chase, which he promptly did. Almost immediately, Johnny noticed another Demon Disciple, the one intent on sabotage they had heard beneath the motorhome. It was lying on the ground with its upper body beneath the vehicle, its hairy groin and thin legs exposed. Before this most unfortunate of Disciples could realise that anything was the matter, Johnny had started raining down blows from the hatchet upon the lower half of the trapped demon. He felt the tool penetrate deeply, rupturing internal organs, piercing bowel and shattering bone as it did so. One of his swings almost lopped off the being’s mammoth member in its entirety. The demon writhed and kicked from beneath the vehicle; it was a lost struggle, the injuries it had received were mortal. Noxious fumes that stung the eyes poured forth from the pierced creature, a dark red, almost black, tar exuded from its wounds. Johnny could see angular shards of bone breaking through the surface layers of skin from the demon’s pulverised legs. He only stopped the onslaught after its agonised screams ebbed away to nothing, thus confirming the life force had left its physical form – he hoped.
The last of the demons, having taken flight into the woods, was now out of sight to all except Baccharus, who remained in close pursuit. The familiar flew fast and low, only a few feet above the ground, dodging in and out of the trees. Ahead of him, the creature grunted and growled as it ran, its powerful legs pounding the ground, driving it on. Baccharus tracked his quarry relentlessly, firing a bolt of psychic energy at it whenever he was presented with a shot. His target managed to deftly dodge some of these projectiles while others struck home, burning skin and muscle, producing great yelps of pain.
