PulpWork - Christmas Special 2011 (Joel Jenkins - The Christmas Eve Killers; Joshua Reynolds

by Merry John Mock) (epub)

  The sound of hooves became thunderous; it wasn’t the pounding of many, but the mighty gallop of four titan hooves. The ground shook and the people of Lecach set to singing the same bawdy song St. Cyprian had heard in the pub. He glared at Jessop. “What did she promise you Jessop?” he shouted over the noise. “What was it? That you’d get her after Moccus was done?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Jessop said hollowly. “I thought I’d lost her! I—”

  “Quiet!” Craye snarled, slapping Jessop. He reeled, clutching his face. “Put on the armour, St. Cyprian! Play your part and possibly survive or refuse and die beneath the hooves of the god!”

  There was a roaring bellow of swine-noise that made the singers fall silent. On the faces of the townsfolk was the sort of look that St. Cyprian had seen on the faces of dervishes and ecstatics. He looked back at the onrushing fog, and felt, for a moment, like a man who’d stepped in front of a train.

  “Lord Moccus!” Craye screamed. “Twrch Trwyth the Mighty! Carnage-master of Murthemney! Father of the black witch Orddu! Tincus of the Wine-Dark Sea! Hog-Father and Swine-King! Come…COME!”

  Out of the mist, a single, immense, black hoof smashed down, cracking the cobbles. A second followed it, the windows shattering at the sound of the impact. A massive body loomed in the mist and the snow. It dropped low, revealing great hairy arms and gnarled, simian fists. The curved knuckles struck the ground and a great, dark, deep grunt sounded. St. Cyprian looked up, through the veil of fog and snow and saw what might have been some far off dead-white planet, but was the pallid hog-face of Moccus. The eyes were those of the presence from the pub, and when they met his, he felt his soul shrink back.

  Age and immensity lurked in those eyes. Age and blood and a hunger that far outstripped anything he had ever felt before, a hunger that could only be fulfilled by rite and ritual. The thing before him, he knew, was not a god in the traditional sense, but a manifestation of an outer, monstrous intelligence, whose attention had been momentarily snagged by the proper confluence of events.

  Perhaps, some part of him thought pedantically, that was what a god was. He recognized this one now, regardless. Knew its foul taste, the same way it knew his. Carnacki had faced it once, and had almost been lost, though he hadn’t known it by the name Craye had given it. He’d simply called it ‘the Hog’; as good a name as any. And now, here it was, in the flesh.

  He tore his eyes away from the thing. To look too long and too deep would be to risk what Carnacki had called a ‘pathological, spiritual change’…the utter destruction of his human soul and its replacement by something else. He glared around him at the swine-masked villagers, all of them touched by the outside, long back in their lineage. Some bit of somewhere else had tangled in the matter of them, and they responded now with Pavlovian determination. Craye had woken them up, had stirred the pork in the stew and set them howling the old chants.

  Someone—Jessop, he thought—shoved a notched and battered sword into his hand, forcing his fingers to close on the hilt and unconsciously, he brought it up in a salute. Mochus gave a grunt of satisfaction. Greedy eyes fastened on Craye and she stiffened, her cries of welcome dying away. She turned pale and began to quiver, her jaw sagging and her eyes bulging as the terrible weight of Moccus’s presence forced itself down on her psyche. Jessop began to mutter prayers, his eyes closed and his knees close to buckling.

  Steeling himself, St. Cyprian stepped forward. Around him, the mummers capered. Only they weren’t mummers, he knew, but the devout, dancing in rhythm to Moccus’s heartbeat. That rhythm had been lost until Craye had bent her obsession to the problem. God alone knew how it had happened. Maybe it had truly called out to her across the void. Regardless, it was here now, and that made it his problem.

  Facing the swine-thing, he raised the sword, his palms sweaty on the cracked leather of the hilt. He hoped Gallowglass had escaped. He hoped she was going for help, to tell those who would need to know. “I lasted longer in the job than I thought,” he muttered.

  Moccus flexed crooked fingers. Strange tattoos curled across its pale, hairy frame like living shadows, and the very air around it seemed to pulse and writhe in disgust. It grunted and began to move forward, seemingly expanding to fill the distance, rather than using its barbarous limbs. Suddenly it was there, its infernal breath washing over him and he struck out. The hateful hog-face bent out of the way and he struck out again. As he swung and missed, he knew he was following the pattern of the mummers’ dance on the beach. The battle was a foregone conclusion. The thought spurred him on, and his blows became frenzied. “Come on you bastard!” he screamed. He slashed wildly and stumbled. There was a squeal of triumph and something seemed to flow into him, filling him and snuffing the flame of his life. He recognized then that it wanted his body. It had tried the same thing against Carnacki, looking to enter the body of a man named Baines. Now it wanted his. How else would it take a bride, not being made of the same stuff as a human? He could feel it gloating as it inundated him with its foulness. He staggered blindly in a mad gavotte.

  As he sank to one knee, he became aware of a loud noise. Not the painful swine-call of his opponent, but something else…something mechanical. He spun in the direction of the noise and threw up a hand as twin suns burned his eyes.

  There was a crash and a howl of bending metal and then he was rolling across the street. Blearily, he looked up. The Crossley had crashed into Moccus, forcing it to release him. Moccus screamed in frustration as its shape ballooned up and out like a fogbank. Gallowglass, in the driver’s seat, stared at the apparition with wide eyes. Then she drew her pistol from beneath her coat and began firing with cool precision. She rose from her seat as Moccus’s fist slammed down on the front of the car, crumpling it with a shriek of tortured metal. She stepped into the backseat, still firing. Moccus followed her, half solid and half phantom, spreading over the car’s corpse. She popped open the Webley’s cylinder and began to reload as she stepped backwards off the Crossley’s boot. As her feet touched the street, she snapped her wrist quickly, popping the full cylinder back into place and fired again.

  Moccus surged up around her, gobbling like a herd of angry hogs. St. Cyprian pushed himself to his feet, pain shooting through his legs and chest. The Crossley had caught him a glancing blow, but he ignored it. Bullets couldn’t beat Mochus any more than a sword could. It was all ritual. All just play acting. Just…he spun, staring at the church steps, where Craye stood.

  She had offered herself, and the hog had come. But what had she said? That Moccus had gone when his bride had been taken before the ritual could be completed. Mind spinning, St. Cyprian scooped up the sword and ran towards the church. Jessop saw him coming and opened his mouth to cry out.

  Craye wrenched herself around at the sound of Jessop’s cry. The pistol in her hand flickered up, and St. Cyprian knew he wouldn’t reach her in time. Then, her eyes met his, and he saw the horror there. It was burnt into her now, like acid on metal. Whatever she had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Moccus wasn’t a god, but a devil. No, worse than a devil, and the sights it would show her would be more abominable than miraculous. She knew that now—she had seen it etched in the god-thing’s terrible gaze and the terror of that promise had ripped the veils of madness and obsession from her eyes.

  He closed the distance, his breath rasping in his lungs, the snow crunching beneath his feet.The pistol dipped, and Georgie Craye closed her eyes. The sword slammed home, and Jessop screamed as Craye fell. St. Cyprian snatched the gun from her hand and twisted. Moccus loomed over him, eyes blazing with alien hate. It lunged, its form turning to damp mist as he fired, its hold on the world going to tatters as swiftly as the ritual. Rites were fragile things, and there were laws even for gods. He screamed and dropped the pistol, falling down as his limbs contorted with the chill void of its departure. Then the pain passed and the only cold he felt was that of the snow and the sea-wind.<
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  After a time, he hauled himself to his feet. The street was empty of life. Where the people of Lecach had gone and what state their minds were in after a face-to-face meeting with their god, he neither knew nor cared. “Ebe?” he croaked.

  “Here,” she said hoarsely. She was pale and shivering as she trudged towards him, but otherwise seemed no worse for wear. “What—what was that?”

  “It’s gone, and that’s all that matters,” he coughed. “Good thinking with the car.”

  “By the time I got to the beach, they were gone,” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes had a haunted, wounded look to them. “So I came back and saw that—that thing and I—God.” She swallowed and rubbed her face. “It was—I could feel it, in my stomach and my head and—”

  “It’s gone,” he said forcefully. She took a breath and nodded jerkily. She looked past him.

  “So’s she,” she said, pointing to the church. St. Cyprian turned to the church and saw Jessop’s shape, huddled over something pale and limp. Jessop cradled Craye’s dead form. Her face was peaceful and snowflakes dotted it. The world swam around him, and he could feel the sword slam home again and he pitched forward and was noisily sick.

  “What happened?” Gallowglass said, as he finished.

  St. Cyprian wiped his mouth and sat back and wished he could hear Christmas bells or carols or anything other than the pounding of the sea and Jessop’s ragged sobbing. Finally, he said, “I gave her the only gift I had to give.”

  “Think it was enough?” Gallowglass said, sitting down beside him in the snow.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” St. Cyprian said, bitterly, and as if in reply, the cold Channel wind made a keening sound that was like the grunt of some great beast, retreating to its burrow for another year.

  The Christmas Eve Killers

  The body of Venus, a heart of ice

  My passion warms her flesh but not her soul

  She sings to the sound of money

  But her true thoughts I’ll never know

  Venus, Death Machine

  The Gantlet Brothers 1988, Epic Records

  Monica Killingsworth laid beneath a fir tree which branches were heavy-laden by the still-falling snow. She wore a knit face-mask that covered all but her icy blue eyes and she squinted as she peered through the six power scope of her Galil sniper rifle. Everything but her face and arms were buried in snow. Her breath rose in frosty plumes, inhibited just slightly by the screen of her mask and she reached for the trigger with gloved hands.

  The chalet lay in the depression below her and a steep mountainside descended beyond, other chalets clinging tenaciously to the side, their lights gleaming against the snowy fields which were bathed in the darkness of the overcast night. But Killingsworth’s attention was focused on the front window of the chalet, where the curtains were split just enough so that, through her scope, she could see a sliver of the luxuriously-appointed Christmas tree inside.

  For a moment she saw a young girl of six, with a mop of brown hair, pass through her sights dragging an over-sized stuffed orangutan behind her. Killingsworth had memorized those features from a series of photographs. The face belonged to Barbel Grimme, daughter of world-class financier Armin Grimm. As quickly the little girl came into view, Barbel passed through the scope, the stuffed feet of the orangutan trailing and then gone from view.

  Monica’s earpiece crackled. It was the hit squad’s team leader, Bernard Mostovoi requesting her status.

  “K, have you got a bead on the little brat?” asked Mostovoi.

  “I caught a glimpse of her—but not enough to make a sure resolution,” answered Killingsworth.

  “But the brat’s still in the front room?” asked Mostovoi.

  “She was a minute ago,” said Killingsworth.

  “Wait it out,” said Mostovoi. “You still may get a shot.”

  “My finger’s on the trigger,” replied Killingsworth.

  Another voice broke into the transmission. Monica knew the voice well. It belonged to Craig Jurgens—a hot shot Aussie assassin who had been running the circuit for the last three years, hiring out to the highest bidder and making a few enemies in the process—as witnessed by the bounty on his head. “Hey mates, we’ve got an automobile coming up the road. Could be another player.”

  “What make is the automobile?” questioned Mostovoi.

  “All I can see are the headlights,” replied Jurgens.

  Indeed, a couple minutes later a yellow Yugo pulled into the drive and wound its way down the icy surface and parked on the shoveled asphalt at the side of the main garage. Monica kept her rifle trained on the front window, but diverted her attention long enough to see a woman bundled in a thick coat get out of the driver’s side of the car.

  “Get your eyes on her,” ordered Mostovoi.

  Killingsworth complied and swung the snout of her Galil toward the newcomer, sighting her through the scope. The skin of her face was a dusky coloration and to Killingsworth she looked as though she might be of Turkish descent. For a moment a gust of wind sent the fresh snow swirling and it whipped away the corners of the woman’s coat revealing a black and white maid’s uniform.

  “What’s your assessment?” asked Mostovoi.

  “She’s dressed like a maid.”

  “Maid service at dinner time?” questioned Mostovoi.

  “Someone’s got to do the dishes,” interrupted Jurgens. “And she can do my dishes anytime.”

  “You never cook,” Killingsworth reminded him.

  “A minor technicality,” replied Jurgens.

  The maid pulled her coat closed and proceeded to the front door where two men clad in black stood guard. They carried West German automatic rifles—the mini versions that measured only twenty-seven inches, but carried a thirty round cartridge that protruded beneath its belly.

  “Bad news,” said Killingsworth. “They’ve got night scopes mounted to their MP5Ks. If they bother to look through them they’ll spot your heat signatures.”

  “What about yours?” laughed Biff Ellingson who stood watch at the far end of the perimeter. He was a Kentucky-bred backwoods boy that cut his teeth coon and badger hunting before he joined the special forces and spent five years killing terrorists in Afghanistan. After that he went a bit nuts and decided that profit trumped patriotism, resigned his commission and started pimping his skills to the highest bidder.

  “I’m buried in ice,” said Killingsworth. “I may die from overexposure, but they won’t pick up my signature.”

  “Some of us aren’t so chicken that we have to bury ourselves in a hole in the ground,” mocked Ellingson. “What’s going to happen if you have to move quickly and you’re buried up to your armpits?”

  The guards forced the maid to open her coat and they thoroughly frisked her before allowing her inside. Monica could see that the maid was angry and she spoke a few words to the guards, jabbing her finger in their direction.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mostovoi.

  “It seems the protection team took some liberties when frisking the maid,” reported Killingsworth.

  “So would I,” mumbled Ellingson. “Those Turkish women know a thing or two a...”

  “Eyes on the guards,” said Mostovoi. “Anything else we need to know?”

  Killingsworth shifted the scope to the features of the guards. The first face was bland and emotionless, beady eyes that were as dead as coal. The second face was sliced with a pair of shrapnel scars and intersected by a crooked nose. It seemed that Mr. Grimme had decided to fight fire with fire and recruited as nasty a group of murderers and cutthroats that could be found anywhere on the planet in order to protect his daughter.

  “The north guard is Pavlushka Tsibliyev. I’ve worked with him before.”

  “Isn’t he the mate that lobbed a grenade i
nto a town square in Chile as a distraction so that he and his team could escape?” asked Jurgens.

  “Team, nothing! He killed four children just to save his own skin,” said Ellingson, and the tone of his voice suggested that he admired the man.

  “We don’t kill any children unless we’re getting paid handsomely,” rasped Mostovoi. “And tonight we’re getting paid very, very handsomely.”

  “Two million each,” intoned Ellingson. “Tax free dollars, just for putting down a little girl that happens to be the daughter of someone that pissed off our employer.”

  “There will at least three more guards protecting Barbel Grimme on the inside—and that’s if her father hired just one protection team. If he doubled up the teams we’ll have our hands full.”

  “If Monica can get her eyes on the brat then all we need is one bullet and we can go home,” grumbled Tarsha Yeo, the only other female member of the hit squad. Killingsworth didn’t much like her. She was unprofessional and had a chip on her shoulder the size of a small European country. Still, Killingsworth worked with assassins; it wasn’t strange for her to find herself working shoulder to shoulder with people she didn’t care for.

  “Don’t use my name on the airwaves or I’ll save a bullet for you.”

  Yeo was native to Singapore and had killed three men in knife fights before a tong in Hong Kong recruited her for some particularly nasty bloodwork. She was all about efficiency and if they could could kill little Barbel with one well-placed shot and go home that would be fine with her.

  “I’m just saying that if you would do your job we could be somewhere warm enjoying a cocktail.”

  “I’m all for that,” said Jurgens. “K, when this is all over how about if we spend a week in that place in Cancun, like we did two years back after the Harper job.”