Psychological Damage (Gray Spear Society)

by Siegel, Alex

  Norbert raised his fist. "How dare you speak of the Lord! I've heard enough." He turned to Ishii and said, "I will expect better results tomorrow. Considering what we're paying you, I'm very disappointed." Norbert stormed out of the room.

  * * *

  Smythe looked down through a skylight at a thin crowd below. The men and women wore a great variety of clothes, but the general theme was leather and studs. However, one man had come wearing long white robes, and clearly he was trying to be Jesus. Another man looked like a vampire with a black cape and fangs. One woman wore only a red bikini and stiletto heel boots even though the air was too cool for such a skimpy outfit. Fake red devil horns adorned her head. The freaks are out tonight, Smythe thought.

  The meeting was in a huge, empty building that had once been a steel supply and fabrication company. A few rusting hulks remained of the original equipment. The Spears had placed thirty medieval torches along the walls, but the cavernous space was still fairly dark. A raised podium stood in the center of the room, lit by spotlights. The podium was empty and it would remain so. The audience would get a show tonight, but not the one they were expecting.

  "I see them," Ethel said through Smythe's radio earpiece.

  "Acknowledged," he replied. A microphone was taped to his throat. It would pick up his voice clearly even if he whispered.

  He crawled across the rooftop until he reached the eastern edge. A sniper rifle was slung across his back. He pulled it into shooting position and peered through the thermal scope.

  The night vision gear was brand new, delivered that morning. When Smythe had opened the box, he had discovered a user manual stamped with the words "TOP SECRET." The legate had all kinds of connections.

  The clarity of the image in the scope was startling. A line of trees occupied most of his view, and he could see birds sleeping on the branches. Beyond was a farmer's field, still barren this early in the spring. He knew exactly where Ethel was hiding but he couldn't see her. She wore a military grade ghillie suit, making her undetectable in both the visible and infrared spectrums.

  Smythe searched for signs of the Brotherhood in the darkness. The thermal scope was sensitive enough to see the warm skin on a man's face from a mile away.

  He saw flashes of heat beyond Ethel's position. "I see them too," he said softly. "Crossing the field, east to west. Small teams moving cautiously. Sniper tactics. They obviously know this is a trap."

  "We'll come around to that side," the legate said through the radio.

  He and Atalanta were positioned to the south. It would take a few minutes for them to relocate. They also wore ghillie suits, but they still had to move carefully to avoid detection.

  "What's the plan, sir?" Smythe said.

  "Let them get into the trees," the legate said. "We'll attack there."

  "That means they'll walk right past Ethel."

  "Don't worry," Ethel said. "They won't see me."

  "Yes, ma'am," Smythe said. "I assume I should just stay on the roof?"

  "Affirmative," the legate said. "You're our eyes in the sky. If you have an easy shot, take it, but don't give away your position."

  A long suppressor was mounted on Smythe's rifle, so noise and muzzle flash would be minimal. However, if he started blasting away indiscriminately, the enemy would quickly determine where the bullets were coming from. He had to limit himself to isolated targets.

  "Yes, sir," he said.

  He realized his hands were shaking. This was going to be one hell of a fight. The Brotherhood had a huge advantage in numbers, and no doubt they had brought the best weapons they could find. His teammates had astonishing abilities but they weren't bulletproof. One lucky shot by the enemy could turn the night into a disaster.

  Smythe forced himself to settle down. This was his opportunity to look good in front of his superiors and raise his standing in the Society. He swore to himself he wouldn't blow it.

  * * *

  Brother Norbert's hands were shaking. He put them in his pockets so his men wouldn't see his nervousness.

  The attack would proceed in two waves. Whitey and his twenty men were the first wave, and they were already approaching the target. As soon as he engaged the enemy, Norbert would send the monks forward in the second wave. Their role was containment and reinforcement.

  Norbert could see the target building a few hundred yards away. It was a rectangular box, three stories tall. Torches placed on the ground lit the corrugated metal walls with flickering light. A dense line of trees partially blocked his view. The dark, cloudy night was very quiet.

  He spoke into his radio, "Whitey, what's your status?"

  "Proceeding as planned," Whitey said. "I'll tell you if something happens. Until then, be quiet. We're trying to work."

  Norbert frowned.

  He was still spooked from his conversation with the prisoner. Edward had seemed sure the Brotherhood would get destroyed tonight, as if fate had decreed it.

  That troubling experience had led Norbert to larger questions about the Brotherhood. The order had suffered setback after setback over the years, disappointment after disappointment. The pattern of failure was so well established he had started to wonder which side God was on. Like a good soldier he persevered regardless. He would finish what he had started or die trying.

  Maybe I'll die tonight, he thought. I might never see the dawn again.

  He looked at the monks on either side. All eighty of the surviving Brotherhood members stood in a line at the edge of a farmer's field. They wore black cloaks and hoods as nighttime camouflage.

  Every man had some kind of automatic weapon and at least a Kevlar vest. Whitey had lent them equipment from the extensive stockpile maintained by the Sons of Michael. That alliance was working out better than Norbert had expected.

  Suddenly, he heard yelling over the radio. Whitey's men were screaming warnings at each other. The crackle of gunfire came from several directions at once.

  "Brotherhood, move out!" Norbert yelled. "Stay in formation!"

  The line of men advanced across the field in good order.

  Norbert chambered a round in his weapon, an M16 rifle. He wasn't very familiar with it, but he had fired other assault rifles and this one wasn't so different. There hadn't been time for anybody to practice with the borrowed equipment.

  He tried to locate the enemy by listening for the gunshots. However, there seemed to be intense action along the entire tree line. Either the enemy was moving very fast, or Whitey's men were shooting at shadows. The battle was already chaotic.

  The Brotherhood was approaching the trees, which would break up their formation. The deep shadows would also make it hard for the men to see each other. Norbert had a bad feeling.

  Whitey bellowed over the radio. "Sons of Michael, converge at the rendezvous point! Defensive formation! Now!"

  The power in his voice comforted Norbert. Rather than panic, Whitey was taking control and making sure his men were safe. Granted, the enemy had managed to spring an ambush of sorts, but the battle had just begun and nothing was decided yet.

  The Brotherhood entered the trees. Now Norbert was moving through pitch darkness. He held his hands in front of his face so he wouldn't stab himself in the eye with a branch. Torchlight ahead kept him oriented.

  "Whitey, we're almost at your position," Norbert said on the radio. "Don't shoot us."

  "What!" Whitey responded. "Get out of here!"

  "It sounded like you needed help."

  "This mess is bad enough without your boys in the middle of it."

  "This is my fight, too," Norbert said angrily.

  The light had improved enough for Norbert to see the ground in front of him. He came across two dead bodies, Whitey's men. Their throats were slashed down to the spine. Norbert checked their gun barrels and discovered they were cold. Whoever killed these men did it very fast, Norbert thought.

  There was a commotion on his right. He glimpsed a dark shape vanish into the foliage. He hadn't had time to aim mu
ch less shoot his gun.

  Three monks were lying on the ground. Norbert ran over for a closer look. One man's head was twisted completely backwards, and the second had a knife stuck between his neck and his shoulder. Norbert checked the pulse of the third and found he was also dead. An expression of utter surprise was frozen on his face.

  Norbert looked around and saw shadows everywhere. Flickering light from the torches made it hard to distinguish men from bushes.

  Automatic gunfire chattered on his left. The wounded cried out in pain and called for help.

  Norbert hurried in that direction. This time he found four of his men on the ground with many bullet wounds. Only two were still alive. Another monk stood over them, the barrel of his gun smoking.

  "I'm sorry, sir!" he said. "I saw something and pulled the trigger! I just panicked."

  Damn it to hell, Norbert thought. Now we're shooting each other.

  He saw another flash of movement farther along the tree line. An indistinct patch of blackness paused for an instant to look back at him. It was a woman. Their eyes met.

  He shuddered.

  He could tell those dark eyes had seen death in all its forms. They perceived wisdom beyond the mortal realm. Mostly, they were angry. It was the kind of anger that had consumed Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Ethel. He squeaked with fear.

  She carried a huge machete in each hand. There was an impossibly quick blur of motion, and two monks went down, spurting blood. They died without knowing they were in danger. She faded into the darkness.

  Norbert remembered he had a gun. He fired wildly until the clip was empty, but he was pretty sure every bullet had missed.

  The cries of dying men continued up and down the tree line. The Brotherhood was being slaughtered.

  Monsters in the shadows. We have to get out of here.

  "Brotherhood!" Norbert called out as loudly as possible. "Retreat! Fall back! Regroup in the field!"

  He picked up one of the wounded monks in a fireman's carry. Staggering under the weight, he retreated to the farmer's field. By the time he stopped, his heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

  His brethren joined him and huddled together like frightened sheep. With all the milling around, it was hard for Norbert to get an accurate count of the survivors, but it was clear he had left a lot of men behind.

  "Calm down!" Norbert bellowed. "Form ranks! Show some discipline."

  Slowly, order was restored. The monks formed a square and stood at attention.

  Norbert grabbed his radio. "Whitey, this is Norbert. What's your status?"

  "We're in the parking lot south of the building," Whitey answered. "We lost eight."

  "I lost a lot more than that."

  "What the hell happened?"

  "I told you the enemy was dangerous," Norbert said.

  "No," Whitey said. "I've fought dangerous. I've beaten dangerous. Those things were... inhuman. But the Sons of Michael never run from a fight. We're going to kill those fuckers, somehow. Stay where you are while I figure out a plan."

  "Acknowledged. We won't go anywhere." We're certainly not going back into the shadows.

  * * *

  Smythe looked through the thermal scope of his rifle. He saw twelve men arranged in a circle with their rifles pointed outwards. They were crouched in a parking lot. Scattered cars provided little cover for the obviously terrified soldiers.

  "Is everybody OK?" Smythe said.

  "A bullet nicked me," Ethel said through the radio, "but the injury is minor. My fault. I let myself get distracted."

  "The legate and I are unharmed," Atalanta said. "I killed twelve."

  "And I killed eighteen," Ethel shot back. "Not bad for an old woman."

  Atalanta was silent.

  "I tagged four," Smythe said in a slightly embarrassed tone.

  "And five for me," the legate said. "We still need some prisoners. Where is the enemy now?"

  "Twelve survivors from the first wave are hunkered down in the southern parking lot," Smythe said. "The main group retreated to the back field. They're licking their wounds."

  Smythe had witnessed the brief but furious battle from above. Watching Ethel and Atalanta tear up the enemy formation was both inspiring and terrifying. The opposition had looked like practice dummies in comparison. The legate had been invisible the entire time. Smythe was very glad he was on the right side of this fight.

  "We'll focus on the smaller group in the parking lot," the legate said. "We only need a few prisoners."

  "They're in a tight formation," Smythe said. "It will hard to approach without being seen."

  "It won't be hard for me. Ethel and Atalanta, go around behind them in case they run. I'm going to listen to their conversation."

  "No, sir!" Atalanta said. "That's very dangerous. I strongly disapprove."

  "Then it's a good thing I don't take orders from you. Smythe, stay sharp. You're my guardian angel."

  "Yes, sir." Smythe tightened his grip on his rifle. "You're really just going to walk up to them?"

  "Why not?" the legate said.

  Smythe focused all his attention on the parking lot. Atalanta had claimed it was possible to see the legate even when he was using his God given gift. Smythe wanted to give it his best shot.

  He scanned his eyes back and forth, forcing himself to see everything. It was very hard to do. He kept skipping ahead and jumping around despite his efforts to be methodical. After a couple of minutes he discovered one spot that was almost impossible to look at. His gaze wandered away whenever he had the slightest lapse in concentration.

  He clenched his jaw and focused as hard as he could. Something was blocking his view of the parking lot. There was a man sized hole in his perception.

  It took enormous effort to keep his eyes pointed in that specific direction. His jaw hurt from clenching it, and his temples throbbed. He desperately wanted to turn away, but he wouldn't let himself give up. He was on the verge of a breakthrough.

  He had a sudden revelation. The legate wasn't invisible at all. Instead, he was cloaked in the mysteries of creation. To penetrate that veil, Smythe would have to understand the quantum mechanical properties of a black hole. He would need to define true love. He would have to understand the difference between chaos and free will. Most people were terrified of such difficult questions. They automatically retreated to a safer, simpler reality where the answers came prepackaged and the legate didn't exist.

  But Smythe wasn't most people. As a doctor and a scientist, he was accustomed to mysteries. In fact he relished them.

  He spoke into the radio. "I know where you are, sir. I've got you covered."

  "Really?" the legate responded. "Where am I?"

  "About twenty yards east of the enemy."

  "Very impressive."

  Smythe smiled.

  It was fascinating to watch how the enemy actively ignored the legate. They avoided looking in his direction and even moved aside to let him pass. A small part of their brains knew he was there, but the rest refused to admit that fact.

  The legate approached two men in the center of the circle. He left his radio microphone open so the whole team could overhear the conversation.

  "We'll burn the trees," the bigger of the two said. His black beard was amazingly dense, but he had no other hair on his head. "That will flush out those cocksuckers. We'll shoot them when they run into the open."

  "The fire could spread, sir," the second man said. "The trees are dry. We have to be careful."

  "Of course we'll be careful! Do I look like a moron?"

  Smythe shook his head. That guy is a terrible commander, he thought.

  Three newcomers came around the corner of the building. Smythe recognized them as devil worshippers from the meeting. Apparently, the sound of gunfire had drawn them out. They wore black leather from neck to toe, and one had a steel gauntlet with spiked knuckles.

  They were immediately cut down by a hail of bullets.

  "Cease fire!" the enemy leader sa
id. "Cease fire!"

  The soldiers had sheepish expressions.

  "Sorry, sir. We thought..."

  "Forget it," the leader said. "Honest mistake." He didn't seem bothered by the fact his men had just killed three civilians.

  Smythe noticed flashing red and blue lights in the distance.

  "The police are coming," he said. "If we want to take prisoners, now would be a good time."

  "Damn," Ethel said. "So soon? The nearest police station is ten miles away."

  "We have been making a lot of noise, ma'am."

  The legate left of the circle. Again, the enemy politely allowed him to pass. He crouched behind a pickup truck.

  "I have a M84 stun grenade," he said. "I'm going to toss it into the circle. As soon as it goes off, I want Ethel and Atalanta to attack. Smythe, you're our insurance policy. Make sure the ladies don't get shot in the back."

  "I'll do my best, sir." Smythe settled into a good firing position.

  The legate tossed the grenade, which was about the size and shape of a soda can. Smythe squeezed his eyes shut. Even with them closed, he could see the intensely bright flash. The concussion smacked his ears.

  By the time he opened his eyes, Ethel was already halfway across the parking lot. She moved so fast it looked like she was flying. The twin machetes in her hands gleamed in the torchlight.

  Atalanta followed at a more human pace. She carried a short katana sword in her right hand. Gray armor with spikes covered her left arm and shoulder. Both women had discarded their ghillie suits and now wore black and gray tights printed with a camouflage pattern.

  Smythe remembered he had a job to do. He aimed at an enemy soldier who seemed dangerously alert. One pull of the trigger splattered his brains onto the parking lot.

  Then Ethel was in the midst of them, a continuous whirlwind of motion. Her blades sliced through flesh without slowing. She snipped tendons and nerves with surgical precision to disable rather than kill her adversaries. There was surprisingly little blood.

  Atalanta arrived a moment later and used a simpler technique. She simply cut off the hands of her enemies so they couldn't hold a gun. When they tried to run, she amputated their feet or severed their hamstrings. Every attack sequence was so masterful it looked staged. Even though her adversaries carried assault rifles, they never had time to aim.