Robert W. Walker
Page 20
Abe Stroud decided it was time to communicate with the others left behind, to be certain they were all right, and to tell them it was time they began back toward the surface, to get as far from the ship as possible. He reached Kendra, who had been for some time trying to get his attention on the comlink.
“Abe, why didn’t you answer? We were worried sick—”
“Never mind that now. Did you reach Nathan?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you gain any more time?”
“You’d best not bank on it, but we told him we weren’t leaving you.”
“Well, you are leaving, right now. All of you, out.”
“Abe, the moment they see us surface, your life’s forfeit! We won’t do that. We can’t.”
Stroud suddenly heard screams coming through. Kendra and the others were under attack once more. He shouted for clarification but the static and the shouts ended and he knew no more than he did before. He was about to rush back when suddenly he tripped as he scurried over the bone pile. He got up readily and continued, but he fell once more, his feet plunging into holes opening up in the pile below him moments before he felt the quake that sent him onto his stomach again.
Stroud heaved to free himself of the bones, which seemed now to be tugging at his feet, pulling him down, ripping at his protective wear, snatching at his boots. Looking down, he saw that fleshy arms had risen from the bone pile and were tearing at him, attempting to pull him under where he would suffocate below the bones. He kicked out at them, but they seemed to be without feeling. He snatched at the wand to fire the gas, but he was hauled down and was being sucked into the quicksand of the bones.
“Esruad!Esruad!” he called out for help as he clambered for his footing. The skull rolled from the pack on Stroud’s back, sending out a searing light that instantly covered the bones in a kind of radiation that stung the fleshy hands and arms reaching up for Stroud, making them loosen their grip. Stroud scrambled to his feet, finding his suit had been ripped in several places. The bulky outfit was of no further use, and so he began to tear it away. He stood in the light of the skull, bathed in it, and he somehow knew it would protect him far better than the synthetic clothing, and the paltry remainder of his oxygen tank.
Suddenly the bones opened up, and Stroud found himself on the other side of the “feast” leavings of the creature, cascading down and down, falling with a powerful thud, the skull lost somewhere atop the mountain of bones. Stroud struggled to maintain consciousness, the glow of the orange aura of the skull weak but still a shimmering outline around him.
“Esruad … Esruad,” he moaned, but the skull did not respond. He was stunned and fought for clearer vision.
Stroud saw a hideous creature burning with fire leap into view, coming straight for him. Stroud instinctively recoiled, believing the touch of the creature would set him instantly aflame. The monster reeked of decay and it burned as if made of gaseous materials, and yet it bore the look of a desiccated body. Stroud recognized the apparition as what Wiz called a lich, the single most powerful form of the undead. It greatly resembled a mummy in its tattered appearance, but those tatters and hanging strips of cloth were once flesh. The creature’s eye sockets were empty, dead blackness with a green pinpoint of piercing light at each center that served for eyes. It was obvious this thing saw best in the dark. An aura of death and coldness radiated from it despite the fire all around it.
According to Wiz’s books, the lich had been a wizard or priest in life, damned to an eternal hell. The bits of cloth still dangling from the soupy, lumpy body were supposedly magical. But also, according to Wiz’s books, the touch of the creature could send a living man into a frozen state of paralysis, to make him utterly unable to move.
It lunged at Stroud and missed as he sidestepped, averting its touch. The bone pile it careened into turned to burning rubble, so intense was the heat of its touch. Somehow this lich had reversed the potency of its touch and commanded enough heat to sear bone or to cremate Stroud.
Stroud didn’t know what to do. The creature advanced and he fired the gas, fearing the gas would also kill himself should he inhale enough of it. But Stroud found that the magical light surrounding him acted to keep the gas out. But the lich, too, was protected by the fire around it, which consumed the gas, dissipating it. It was immune even to modern charms, Stroud thought. The lich sent out a green light from its center, which took the shape of a dragonlike snake, enormous and weaving between them, readying to strike. Stroud saw human eyes in the snake-dragon’s hideous head, and he knew the creature at the center of the ship was now placing all its energies into destroying Abraham Stroud, and taking possession of the skull on its own terms.
With the formation of the dragon-snake, which was as large as a helicopter, the lich’s fire dimmed and receded.
Stroud backed away from the serpent creature that began to strike, first at his left, then his right. Stroud felt out of control, felt as if he were on the verge of defeat. He saw the lich circling to his other side. The two creatures were backing him along a dark corridor that no doubt would end in his death.
“Esruad!” He invoked the name again and again, searching the darkness for the lost skull when suddenly behind him there appeared another lich, more vicious and ugly than the first, but whose vestments were in much better repair, showing a nobility about them. This lich’s eyes spewed forth an orange fire and its skull was neither dirty or filth-ridden, as there was no skin, hair or gooey soup streaming from it. In fact, the skull looked absolutely sleek now that Stroud could see clearly as this one neared him.
Completely surrounded now, Stroud heard the second lich speak his name. “Stroud, I am with you. It is I, Esruad.”
Stroud feared it was a trick, but he looked more closely at the lich’s features, and alternating with the dead skull was that of the crystal skull. The orange-eyed lich was smoking like the first one, except that it smoked with a freezing-cold air that frothed off it, and inside of this, at the heart of it, there was a visible fire.
“Defend yourself!” shouted Esruad’s new form, a form that required all of the energy of the skull. In Esruad’s hand appeared a sword of ice that he plunged at the fiery lich, which now backed carefully away, a fire sword appearing suddenly in its grasp, materializing from within it.
Esruad attacked, the two swords pounding overhead, ringing with a spectral clash, fire and ice shattering in all directions as the serpent with its dragon body leaped onto Stroud, whose protective outer current was losing its charge.
Stroud saw the serpent head come at him with its fangs about to strike when his own scream mingled with that of the first lich. Esruad had stabbed it through its center and turned it to stone, and then the serpent dragon fell atop Stroud like a gunnysack, dead and reeking of years of decay, molten with an oozy layer of soup that sent waves of disgust through Stroud. Barely had he gotten to his feet when another snake-dragon attacked from behind, knocking him to his knees. This one had dropped from overhead where it had been clinging to the ceiling. Stroud felt the fangs lock into his throat like two enormous meat hooks; he felt the blood gush up and out, draining down his back and chest. He was in its clutches, and it had him near death when Esruad lobed it in half with his ice sword.
Stroud, weak and trembling from the venom coursing through him, knew that he was a dead man, that there was no way out from this point on. He didn’t even have the strength to push away the monster that spilled its insides over him. Esruad had to do this, too, for him.
But as Esruad did so, Stroud found the strength to drag himself away from the ugly, desiccated features of his ancient ancestor, for Esruad’s appearance was as gruesome as the other lich. Esruad was a lich, a long-dead wizard who had come back to life, and he seemed to grow in strength here amid the horrors of his avowed enemy, Ubbrroxx. In fact, he almost seemed to draw his new existence from the creature, as if he was in cohorts with it and had played Stroud for a fool.
“Yes, I draw strength fro
m this place, but not from the demon,” said Esruad, reaching a spindly, dead hand to him. “You have brought me to the realm where I can flourish in order to fight our common enemy, Stroud. You must continue to believe, for if you fail to do so, I can’t protect you any further.”
Stroud didn’t know what to believe, and yet Esruad had warned that it would come to this. Ubbrroxx was deliberately placing doubt in his mind, dividing their combined strength.
And here stood Esruad as Stroud had never seen him before, his sword gone back inside the body from which it had materialized, standing in tattered yet royal raiments that hung limply on a once noble frame below the mummified creature that had stepped from the ages.
“You have no reason to fear me,” Esruad almost shouted, angry at Stroud’s reluctance. “If you fear me, if you doubt me, the venom of the creature will take you. Fight your eyes, Stroud. Use that mind of yours! That will.”
Stroud had been warned by the skull time and again about appearances and deceptions, but he had not been prepared for Esruad’s graveyard exterior.
Esruad came closer. Stroud flinched involuntarily. Overhead and surrounding them came the laughter of Ubbrroxx as if he were watching the scene unfold. The demon’s voice said, “You have lost your human helpmate, Esruad. Now you are alone.”
Stroud pulled away but Esruad draped himself over Abraham. Stroud saw the flesh-peeled body black out everything else; simultaneously, he felt an overwhelming weakness overtake his vision and his mind as he slipped helplessly into unconsciousness, falling deep into what he sensed was his last sleep as the venom reached toward his brain.
“No! No! No!” shouted Esruad at Stroud. “Nooooooo!”
Ubbrroxx’s laughter shook the ship, shook its own whale belly.
Esruad looked around him, trembling so badly that the loose tatters of his death shroud shivered like leaves. But as he trembled, he put his hands through and into Stroud’s midsection. Esruad’s entire frame lit with a yellow to gold to orange light. As he worked over Stroud’s body, he appeared to be mourning a terrible death.
Kendra lashed out with everything remaining to her. They’d come in bands, the little rodent things scurrying along the ship walls, rafters, floor, like an army of crawling bugs. There were too many of them and some had escaped the gas and darts long enough to get at their protective wear, ripping into the cloth with vicious shrews’ teeth, opening all of them up to the danger of the unholy infection. She’d been talking to Stroud when the first attack occurred.
Now she was separated from Dr. Leonard and Wiz and searching for them. Wiz called out on seeing her light. “Here, over here!”
They’d retreated to the tunnels, and in the gas fog and confusion she hadn’t. Now she saw that her suit pants were torn open by the awful little beasts sent to torment them and make of them three more victims to the horror here.
Stroud remained their only hope, but now she couldn’t raise him on the comlink, and the eerie silence at the other end sent shivers of fear through her along with the vile virus that must surely be coursing through her now.
“Dear God, dear God,” Wiz was saying when she reached him and collapsed beside him. “Leonard is not good.”
Wiz’s clothes, too, had been torn asunder. The fact they were still on oxygen helped, but for how long? The oxygen was fast being depleted with each scare thrown into them in this horror house. Kendra knew that a normal respiratory rate was fourteen to sixteen breaths per minute. A mental check of her own rate had her up around thirty-five. She hadn’t lost any blood, had taken no bites, and for this she considered herself lucky when she saw the blood splotches over much of Leonard’s body. The vile things had gotten to him, and their poisonous bites had thrown him into shock. She went desperately, perhaps futilely, to work over him, injecting him with what she prayed was a proper antidote, but as she did so Leonard, his eyes wide and without pupils, attempted to tear away what remained of her mask, snatching at her air hose, trying to get at her face any way he could.
Wiz pulled Leonard’s arms from her, shouting uselessly at Leonard, who suddenly slumped over, dead. “My God, my God,” repeated Wisnewski, whose remark was answered by a horrifying, building laughter that seemed to come from everywhere around them and then from Leonard’s body, which was suddenly moving as with a mechanical life of its own. Leonard’s frame lifted and he came at Wiz, extending his hands toward the other man, saying, “Help me, Wiz … help me … My God … My Gawwwwwwwwwd!” This was followed by a bloodcurdling laugh. “Your God does not exist here! I am your god here! Kneel before your new god!”
Kendra fired one of her last darts into Leonard’s body, causing it to crumple.
She rushed to a shaken Wisnewski, who could not bring himself to look on Leonard.
“We’re next … we’re next,” Wiz mumbled and blubbered.
“No, we’re out of here. Come on, Dr. Wisnewski, come on!” She began to lead him back toward what she believed to be the way they had come to this part of the ship. “We’d best do as Stroud said. I … I can’t raise him any longer on the communicator.”
“You don’t suppose … you don’t believe that … that he, too, is … dead?”
Kendra couldn’t bring herself to say what she believed.
-19-
Stroud was somewhere between darkness and light, life and death, but he did not know how far to one side or the other he stood, or rather lay—or was he swimming weightless amid the acrid odors of the death ship and all the horrors of the grave it represented? He only knew that he was being buoyed up and up, carried off and away by a power that was not his own. He smelled fire and yet he felt ice as it burned into his abdomen. The venom of the serpent coursing through his veins? Probing, squeezing his insides?
Stroud was eleven years old and trapped beneath the seat, the car aflame. His father’s body was slumped over the wheel, the horn blaring. His mother’s body was somewhere outside, thrown from the car despite her seat belt. Young Stroud had been asleep one moment and listening to the screams of his parents the next. They’d been on their way back to Chicago from Andover, from his grandfather’s house. His parents had talked of one day taking charge of his grandfather’s affairs in Andover, of taking control of the family estate there. And now they were dead. And now he was trapped in the burning vehicle, his arms pinned beneath him, his body half under the seat in front of him, where his father’s body had now begun to burn.
He screamed and screamed and screamed and then some powerful hands reached in and hefted him from the fiery wreck. It had been a policeman, who had raced to the scene when he saw the flames.
He was taken in by his grandfather Annanias, raised by the old man, never knowing until long after his grandfather’s own death at the hands of the Andover Devil that his parents had been murdered and that he, too, had been a target of the Andover Devil. Stroud had only learned the truth after years of being away, and after several visitations at Stroud Manse by the ghost of Annanias. He had taken so much on faith all his life from the old man; and then he had to take so much on faith from the old man’s ghost.
He knew he must do the same now with Esruad; that Esruad was just another form of Annanias, working through the depths of other generations, other dimensions.
Stroud wondered if it was too late, however; if his lapse of faith had not breached their carefully tempered bond. He wondered if the demon had not already destroyed the delicate balance, and was not at this moment watching him squirm on a slowly revolving spit. That’s how hot Stroud felt, as if he were roasting from the inside out.
Then he suddenly retched—a good sign, a sign of life. Spasms shook him with the strength of ice to the tenth power lodged in his bones. The stiff iciness was becoming a kind of paralysis, his stomach seeming to turn to lead, his backbone like iron as if in retaliation to the pumping stomach that spewed forth a sickening gelatinous substance. Tearful and spitting the acrid bile, Stroud wondered if it was not his very insides being ripped from him by Ubbrroxx.
It was killing him.
It was everywhere … around and inside him.
It held him as if he were a child, plucking him from one fire to place him in another.
It sent rivers of electric shock through his nerves.
Swimming in pain.
No lack of pain.
No lack…
“You will come to accept me as your god, Stroud,” the ancient demon spoke.
Esruad now seemed powerless and far away, blocked.
And Stroud realized now that he was not swimming, but his mind was … swimming away from the wizard from 793 b.c.
As a backdrop to his pain he heard the evil laughter of Ubbrroxx. He heard explosions and the mad rattle of bones. He imagined lightning bolts exploding all around him, and he wondered if it was bombs and explosives coming from above; wondered if he’d be buried here with the ancient bone pile created by the creature of creatures for all eternity.
Stroud fought for consciousness and for breath. He called on help from his grandfather, who seemed to have abandoned him as well, fearful of watching his end. Would it all come to this, an unheralded death in the bowels of a haunted, cursed ship that had sailed from out of the past of his ancestors?
“Stroooooud, Stroud.” It was Esruad, and Stroud now realized that Esruad held him in his arms, in the protective shield around them both now. Just beyond them, timbers were bursting and bones cascading, but Stroud could not see this. Esruad communicated it through a strange telepathy.