Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  Guri spoke up. "One last time, are you sure it is wise to have Pops so far away from the rest of the crew?"

  Before Lehane could respond, Pops said: "I wanted to be maybe eight hundred yards off, pal. Jeff told me three hundred, three fifty tops. Hey, for me, that's so close it's almost boring."

  Sandy deadpanned. "Ladies and gentlemen, the testosterone is already rising, along with the bullshit."

  No one laughed harder than Pops. "Seriously, I'll be fine. That's not a tough shot. As for me, I'm going to be covered with mud and lost in the rocks. I'm traveling light, no barometer, don't need a range finder. I'll be in place in no time and I won't move until this prick is toast."

  "Whiz, you picking everyone up there?"

  "I've got sound on everybody, boss."

  "Cameras okay all around the building?"

  "For the time we've had, it's pretty damn good."

  "Okay, Pops. We're hot enough. You can take off, but just keep listening while I run it down one last time."

  "Will do. Good luck, everybody." Pops grabbed his canvas bag, turned and jogged down the steps, across the lobby below and out into the night. Meanwhile, Lehane went to the center of the bedroom. He spoke in low tones, since everyone was now live on the com line.

  "Here it is again. Pops goes through the garden, up into the trees. He stops at the foot of the mountains, when he has a clean shot at the center of the parking lot and good enough elevation. He goes to ground and doesn't move. He keeps an eye out for the Bhuta, but waits for a signal from me before firing."

  "But he can just tip us when he sees it, right? In case all this high-tech gear Whiz has going just craps out?" Guri sounded worried.

  "He can talk to us if he has to," Lehane answered, "but only then. I don't want him exposed that far away from our lines."

  "Okay, I get it."

  "Now, if and when Pops takes the shot, it will be right at the brain pan for maximum damage to coordination and motor control. Maybe we can't shoot to kill on something that's already dead, but we can sure as hell make sure it doesn't think straight."

  "We hope." Whiz, on the monitor. He probably didn't even realize that he had spoken aloud.

  "Okay, Whiz," Pops said, casually. His voice came through the com center. "Here's Plan B, then. I'll kneecap the son of a bitch so he has to crawl, and we'll take him out with the white phosphorus."

  "Pops, what's your emergency exit?"

  "I go west, around the edge of the garden, then down the slope into the town. The backup vehicle is parked there."

  "Okay, good. You guys ready?"

  "Sure." Guri and Sandy were twitching like marionettes. Guri was chewing gum, jaw muscles moving rapidly.

  Lehane: "Guri goes west and into the gazebo, about three quarters of the way across the parking lot. He buries himself under trash and leaves and lots of cow shit. He's got an M14 with staggered tracer rounds."

  Guri nodded. "And a 45 in my belt that's for emergencies."

  "If I give him the order to engage first, he'll light the bastard up like a Christmas tree. Now, according to the Professor, fire can kill this thing. Let's hope he's right."

  "No kidding. Because if it can keep coming with a clean, hollow-point brain shot, no knees and punched full of tracer rounds, my asshole's going to pucker so tight it'll suck up my trousers."

  Pops snickered in the headset. Sandy rolled her eyes. On the monitor, Whiz frowned and adjusted the audio. Lehane continued: "Guri, in a way you're the most exposed. We expect the thing to do what it has done before, come right on the premises and come in through a garage or the front door, almost as if it remembers being human. That means you'd better watch your ass and hide yourself well. Pops, I'll expect you to keep an eye on Guri. You're his backup, if he needs one."

  They could hear Pops panting a bit as he made his way up the hill. It was not necessary for him to answer. He knew his job.

  "Guri, what's your emergency exit?"

  "Straight down the driveway to the emergency vehicle. If the way is blocked, I circle through the garden and follow Pops."

  "And if the com goes down for some reason, you can go ahead of him. Otherwise, make sure you're following so he doesn't shoot your sorry butt."

  Guri made kissing sounds into his microphone. "If you shoot me, Pops, I'll never go dancing with you again."

  Lehane checked his watch. Night had fallen. He began to pace the bedroom, his own nerves were getting the best of him. "Sandy, you stay on the computer gear and make sure everyone stays in touch. I want to know where everyone is at all times, and Whiz needs someone making sure that happens on this end."

  "Okay, Jeff."

  "No rookie cross-fire, no fuck ups, everybody stays within their fields of fire, and everybody goes home tonight. Okay?"

  All around. "Okay."

  "What are you carrying, Sandy?"

  "I have my Glock, but I'll also keep a Calico M960A with a 100 round clip, loaded with intermittent tracer rounds. The slugs are modified to splatter, so I have to remember to aim high at all times, and not shoot down into the floor, or we may get trapped by a fire."

  "Oh, and don't shoot west, either," Lehane said. "That's where I'll be."

  Sandy smiled weakly. Lehane adjusted his microphone. "I'm staying upstairs at the windows. The front facing double pane is open, and there is no screen. I'll stay flat against the wall in the dark."

  Guri chewed gum. "Let's hear about the weaponry, dude."

  "I'll be set up with an Air Cav 40MM grenade launcher, with both Willie Pete and Flash-Bang grenades. I'm the court of last resort. If the head shot and tracer rounds don't get the job done, I'll burn the fucker myself."

  "After I exit the Gazebo to the west, though, right?" Guri grinned again. "Oh, and what if it still boogies around, even after that?"

  "Don't even think about it."

  "Okay, I won't." Guri closed his eyes. He seemed to be praying. After a few seconds he got to his feet in one fluid motion. "Permission to take my post, boss."

  "Let's go get him."

  The two men shared a high five. Guri loped down the stairs, across the lobby and into the night. Lehane motioned for Sandy to step out of camera range and closer to the bed. They both covered their microphones.

  "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

  "No," she said. "I think that part slipped your mind."

  "Maybe it just occurred to me."

  "Don't worry, I know."

  "You do?"

  She got up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Hey, a woman always knows, Jeff. Now you be careful, okay?"

  "You, too. Good luck."

  Sandy went back into view and sat down at the console to assemble her weapons. Lehane paused in the doorway, admiring her smooth efficiency.

  She checked the clip in the Glock before turning to the mini-submachine gun. The clip sits on top of the Calico M-960A. Sandy removed the 100 round, helical-feed magazine and soon it was checked and re-checked. She removed the safety at the front edge of the trigger guard.

  She whispered: "Lock and load, boys."

  "Amen," Lehane whispered. He moved past the doorway, crossed the wooden floor, grimacing at the tiny squeaks created by his combat boots. He flattened against the wall and slid down onto his butt, facing the darkened room.

  Quietly, Lehane searched his pockets for a matchstick to chew on then laid the shotgun-like, 40MM grenade launcher at his feet. He checked it twice with his eyes closed, making sure that the Willie Pete grenade was ready to go and the safety was on. Everything was in order.

  Lehane removed the Glock from his belt holster, checked the clip and his spares, put everything away again. He stared through the open doorway, where a tiny glow was coming from the computer monitor. Lehane assumed the creature would just take it for a normal television set. He could not see Sandy from here, but knowing she was close by was a comfort. He closed his eyes.

  Sat there, alone in the dark, waiting.

  Guri checked in first. "One." That meant he was in t
he filthy Gazebo, covered with garbage, leaves and animal droppings. He would now stay buried in the muck until ordered to change position or open fire.

  Whiz clicked the master microphone once to acknowledge that he'd heard. Lehane closed his eyes and tried to rest. He remembered something Dwight Eisenhower once said, just before the D-Day invasion of Normandy, during World War Two. "Before the battle, plans are everything. Once the shooting starts, plans are useless," or words to that effect. Lehane had seen that some missions could go smoothly, but knew all too well how quickly they could become fucked up. He prayed quietly that this would not be one of those times.

  "Two."

  That was Pops, checking in. He was now buried in the forest perhaps three hundred yards up the hill. He was sighting on the gazebo, where Guri was waiting, and the entire mortuary parking lot. Whiz clicked quietly to signal that they had heard.

  "Three," Lehane whispered. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and tried to get comfortable.

  "Four." Sandy was ready and would stay as motionless as possible for the duration. The entire team was in place.

  "Five," Whiz said, softly. His voice was in their headsets only. "Maybe I'm finally free to tell you assholes what I truly think of you."

  Light chuckles in response. "You're really brave when we're eighty miles away, aren't you, Whiz?"

  Lehane clucked his tongue. "Guri, maintain silence." He understood their tension and frustration, and the questions they were all asking themselves…

  What is this creature we're after? And do we really know what we're doing?

  Is this the time I get myself killed?

  Christ, do we even know what the hell we're doing out here?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Air hisses from a decaying throat; it's the last wheeze of oxygen from lungs that have been forced to breath long past their prime. The Bhuta summons energy like a black hole collects gravity, and for yards around it the birds fall silent, the dogs bark in terror and the cats hiss and hide; for the living instinctively tremble in the presence of a Dark One. The Bhuta has changed bodies many times in the last moon, and thus has gained clarity and a sense of self that it has not enjoyed for many years. It sits up slowly, enjoying the brisk night air…

  It is mindless no longer. In fact, it now thinks of itself as Ali Basra, a practitioner of the dark arts who used the spirit of the Bhuta to animate a corpse, but this is a thing which is both true and untrue. For whatever was once human has been forever tainted by the touch of Kali-ma, Mother of the cold ones, and may never be warm and truly alive again.

  Yet Ali Basra, wearing the mantle of Torturer of Iraq and the revenant of a human ego, continues to delude himself.

  The Bhuta tests the limbs of the host. As usual, it has fine control of the arms and legs and can use the vocal chords to speak a few words, but the fingers and toes do not function properly.

  Ali Basra, or the part of him that still exists in this inhabited corpse, resolves to improve these functions over time. Each new body teaches him something new; each manifestation of his greatness both refines and expands his power.

  The stars are beautiful. The Bhuta does not have the ability to distinguish most colors, the host eyes have deteriorated too far for that; he experiences vision as a pastel palate consisting mostly of beige, black and white. Nonetheless, light is a wonderful thing to a beast from eternal darkness.

  Briefly, Ali Basra enjoys the night sky. Finally he orders the host body to swivel its head. He is sitting in gravel, beside a parked automobile. The Bhuta grabs the door handle, clumsily groping with stiff fingers, and pulls itself into a standing position. The head turns again.

  It is in a parking lot, by some sort of tavern. Odd music, American country music, floats through the half-open lavatory window and drifts away on the night air. The Bhuta vaguely recalls accessing this body, sneaking up behind the drunken truck driver as he urinated into the bushes, spitting into his eyes before snapping his neck. It looks down and sees the previous body, collapsed like a rag doll at the weed-shrouded edge of a creek bed.

  Kneeling on creaky joints, the Bhuta rolls the used corpse down into the tall weeds and out of sight. The blood-drenched body is of no further use, except perhaps as food. The Bhuta gained the information it required, the location of his most recent kill, and could always return to this spot if hungry.

  It turns and claws back up the low hill, where it stands, as if confused, for a long moment…

  Ali Basra remembers what the host body's dying brain has stored. He searches the belt, finds the huge key ring. He orders the host body to open and climb into the truck. Seated behind the steering wheel, the body remembers how to start the truck and gun the enormous engine. It grunts with satisfaction.

  "Billy?"

  The Bhuta hears the voices, a man and a woman calling together. It knows the body it occupies was once called by that name. This is worrisome, since the living must inevitably sense that there is something terribly wrong with the dead. It can carry a charade for a while, assuming the human is drunk or distracted, but a confrontation is inevitable.

  The Bhuta jerks the enormous truck into gear and begins to back out of the parking space. The portion that is Ali Basra is pleased with his coordination and control over the corpse.

  It turns on the headlights.

  Standing directly in front of the truck he sees one woman, one man. They stand waving and calling; both are quite obviously intoxicated. The male has a full quart of malt liquor in his right hand. Ali Basra decides in a heartbeat to run them down and continue on. It begins to put the truck in gear but intuition stays his hand.

  The door to the bar stands open. Perhaps it is closing time, for patrons are spilling out into the lighted parking lot. There are too many witnesses. Running these humans down would attract too much attention. Ali Basra understands the truck would soon be located and his freedom at risk.

  So he forces the corpse to smile…And opens the passenger door.

  The young man enters, sets the quart of beer down on the floor and reaches for his partner. He wears a fashionable but sparse goatee, a red white and blue cowboy shirt that seems like striped nonsense to the Bhuta, jeans and boots and an oversized white cowboy hat that touches the top of the cab. The girl with him is plump and ripe; she is dressed in jeans, a blue work shirt and a string tie. Her blonde hair is sprayed into absurdity and oddly misshapen from perspiration and the addled groping of her boyfriend during oral sex in the parking lot.

  "You almost forgot about us, hombre." The bleary-eyed man squints at what he thinks is his truck driver friend. "Billy, you look like shit. I didn't think you was that drunk. You been barfing?"

  The Bhuta concentrates on the word. Ali Basra speaks English. He forces the mouth to move, air to cross the vocal chords. What emerges has an odd, hissing resonance. It is one word: "Drunk."

  The female giggles and slams the door, extinguishing the overhead light and plunging the cab into welcome darkness, save for the pale green illumination coming from the dash. She speaks. "Me, too."

  Because the word has met with such success, the Bhuta says it again. "Drunk."

  Both the male and female human laugh out loud. The male pats the Bhuta's cooling right hand. "You okay to drive us home, Billy?"

  "Okay," the Bhuta mumbles. "Okay."

  He throws the truck into reverse without checking the rear view mirror. Several people shout their anger, but the Bhuta ignores them. It is aware enough to enjoy the enormous sense of power the truck provides. It is a true life-taker in the right hands. It drives out of the parking lot, rips the mirror off a parked car, and goes toward the highway at the end of the drive.

  The male fumbles with the radio and finds a country music station. A low male voice fills the cab of the truck "You BROKE my HEART when you said GOODBYE…." The couple riding with death begins to drink malt liquor and sing along.

  The Bhuta pauses at the highway. It is not certain which way to turn. The male passenger stops warbling. "B
illy? What's up, man?"

  The Bhuta concentrates, forms words. "Flat Rock," it manages. It tries again, just to be sure. "Flat Rock."

  The male chuckles, sips from the brown bottle. "You got to go up to Flat Rock? What the fuck for?"

  The Bhuta, wisely, remains silent.

  "Man, you are toasted, aren't you? Well, can you just drop us off on the way, then? It's a straight shot up the 30, and my place is near the foot of the mountain."

  The Bhuta squints at the highway sign and locates the number 30. Ali Basra is satisfied. The Bhuta puts the truck into drive and heads north. Meanwhile, the drunken couple riding with the Bhuta begins to paw one another—lips locked, young bodies quivering. After a mile or two the Bhuta sees FLAT ROCK on a highway sign.

  Now Ali Basra knows what to do.

  The immense truck roars down the empty desert highway, music blaring from the radio, the couple in the front seat lost in unrequited lust. Headlights pierce the gloom to stroke the blacktop like yellowing fingers.

  The Bhuta wants to find the body of the doctor it slaughtered at the hospital, but the part that is Ali Basra knows it also wishes to find and destroy Jeff Lehane, the human who invaded his home, and then Enrique Diaz. In truth, the Bhuta has become a murder machine, only vaguely motivated by Ali Basra and his old grudges and varied, loose connections between the dead humans it inhabits; a force of dark nature that will kill and kill again, on and on, endlessly, like some lethal virus.

  The Bhuta likes the tension in the steering wheel and the enormous power harnessed under the hood. The vibrations provided more closely approximate real life, real human sensation. For a time it forgets the two bodies next to it on the front seat. It drives further into the desert and up the gentle slope leading to the mountains.

  "No, no," the female says, under her breath. The Bhuta glances to his right. The beer is resting on the floor. The Bhuta sees that the male, overcome with desire, has unfastened his zipper and is trying to get the female to fellate him. A skeletal grin crosses the already dry, wasting features of the Bhuta. It remembers this act.

  The female gives in and her head is soon buried in the male's lap. For its part, the Bhuta is glad to have a diversion, for the host body is rapidly losing life and its bowels have begun to empty. It orders the left hand to roll down the window and the cab fills with cold, night air.