A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  23. “Araenida” was picked up by Cemetery Dance at the same time as the first story in this collection. Child abuse really horrifies and bewilders me, so it tends to pop up in my fiction. If memory serves, I had the basic idea in my head first, and thought the young ones should be allowed to get even for a change.

  25. “Suffer the Children” was a completed short story when Kealan Patrick Burke approached me about contributing a novella for a new Cemetery Dance anthology called Brimstone Turnpike. When he explained the basic idea, it crossed my mind to expand this one. I sent Kealan what I had with notes on how it could be lengthened, and he loved the idea. Incidentally, although I’m dying to try it again, novella length fiction turned out to be tough for me. Everything always felt either too long or a bit too short. I still want to try it another time or two, though. Anyway, I figured it might be fun to have the original short story that inspired “Behold the Child” out there, even if just for comparison.

  25. “A Host of Shadows” was published in “Dark Delicacies 2, Fear” a couple of years ago. I had sent it out once before but it was rejected. Upon reflection, I could see why, so I completely changed the ending to make it a new beginning. Del Howison and Jeff Gelb snapped it up. It’s a complicated idea that grew out of reading an article on synesthesia and the latest brain research, so it kind of hops all over the place. Still, I like the quote from Kierkegaard and the subtext it carries, which is why it ended up being the title of this collection.

  By the way, sometimes I go through Bartlett’s Quotations looking for inspiration, and that’s why you’ll see quotes at the end of some of the stories. In case you’re wondering, occasionally the quotation inspires the story, but often I’ll just use something as a title for a tale that already exists. There’s no set pattern, it’s just me looking for inspiration.

  Okay, I want to thank Norm and Joe and the folks at Dark Regions for encouraging me to put this book together, and my wife and daughter for lighting up my life.

  Hope you enjoyed this collection, and thanks for being there to support the genre.

  Harry Shannon

  Los Angeles, Calif.

  October, 2009

  About the Author

  Harry Shannon has been an actor, a singer, an Emmy-nominated songwriter, a recording artist in Europe, a music publisher, a VP of Carolco Pictures (Terminator 2, Total Recall, Rambo), and worked as a free-lance Music Supervisor on films such as Basic Instinct and Universal Soldier. He holds an MA in Psychology and is currently a counselor in private practice. Harry has won the Tombstone, the Black Quill, and been nominated for the Stoker. Although primarily a novelist, the author has sold stories to a number of genre magazines including Cemetery Dance, Horror Garage, City Slab, Crime Spree and Gothic.net. He contributed to a Cemetery Dance Publications’ Brimstone Turnpike, as well as shorter fiction to several genre anthologies, among them Dead West, A Dark and Deadly Valley, Dead Set and In Delirium II.

  Shannon's first signed limited edition short story collection Bad Seed debuted in June of 2001. His debut horror novel Night of the Beast—the first in a pulp trilogy set in northeastern Nevada—was released in 2002. The acclaimed Night of the Werewolf won the small-press Tombstone Award for Best Novel of 2003. The final book in the series, Night of the Demon, was released by Delirium Press in 2005. These 'Night' books are currently out of print, but may be back in 2010.

  Harry Shannon's first noir effort, Memorial Day (A Mick Callahan Novel), takes place in fictional Dry Wells, Nevada. The sequel, Eye of the Burning Man, came out in November, 2005. A third Mick Callahan novel, One of the Wicked, will be released in fall of 2008.

  Shannon's first thriller The Pressure of Darkness was released in November of 2006.

  Visit him online at:

  www.harryshannon.com

  Here’s an excerpt from “PAIN,” a new novella by Harry Shannon from Dark Regions Press. Sign up for our mailing list to hear about new releases, contests, discounts and special offers at:

  www.darkregions.com

  _______________

  8:27 PM

  “Freeze…”

  Low, hoarse whisper on a frosty night. Five soldiers smoothly drop to their knees, weapons raised and facing the woods in a lethal arc. Cap Rogers has commanded them since the beginning, all the way from Afghanistan into mercenary work for Blackwatch. His word is law. Sweat rapidly cools in a light breeze. Their NV goggles, silenced weapons and black clothing, all carefully cleared of battle rattle, make them look like a horde of giant insects. A full moon inches across the heavens, quietly slips behind a thick, brooding cloud. To these anxious men the entire world is flowing ink and bustling shadow. Down below, in the trees, something screams high and shrill. A grunting figure crashes through the brush, headed their way, but then veers south instead. Other things pursue it, shrieking with rage. A dozen or more pairs of feet crunch through leaves, twigs and half-frozen dirt.

  “Hold your positions,” Cap whispers.

  His tense men hear him grainy in their headsets, that deep voice thick with tension. They are on edge and itching to get home, but trust this man implicitly. Cap looks like a recruiting poster for Special Ops; big boned, buff and steely-eyed.

  “Hang tough,” Cap says then. “When this bunch is past, we’ll make a break for the highway.”

  The roaring mob arcs through the night, achingly slow, almost as if taunting the team. The piteous wailing intensifies. Whatever is being pursued has apparently been cornered. Animal noises echo through the woods; a grunting, ripping and after that the wet sound of flesh being torn asunder. One horrified voice, pitch driven higher and higher and higher by pain. On and on. The men wait with widened eyes. Finally, the agonized screaming stops. Silence drops like a thick, black curtain.

  Cap whispers again, “Go.”

  The squad turns, jogs downhill. Cap remains behind for a long count, his cool eyes sweeping the woods, then follows his men towards the distant highway. A full moon returns to stage-light the empty clearing. After a time one timid owl resumes hooting. A few nocturnal animals stir. The breeze dies, swirls leaves, bides its time.

  To the men, their rapid passage through the forest seems loud and clumsy, although only an animal or a trained hunter would be able hear them pass. The team carefully but quickly avoids thickets and hops over twigs and fallen branches. They breathe slowly and deeply. These are men already used to long jogs through the night into morning. Their training never stops. But this time a creeping sense of dread fuels their bodies. To pause is to die, and die horribly. And so they trot on and on under an indifferent, star-speckled sky.

  Cap Rogers can see the thick ribbon of empty mountain highway down below, knows the emergency roadblocks will re-route most traffic via a long detour to Interstate Five, but his hopes rest on a tourist or two having left prior to the Red Alert, someone with a vehicle large enough to carry his men. People still drive vans, SUVs. Trailers pulling horses are also common in this part of Nevada. If there are no vehicles, then a place to make a stand. Anywhere but here. A good officer has to cling to hope, think on the fly, improvise. The men depend on Cap’s instincts, his ability to make a quick decision. Tonight more than ever before.

  “Stop and drop.”

  The men kneel, then ease themselves down, still in a half-circle facing up the hill. They do not have to be told to keep their rifles in a wide field of fire. Cap stays on one knee. He glasses the woods, sees nothing, swallows dryly. Orders the men to take two sips of water. Then they will be back up and on the run in two minutes. They are not that tired, Cap knows, he just wants to listen. The things pursuing his short team seem to travel loudly, clumsily, and it bothers him that he’s not hearing a thing right now, nothing at all. The mountain creatures around them have gone to ground. If the group stops moving long enough, something should stir out there. Unless…

  Walt Bowden touches Cap on the leg. Cap looks down, flips his microphone to one side. Walt does the same. “Jesus, Cap, I mean what the hell?”

>   “I know. How is your shoulder?”

  “Fucked up, but if I dope it any more I’ll just slow you guys down.” Bowden’s eyes show that he understands what will likely happen should he be left behind.

  In the earphone, Rivera, the acne-riddled ex-marine from East L.A. “Last clip. How many you figure are still out there?”

  “I’m low, too,” whispers Travis.

  “Zip it,” Cap orders. Something moved. Where?

  Rivera moans, “Oh, fuck me.”

  Flannigan starts shooting, screaming, “Left flank! Left flank!”

  The enemy come from a copse of trees to the northwest. They are spread out like a line of screaming, desiccated Confederate soldiers, all bloody wounds, tattered rags and wild hair. No set formation, just a wave of predatory rage and hatred coming out of the hungry shadows into the pale moonlight. The short team fires, their silenced weapons burping and coughing and popping like corn in hot kettles.

  Cap looks over his right shoulder, makes a quick decision, calls “Move, get your asses into the rocks.”

  The highly disciplined team rises, continues firing, backs up towards a thick outcropping of boulders on higher ground. One giant rock at the back of the clump curves back and away, providing decent cover. The attackers come apart, limbs dissolving into mist or ripped away, chests blossoming red; but still they attack, fearless and determined, insane with hatred or perhaps something worse. The team reaches the rocks, sets up instantly. Cap ducks behind a boulder breathing a sigh of relief but then hears a terrible sound, the cry of another of his men.

  “I’m hit!” Rivera, clutching at his stomach.

  Cap grimaces, shakes his head. They are all wearing Kevlar, the enemy isn’t armed, so what the fuck? “How?”

  “Must have been a ricochet,” Rivera cries, “a round got under my vest.”

  Something comes flying from above them, one of the bastards coming the other way, launching like an RPG, slamming into Travis. A blur of motion, thumping sounds, Travis being beaten on the head with something small and thick, like a ball-peen hammer.

  His skull cracks. Black fluid sprays up and away. Travis crumbles like an opened sack of grain. Cap fires and the attacker falls. The night stops like a clock frozen between seconds. They are alone again, Cap flying fucking near solo, with three men dead. His second in command Walt Bowden is badly wounded and clumsily tending to Rivera, who’s gut-shot and unlikely to last.

  Cap makes another snap decision. Grabs his communications gear, makes a small adjustment. Whispers hoarsely.

  “Central, this is Alpha Dog One…

  8:38 PM

  Eighteen miles down the mountain, near an emergency roadblock manned by armed guards, sat a large, green canvas tent surrounded by military vehicles. Inside, amid computers and screens and cables and desks, several weekend warriors hustled and bustled about, worn expressions either terrified, confused or bored according to their level of understanding. Some had gotten pulled out of bed by coded messages; they were the frightened ones. Others were National Guard troops yanked from fighting a nearby forest fire, bored and not sure what they’re supposed to be doing there, tonight of all nights.

  One woman with an air of confidence manned an outsized stack of computerized gear parked smack in the middle of the tent. Major Leanne Davidson. She was just shy of thirty, a blonde with pleasant but unremarkable features, trained body lean and strong. For security reasons, Leanne was the only one who heard Cap Rogers in her headset.

  “Alpha One to Command Central, do you read me?”

  Leanne blinked, surprised. She felt gooseflesh rise. Typed fast, kept her voice low. “You are breaking radio silence, Alpha Dog One.”

  “Yeah, well, you been watching this, Command Central? It’s a goddamned clusterfuck up here.”

  “Clusterfuck isn’t a Sit Rep,” Leanne said. She could hear panic in the soldier’s voice, though Cap Rogers spoke carefully, like an airline pilot calling in a crash landing; cool and collected on the surface but way spooked out down in the gut. He said, “Three men walking, two wounded, one critical. Low on ammo, going to ground. Request extract ASAP.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Okay. Where are the bad guys?”

  Leanne typed rapidly. Searched her screen. The satellite photos on the monitors above her computer glowed, morphed and formed several distinct shapes. A blob of red dots collected into a group. “Moving north,” Leanne said, briskly. “Away from your position. Gone for now.”

  “Good. How soon for that evac?”

  “Working on it.” And she was. Major Leanne Davidson was damned good at her job. She pulled up a map, judged distances in a New York heartbeat, typed as loud and fast as a line of Irish dancers, issued marching orders pending approval. Said, “Be advised, LZ is two miles down, a flat rocky area with one main building, an evacuated ER with a decent-sized parking area.”

  “Two miles might take a while.”

  “Maintain silence, just get in touch when you arrive. We’ll be waiting for word. Hang in there, soldier.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cap Rogers said. She heard him spit something and grunt. Blood? “This shit had better be worth it.”

  Leanne severed contact without responding. She rolled back in her chair, spun to the left and stared up at a tall, balding man leaning on the console. Colonel Anthony Sharpe was commanding her unit. Sharpe had caught the last part of the conversation. Sharpe was inches from retirement, a bulky soldier struggling to save a few wandering strands of white hair. He stood rigid, gripping a dead cigar with stained fingers.

  “Well,” Leanne said. “Is it?”

  “Is what?”

  “Is this shit worth it?” Leanne stood up. “Is it worth what’s happening out there tonight?”

  Sharpe shrugged. He waved the cold cigar in the air. Half the soldiers stopped, the rest don’t even notice. Sharpe cleared his throat. “Listen up, people.”

  Leanne called, “Attention!”

  That did it. The room snapped to and went perfectly still. Some low radio chatter continued. A hissing from some gear. Wind beyond the tent flap.

  “Everybody get out,” Sharpe said. His eyes stayed on Leanne. His voice was thick with emotion. “Do it now.”

  People began to mill about, collecting papers, turning off gear, performing assigned tasks in the assumption the assignment had ended. Exasperated, Sharpe went up a few DB. Addressing no one in particular, he screamed. “What fucking part of ‘now’ do you not understand?”

  Thunderous creaks and thumps and the rustle of starched uniforms as the room emptied like a barracks in boot camp. Colonel Sharpe seemed more defeated than pleased, which Leanne found bothersome. She looked around the empty command tent, cocked her head to one side. “Okay, you did that because…”

  “I’ve been relieved.” Sharpe produced a small metal flask and added a hefty shot of whiskey to his coffee. He popped a couple of pills, offered Leanne drugs and her own shot of booze. She shook her head warily. “I tried all that a couple of years back. My daughter stayed dead, and my ex went right on screwing his secretary.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t care as much.”

  “Jesus, Tony,” Leanne said. She snapped the whip and he jumped. “What the hell is going on?”

  Colonel Sharp went pale. “I’m out. The VP heard about the casualties. He’s pissed off and hands on.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “Shit indeed. Deep shit. Anyway, Blackwatch Security took over as of five minutes ago.”

  Leanne sat down heavily. Her chair squeaked. “No shit? I thought they were out of government contracts these days.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Major. These people are the government.” Sharpe finished his spiked coffee, popped a useless breath mint. He snuck a quick peek at his watch. Leanne knew him. She could see the fear crawling under his skin like a horde of tiny insects.

  “I’m sorry, boss.” She stood up and began to gather her things.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Sharpe s
aid, with dark emotion. “Me, I’m retired. You don’t get off that easy.”

  “I’m straight military. Says who?”

  “Says the Veep and the DOD. You stay. Leanne, trust me on this. Don’t mouth off. In fact, don’t say anything, don’t see anything. Don’t even think real hard. And make sure to cover your butt at all times.”

  “Get out.”

  A baritone voice from just outside. Sharpe stiffened, turned on a dime and left the command tent as ordered. His bald pate faded into shadow as he left through the flap. Leanne was stunned. No goodbye, no eye contact. Nothing.

  “You,” the voice said. “Stay.”

  Leanne sat still, held back twenty questions and a lot of foul language. Then the tent flap snapped open. Time slowed and then stopped altogether. Her stomach went cold. A tall, slender man in a black suit stepped inside. Clean featured with a nose like a hatchet, dark hair combed straight back, thick eyebrows, right on the cusp of fifty. The man smiled. He had a thin slit of a mouth. Leanne took in the suit, the eighty-dollar haircut, no wedding ring, but as a woman found him unnerving, not at all attractive. He walked closer, taking his time. Leanne showed nothing and remained seated. Her clear insubordination seemed to amuse him.

  “My name is Burkhalter,” the man said, pleasantly. “You work for me now.”

  This e-book is from Dark Regions Press

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  Dark Regions Press has been publishing since 1985. We are an award winning press specializing in Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction. We have published renowned authors Bentley Little, Kevin J. Anderson, Jeff Strand, Harry Shannon, Michael Arnzen, Elizabeth Massie, Jeffrey Thomas and many others. Dark Regions Press has received numerous Bram Stoker Award nominations and published four award winning short story and poetry collections.