by Liam Jackson
Mark shook his head and said softly, "I don't know what you are, but I'm going to kill you both." Nodding toward the freezer, Mark whispered, "For them, I'm going to kill you."
Doris fixed her sightless gaze on him and sneered. Again her voice changed and the small, cramped room filled with the reverberation of multiple voices speaking at once. "Oh, shut the fuck up! Who the hell do you think you are, John Wayne?" she demanded.
In a cold, deliberate tone, the thing that had been Doris Freeman said, "You would threaten us, you pathetic puke? You think to look down on us? Weak, ignorant, self-righteous bastard! You've no idea what it is to savor the sweet, delicate flavor of fear. You've not felt your blood grow hot at the thought of cattle frozen in terror. And the children..." She smiled, with a wink. "The children, they are the sweetest treat by far.
"But I shouldn't be too surprised by your squeamish nature. Your kind has always been weak, unwilling to accept your proper place on the food chain." Grinning broadly, Doris pointed at the floor. "And that's why you're down there, sniveling on the floor while I stand above you... as it should be."
Mark shook his head. "What in the hell are you talking about? All this 'your kind' and 'my kind'? Tell me something; are you just naturally fucked-up in the head or do you have a personal trainer?"
As he taunted Doris, Mark thumbed the handgun's safety lever to the Off position. Uncharacteristically, he prayed to God, the Virgin Mary, and the donkey she rode in on, that neither Doris nor Arnie would hear the barely audible click. To his relief, neither did.
Doris's face wrinkled into a snarl, but she held her tongue. Instead of railing at his insults, she spoke clearly in a tone just above a whisper.
"I'm talking about the difference between your kind and mine. I'm talking about rulers and servants, landlords and tenants, predators and cattle. I'm talking about a brand-new day. Arnie and I have served the Masters for many years, and now the Masters have come to us, given us gifts of power beyond your imagination. Do you know how many of us there are on this wretched planet, Mr. Pierce? People like us who serve the Masters? No, you wouldn't know, and you wouldn't believe me if I told you. But I'll tell you this much, you miserable little puke. We... are... Legion!"
Doris paused to collect her breath. Suddenly, she seemed to notice Janet for the first time in several minutes. Indicating the shaken reporter with a nod of her head, Doris continued, "Now, take them for instance. Humans. Hairless monkeys whose only real claim to fame is an opposable thumb. Cattle fit for food and amusement and damn little else. It was nothing short of a great cosmic fucking joke when He decided to favor them. Had He not protected these pathetic sheep, they would have been extinct long ago. But then, so would you.
"In the end, what did His favor get you, hmm? You don't know? Well, I'll tell you; it got you fucked right out of existence. Now that we've been invited into this pitiful little world, there's nothing to stand in our way. Your time is measured in hours."
Janet wedged herself into the corner of the room behind the heavy dresser, and tried desperately to blend into the paint. She was still confused and terrified, but the initial shock was wearing away. The ghoul was blocking the single doorway and the only window was across the room above the freezer. She would have to make it past Doris, Arnie, and the man sitting on the floor in order to reach it. Didn't Doris say Arnie died over ten years ago? Looking at the gaunt creature before her, Janet could believe it.
Janet watched as the older woman spoke to the man on the floor. Doris was far stronger than she appeared and had already demonstrated a murderous attitude. Switching her attention to the ghoul, Janet felt her stomach tie into a knot.
Not only was Arnie large and frightening in appearance, he was also armed with a wicked-looking knife. Frustrated and afraid, she willed herself to calm down and wait for the right opportunity. Something told her that she would only get one shot at escape.
Doris coughed up a wad of bloody phlegm and spat it into Mark's face. Immediately his face began to burn, tiny blisters forming wherever the spittle touched bare skin. Snickering, Doris turned her back to him in a demonstration of contempt and disdain.
Walking to the freezer, she raised the lid and peered inside. "Oh, my! Arnie, you've been such a good boy! Must be, what... five or six in here?" Looking over her shoulder, Doris smiled at Mark. "After they take you away, Arnie and I are going have dinner. Should I save you a drumstick, Mr. Pierce?"
The mockery in her tone, the monstrous reference to murdered children rang in Mark's ears, driving him over the edge.
"You sick bitch!" Mark sprang from the floor and dove headlong at Doris. His shoulder caught her in the small of the back and sent her sprawling across the room. Mark heard the sharp crack of broken ribs, as Doris landed hard against the kitchen sink.
One down!
In a single, fluid motion, he retrieved the magazine from the floor, inserted it into the butt of the Ruger, worked the slide to chamber a round, and swung the gun toward Arnie.
Doris had been caught off-guard by Mark's maneuver, but if the injury to her ribs was any hindrance, it didn't show. With a roar that sounded more bestial than human, she coiled and launched herself at him.
An urgent whisper echoed in Mark's mind: Danger, danger, danger...
Instinctively, he whirled about and fell back onto the bed, giving himself the needed split second to swing the heavy-caliber Ruger back onto Doris. Snarling like some crazed junkyard dog, she was nearly on top of him when her sightless eyes seemed to focus on the handgun that was now pointed in her direction. Her mouth formed a surprised and silent O just as the heavy Gold Dot hollow-point slammed into her forehead and exited the back of her skull in a spray of hair, bone, and gray matter.
A second slug erased her nose and dropped her into a heap at the edge of the bed. She was still twitching as smoke rose from her body and in a flash of brilliant light, Doris's body ignited into a mass of green and yellow fire. A gout of flame shot into the air, kissing the seasoned plywood ceiling.
Rolling to his right, Mark fell off of the bed, landing at Janet's feet. Quickly rising to one knee, Mark placed the front sight on Arnie's sunken chest and fired a single round.
The ghoul, its face contorted by murderous rage, was already shuffling forward around the foot of the bed, knife raised for a killing stroke. Moving much faster than Mark believed possible, Arnie twisted sideways, avoiding the slug with inches to spare. Mark adjusted his aim and fired again. The second shot took Arnie just below the heart and spun him around like some tall spindly top.
"Fucking monster!" screamed Mark as he brought the Ruger's muzzle in line with the bridge of Arnie's bulbous nose.
The .45 bucked in his hand and Mark watched with satisfaction as the impact of the slug threw Arnie backward, through the doorway and into the next room. The sound of shattering glass was immediately followed by a dull thud. Another flash of light illuminated the living room. Black, noxious smoke billowed through the doorway, bringing with it the sick-sweet odor of burning flesh.
Trembling from head to foot, Mark suddenly realized that he still had the Ruger trained on the doorway. Slowly, he lowered the gun before a loud cough reminded him that there was still another person in the room. Spinning about, he trained the gun on Janet.
Janet saw the bright glint of insanity in the man's eyes and thrust both hands in front of her face. "No!" she screamed. After what seemed an eternity, Mark slowly lowered the gun to his side.
Janet, afraid to breathe, nodded slowly. "Good. That's good. Now, take it easy! We... we have to get out of here. The whole place is burning down."
Despite lowering the gun, Mark watched her with a wary eye. "You came here with them," he accused.
"Oh, God, no! I just came here to use the phone! That's when I heard... something, inside. Then Doris, at least I think it was Doris—screw it! If we don't get out of here, we'll both be dead before I can finish the story!"
Mark studied her eyes, looking for some hint of deceptio
n, some sign that she was lying. But all he saw was fear. Plenty of fear.
Something in her voice, perhaps it was the weight of her desperation, touched him. Besides, he reminded himself, hadn't she yelled out a warning when the crazy woman charged him from behind? That didn't mean he was ready to trust her. It wasn't in his nature to trust anything or anyone.
The killing rage drained away, slowly at first, then evaporated completely. He looked around the room as if seeing the carnage for the first time. The fire in the living room had spread to the walls, engulfing the bookshelves and the heavy drapes that covered the double windows. There would be no chance for escape in that direction. The bedroom was faring no better. The bedding was consumed in flames as was the low ceiling. Soon there would no chance of escape, period. Motioning for Janet to follow, Mark ran to the freezer.
Fighting off an intense wave of emotion, Mark climbed on top of the freezer and quickly removed his jacket. Wrapping it around one arm he smashed through the heavy double windowpane. Cold clean air rushed into the room, further fanning the flames. Mark laid his jacket over the broken glass that lay along the sill. Mark pulled Janet atop the freezer, and then helped her through the opening.
Seeing her safely to the outside, Mark started through the opening, pausing only to glance at the child's grisly remains lying in the center of the floor. Despite the smoke and increasing flames, Mark paused to touch a forefinger to his lips, then lightly touched the tip of his finger to the freezer.
"Goodbye, sweetheart. I hope you're in a better place." Brushing a tear from his eye, Mark bent forward, ducked beneath the raised window, and suddenly froze.
Someone or something was standing in the doorway that led to the living room. Straining to see through the smoke, Mark could make out the silhouette of a person, a man judging from the size. Forgotten until this moment, Doris's ominous words suddenly echoed in his head,... until they come for you... come for you... come for you...
Mark turned and slid out the window into the storm.
CHAPTER 24
Knoxville, Tennessee
Sam smelled smoke. Kicking away the woolen army blanket, he crawled out from his cardboard fort and walked the length of the old abandoned factory. Stepping carefully over rusted motor blocks, machine parts, and broken glass, he made his way to one of the large third-story windows. Looking across the way, he estimated the distance at five to six blocks; he could see black smoke billowing from the end of what looked like a long narrow row of apartments. Thin flickering fingers of flame sprouted from a dozen places along the old tar roof, sending sparks and burning debris aloft into the inky night.
His vision obscured by the heavy snowfall, Sam could just make out the letters on the bright green neon Vacancy sign that glowed eerily from the building's gravel parking lot. Putting two and two together, Sam realized that he was looking at an old row-house motel and that it was quickly burning to the ground.
A strong gust of arctic air howled through the broken window and sent a chill through Sam, past the bone and down to the marrow. He backed away from the opening and glanced at his Day-Glo watch: 12:55 a.m. Nine hours since he had last caught a glimpse of the Lincoln. At least he had been able to make the call to Kat. That had bought him another two days. Wonder what Kat's doing right now? Wonder what Charlie's doing?
After leaving Charlie, Sam had navigated an erratic course through the back alleys of Knoxville. Several times during his flight, he had caught sight of the white Lincoln.
The driver had an uncanny ability to anticipate Sam's route, and nearly managed to cut him off on at least three separate occasions. Each time, Sam narrowly avoided disaster as the Voice came to his rescue.
Bone weary, and suffering from falling temperatures, Sam made his way to an area that vaguely resembled the industrial park near his home in Arizona. While the park back home was well-kept, and bustled with activity around the clock, this area was an industrial wasteland. Nearly all of the buildings were made of prefabricated metal and in desperate need of repair. Doors and windows were at a premium. Huge trash bins overflowed with scrap and debris. At the end of one block, Sam noticed a three-story building made of faded brick. While it suffered from the same neglect as the other buildings in the immediate area, it had a sturdier look.
guardian machine works--est. 1942
Sam mentally dubbed the building "the Citadel" and made his way to the rear of the lot. Large wooden crates littered the back dock, and hunks of massive motor assemblies peeked out from under blankets of blown ice and snow, looking for all the world like a graveyard for armored, ice-aged dinosaurs. Graveyard, thought Sam. An involuntary shudder ran through his body.
There were no dinosaurs around during the Ice Age, said the Voice.
Sam frowned, but held his tongue. Although the Voice had communicated with him since early childhood, it rarely spoke more than a few words each time. Lately though, he noticed that his companion was becoming more... conversational.
"This will work for a place to stay tonight," Sam said. Yes, said the Voice.
The Voice certainly acted more human lately, expressing a broad range of emotions ranging from humor to surliness. While there was no doubt in Sam's mind that the Voice was a kind of cosmic gift, there were times that he wished he could just flip a switch and turn it off. Gift or not, Sam thought he would gladly trade the Voice for a goose-down sleeping bag at the moment.
Shameful. And after all we've been through, whispered his companion.
Startled, Sam said nothing for a brief second. This didn't sound anything like the ghost he knew so well. But it was. There was no mistaking the familiar emotions that accompanied the message.
"Yeah, right," Sam finally shot back. "Easy for you to say. I'm freezing my ass off while you're sitting all warm and cozy in there," he said, tapping the side of his head.
Oh, and you think it's some sort of picnic in here?
The retort shook Sam. Not only was the Voice conversing with him, Sam realized for the first time that it was also distinctly feminine.
"What gives? I mean, all the sudden, you"—Sam cleared his throat—"I mean... you're talking to me instead of at me."
Sam received a distant but distinct impression of amusement.
Hmmm... I suppose I am, but don't expect it to become a habit.
"But... why now? Why haven't we talked like this before now? I mean, like, you've been around forever." Sam heard the familiar ringing of wind chimes.
Oh, I've been around much longer than forever, but that's another story. As for your question, you've heard the old expression, 'there's a time and place for everything'?
"Yeah, and your point?" replied Sam aloud.
It's time. Now listen carefully.
Sam nodded, "Uh, okay. Go ahead. I'm listening."
There's serious trouble nearby and it's coming your way. A couple of people, a man and a woman, are managing to stay just a step ahead of it, but they're going to need some help. You with me so far?
Sam nodded.
When you find them, bring them here. They're too scared to argue, so you shouldn't have any trouble convincing them to follow. Once you're all safely inside, tell them everything. And I mean everything. Understood?
Sam shook his head and pulled his jacket tightly across his chest. "I don't think that's such a good idea. I mean, about me telling them everything, you know? Most people don't deal with the truth very well... uh... say, you gotta name?"
There was silence for a moment and Sam was afraid that the voice had retreated back to wherever it had come from. To his relief, the Voice finally said, You may call me Joriel.
Sam repeated the word in his head, then tried to say it aloud. The result was less than desirable.
No, no. Roll the r and place the emphasis on the last syllable.
Sam tried again, but his southwestern drawl kept getting in the way. Sighing, he asked, "Do you mind if I just call you Jo?" Again, there was the sound of wind chimes and Sam realized that Joriel was laugh
ing.
That's fine. But you are to give no one my True name unless I give you permission. Understood?
Sam grinned at the absurdity of the notion. "I don't think you have to worry about that. You really think I'm going to tell people that the Voice in my head has a name that I can't pronounce? I've got one more question, if you don't mind. Now I know who you are, but, uh, well... what are you?"
Before Joriel could respond, Sam caught a glimpse of movement from the alley below. Through the snow, he could just make them out; a man and woman, a couple of blocks away and running like the hounds of hell were right behind them.
Sam glanced back at the burning motel and saw that the fire was completely out of control. Through the smoke and blowing snow, he also caught a quick glimpse of a third person, well behind the man and woman, but definitely on their trail. The man, he assumed it was a man, moved slowly, in and out of the deep shadows of the privacy fence that protected the rear of the motel. There was something familiar about the man and on a hunch, Sam closed his eyes and let his senses drift away with the wind.
He didn't have long to wait for the answer as it struck him in the pit of his stomach and stole away his breath. The Enemy! This man was connected to the Lincoln! Maybe not the driver, but connected all the same. Without wasting another second, he set off down the iron stairway.
CHAPTER 25
Mississippi Delta
Delicate shadows danced along the lichen-covered rock walls, in step with the flickering flame of a dozen tallow candles. A soft breeze gently disturbed the linen curtains that covered the crude shuttered windows. The monastery, the lone surviving remnant of a small, but thriving sixteenth-century French trading settlement, was old, one of the oldest in North America. The building stood on the banks of a winding bayou, deep in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, a simple reminder of another age.
