“Gary, I have no doubt that you can blow shit up. I just don’t want you blowing us up at the same time.” He glanced at Micky. “Mick? You’re our engineer. You concur?”
“Do-able. As long as the Play Doh is put on the very edge of the frame it should do exactly as Gary says without compromising the roof. But dude, you better be pretty sparing near the apex of the door arch. If that central keystone block comes down, the whole lot follows it.”
Gary nodded. “Duly noted. Boss?”
“Do it.”
Gary immediately put his P90 down and turned to the ordnance box. Flynn flickered his eyes away from the door and towards the professor. “Professor? How’s it coming? Got a green route out of here yet or what?”
“I may have something…” The professor spun the map around and stared intently at it. “Yes… yes! There’s another way out!” He looked up and smiled a hopeful, slightly hysterical smile. “That door is obviously the main exit route, but there’s another egress marked here. It drops us into a corridor and then out into the main passageway.”
“Aww, bless! Listen to you, fella! Egress!” Micky laughed sharply. “We must be rubbing off on ya. Anyone else would’ve said a ‘secret door’!”
“Leave the man alone, Mick. Right. Where’s this ‘egress’ point, Professor?” Flynn nodded at Micky. “Don’t take your eyes off that door, Cox.”
“Copy.”
Flynn focused his attention back on the academic. “Okay. Show me.”
“This is the armoury. This is where we are.”
“Well, shit. Thank you for pointing that out to me, professor. I thought I was on the third level at Bluewater fucking Shopping Centre! Door, fella, where’s the damn door?”
“I… yes, sorry about that. It’s supposed to be here.” The academic stabbed a finger at the map.
“Supposed to be?”
“Well, I’m assuming that’s what this symbol means, yes.”
“And you know what they say about ‘assume’ being the mother of all fuck ups, right?”
“Um, boss? We got snuffling over here…” Micky Cox shifted his grip on the P90. Outside the door came that stomach-churning snaffling and scratching. The Black Prince was back and worrying at the timbers.
Flynn walked to his friend’s side. “What d’ya reckon he’s up to, Mick?”
“Weakest point of any door is the hinges. My guess? If he’s smart he’ll go for them. But another few shoulder barges and it’s going to be a bit of a moot point, boss, because that door is on its last legs. Look.” He pointed at the central plank. Bright, fresh wood that had been buried under ages of grime and blackened layers could clearly be seen. The plank was splitting.
“Oh, he’s smart, Mick. Believe me.” He jabbed a finger at the archaeologist. “Professor, find that trap door or whatever it is. Find it right now.” Flynn turned. “Gary? We ready, mate?”
“Two minutes.”
“We may not have two minutes, big guy.” Flynn took up position with Micky. He stared at the door and frowned. “Mick? I’ve got an idea. You’re not gonna like it.”
“O-kay?”
“We open the door.”
“Fuck off!”
“No, hear me out. If he starts battering that door again, it’s gonna give and we’ll be wide open with no way of stopping him from coming through full tilt. Trust me, this bugger moves fast. So we open the door, fill the bastard with two clips worth of twenty-eights, shut the door again and by then Gary should be ready with his Play Doh and the professor will hopefully have found us a way out of here by the back door.”
Cox’s eyes widened. “You’re insane!”
“You got a better idea?”
“Oh, I dunno, how ‘bout I try clicking my heels together three times and say ‘there’s no place like home’?”
“So that’s a no, then?”
“I’ve found it! The door! I’ve found it! The professor grunted as he pushed against a massive stack of shelves laden with old boxes. “It’s… behind here!” He grunted again.
“Take the damn boxes off, you idiot! Then you’ll be able to move the shelves.” Flynn looked back at the door. “Okay, fuck that, plan B.
“Good. ‘Cause you’re bang on, boss, I didn’t like plan A.”
“We’ll do exactly as I said and put the welcome mat out.
“Oh, c’mon, seriously?”
Flynn ignored Micky’s protestations. “We fill Chompy with ordnance, shut the door bloody damn quick, and then you, me, Gary and the professor get the hell out of here through the trap door. Gary? Don’t worry about being all delicate with the Play Doh, mate, put the whole lot up. Everything we’ve got, just slap and go, okay? We let him think we’re still in here, he comes barrelling through the door, trips the detonator and brings the entire bloody castle down on his head. Meanwhile, we’re exiting stage left sharpish. Any questions?”
“What about the cat?”
“Rupert comes with me.” Flynn looked at the cat and winked. Its green eyes lit up and it started purring loudly again. “All clear?”
“Copy.”
“Professor?”
The academic grunted a response and tossed another dust-covered box into the corner. “Um, copy?”
Flynn grinned at the man. “Adda boy! Okay then. On three, Mick.”
“Not liking plan B at all…”
“One.” Flynn heaved the cross beam out of its cradle.
“Two…” He slid the bolts back one by one.
“THREE!” He flicked the key, grabbed the handle and turned, pulling the door wide open. Flynn dropped to the floor so that Micky could fire over the top of him. He angled the P90 up so that anything running towards them would get a belly full of bullets at 45 degrees. He didn’t care how ‘undead’ you were, that would do a lot of damage.
Micky aimed into the darkness. “Incoming!”
The Black Prince came howling towards them, venom-laden saliva spraying from his open maw. There was none of the cackling laughter this time. Just a crazed scream that resonated like savage bells from the granite walls, ringing and echoing through the entire citadel.
“Fire!” Flynn depressed the trigger and the P90 spat bullet after bullet at the monster. The P90 could fire nine hundred rounds per minute, so Flynn knew they only had a few seconds before the fifty-round magazine was empty.
Above him a swarm of bullets from Micky’s P90 buzzed. The noise was deafening as one hundred rounds focused a colossal amount of kill-power into one soft body.
Blood sprayed the walls of the corridor. Vlad had just fed, so his stomach was full of the congealed remains of his victim. The bullets ripped open Vlad’s belly like a piñata. His own guts and those of his latest victim spilled out onto the floor and he screamed. Scooping up his own intestines with one taloned hand, he stuffed them back into his stomach cavity and roared at the two men. He slithered back into the shadows, burbling and spluttering, fresh blood flowing from the dozens of wounds on his body.
“Door! Shut the door!” Flynn rolled out of the way and Micky reacted instantly, slamming the door closed once again and re-securing the bolts, lock and cross beam.
“Gary, you’re up!” Flynn scrabbled to his feet, jettisoned the empty P90 clip and replaced it with a fresh one.
Gary sprinted to the locked door and slapped two blocks of C4 on either side of the frame. He inserted a detonator into one, stretched a thin trip-wire across the door frame and into the second detonator on the opposite side. He flicked a switch on the nearest block and a small red LED light started to flash. “Door’s live. I strongly suggest not being around when it opens.”
“Okay.” Flynn helped the professor give the shelves one last shove and they toppled over. Behind was a barely visible door, coated in layers of grime and filth. Flynn looked at the door – and the very large and very shut lock. “Okay. Key? Key?”
“No key.”
“Fuck. Gary? Got any more Play Doh?”
“A little bit.”
&n
bsp; “Blow the lock.”
“Okie dokie.” Gary pulled out a small piece of C4, rolled it into a thin sausage and inserted it into the keyhole. He pushed a detonator in and waved everyone back. “Fire in the hole!” He pressed the detonator button and turned his head away, cowering from the small but deadly explosion. The lock, made brittle by years of rust and decay, shattered and the door swung open into a cobweb-infested corridor.
“Go, go, go!” Flynn pushed Micky, the archaeologist and Gary into the passageway. He took one last look at the door. Behind it he could hear the beast snuffling and snarling again. A slow, nasty smile spread over Flynn’s face. “Come on in, fella, come right on in!” He glanced down at the cat and nodded. “You ready, Rupert?”
The calico cat stood, stretched and mewed softly. His stripy tail lifted into the air and he leapt with one bound onto Flynn’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, shall we, little guy?” Flynn turned and followed his friends into the corridor.
* * *
The Black Prince felt pain. Pain that he had never experienced before. These metal projectiles were very different from the firearms of the fourteenth and fifteenth century. They spat bullets faster than bees erupting from an overturned hive. Vlad smiled. They would be a useful addition to his new army’s arsenal. Behind the weakening oak door was not only more living food to help his body repair from its injuries, but more of these weapons too. Time to take ownership of both. He would feed on the small man with the spectacles. The others were soldiers. He appreciated their usefulness. They would be turned, infected with the venom that dripped from his mouth, to be forever compliant servants. He looked at the door, ascertaining its weakest point. The cracked central plank indicated that one more hard impact would shatter the ancient timbers. He let out a scream of delight and ran at the door.
The wood exploded and the Black Prince stood in the fragmented remains of the doorway.
A flashing red dot caught his attention and he peered at it, curious. What new experience was this? Vlad looked closer at the muddy brown block stuck to the stone arch. Inserted into its centre was a metal cylinder and the torn end of a wire.
The light stopped flashing…
* * *
Further into the tunnel a muffled ‘boom!’ and a shower of debris from rotting walls and crumbling ceilings caused the four men to stop, crouch and cover their heads with their arms. Stones and lumps of mortar clattered down and the men balled up tighter, pressing their backs against the wall.
Flynn was the first to uncurl. “Sounds like matey’s found our little gift. Let’s not wait around to find out if he’s gonna send a thank-you card. Move!” He hauled the archaeologist to his feet. “C’mon, fella, let’s get you back to the hotel for a nice hot bath and a couple of bottles of that local shit.”
“Which way?”
“Follow the cat.” The four men trotted after the little calico cat out into the main passageway – and straight into the waiting arms of a crowd of shuffling, snarling vampires.
These were Vlad’s most trusted lieutenants, whose own tombs beneath the armoury had been cracked opened by the explosion. The cat stopped, flattened its ears and hissed like an angry kettle.
Flynn brought his gun up to his shoulder and swore passionately. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me…”
The Bohemian Grove
Cold War Gothic II
Weston Ochse
SAN FRANCISCO
JULY 9, 1970
Afternoon
I probably wouldn’t have become this involved had they not told me to stop working on the case. Never before had I been limited in my goal to protect American secrets from foreign hands. Yet here it was, an official letter signed by the Deputy Secretary of the Air Force, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to cease my investigation on The Bohemian Grove. It was stamped, hand signed, and about as official a directive as I’ve ever received, but the problem was it ignored the facts.
Facts such as:
The Bohemian Grove has been a meeting place of America’s most prominent men since 1872.
No one who isn’t invited is allowed anywhere near The Bohemian Grove.
The Manhattan Project was secretly planned at The Bohemian Grove by Doctors Lawrence and Oppenheimer, along with members of government and the heads of major corporations.
A ceremony known as the Cremation of Care is performed every year as a mock child sacrifice to the Canaanite god Moloch.
And Special Unit 77 recently traced a link from a known Stasi front in Paris to an unknown catering business in the town of Monte Rio, California, which is the nearest town to The Bohemian Grove.
I had little doubt that the East German Ministry of State Security, or Stasi as it was better known, had an agent working against the men in The Bohemian Grove, especially since The Grove’s annual meeting was in two days. If I was to follow the directive, it would allow an East German agent access to some of America’s best kept secrets. If I was to ignore it, I might be able to stop something terrible from happening.
The bottom line was that I needed more information before I could decide which track to take, which was why me and Gomer Pyle (aka Jimmy Chan) were standing at the counter of a botanica in the Mission District of San Francisco. Gunnery Sergeant Chan was the Marine Corps replacement for Chiaka Chiba, who we’d lost almost a year ago last July. On the surface it might seem strange for them to replace one Asian-American Gunnery Sergeant with another, but that was by design. The large Asian population in San Francisco required someone who could not only blend in, but operate more freely.
It took a few minutes of convincing that we meant no harm. Two non-Hispanics dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties was usually bad news in this neighborhood. Eventually I was able to get a name and address. Four blocks later, we stood at the front door of a squat white stucco pushed towards the back of a dusty lot. Deep red Bougainvillea surrounded the front door like a toxicodendron guard. We knocked and after a few moments, were ushered inside by a plain young Hispanic woman, her hands covered with flour, an apron at her waist. An older woman hummed from a chair deep in the shadows of a corner as she watched a telenovela on the television with the sound off. The young woman pulled us into the kitchen where she’d been making bread.
“I don’t know what you said to my husband, but my father isn’t well.”
I nodded, keeping eye contact. “I apologize for this, ma’am. If there was anyone else, I wouldn’t be bothering you, but Major Cruz has some information we desperately need.” I was as earnest as I could be, even though I was really overstating things. I was on a fishing expedition, pure and simple.
“What is it you think he can help you with?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, it’s classified.”
She snorted. “You’ll be lucky if he’s even coherent. Classified.” She laughed and shook her head.
“If that’s the case, then we’ll be on our way in no time.”
She looked from me to Gomer and back several times, then gave a quick nod. She showed us into a back bedroom that had a sick odor I always associated with impending death. The windows were covered with dark cloth. Only a table lamp gave light to the withered man beneath the covers. A few stray hairs still hugged a head which held dozens of liver spots.
“Enrique, it’s been a long time,” I said, trying to get the man’s attention.
The eighty-three-year-old man’s milky eyes turned toward me.
“It’s me, David – David Madsen. Do you remember me, Enrique? Do you remember Monte Rio? Major Enrique Cruz, I am speaking with you.”
The old man struggled to open his mouth, spittle connecting both lips that eventually closed without making a sound.
“See, I told you he couldn’t help,” Enrique’s daughter said from the doorway. “He hasn’t said anything since last Monday.”
I gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “That’s pretty specific. Did he have any visitors that day?”
She shook her head.
“What about the day before?”
She shrugged. “Listen, I’m not always here. I really don’t know. You’d have to ask my mother.”
“Is that her in the front room?”
She nodded.
“Mind if we ask her a few questions?”
“You go ahead. I need to attend the bread.” She turned and disappeared from the doorway.
I nodded to Gomer and was about to leave when I felt a hand brush my own. I looked down and it was Enrique, trying to grab me, but all he could do was touch me like a baby might.
I bent down. “Enrique, what is it?”
I watched him struggle to push air through his lips, puffing and blowing, as if it was the only way he knew to get the words flowing. Finally he gave up, shook his head and smiled wanly. I sighed. And to think that this man had been one of the NSA’s more powerful Cerberus agents.
I followed Gomer into the living room and approached the old woman. She glanced at me, irritated, then looked back at her black and white telenovela. I stood patiently until a commercial came on, then asked politely, “Ms. Cruz, my name is David Madsen. I worked with your husband. Can I ask you a question?”
She turned to me, olive pit eyes regarding me from the wrinkled pouches of her face. “He’s not my husband anymore,” she finally said.
I turned to Gomer who shook his head.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He is a stranger, that one.” She cocked her head.
“Has he had any visitors, ma’am?” Gomer asked, bowing slightly as he spoke.
She looked at him curiously. “People like you, they always come.”
So he did have a visitor. “Who was it?” I pressed. “Can you describe them?”
The jingle from the soap commercial faded into silence and the program returned. She turned to it, totally immersed in a world where she wasn’t an old woman on the edge of senility, living in her daughter’s house, her entire universe an electronic box that told lies.
I gently touched her shoulder. “Mrs. Cruz, please. We need to know.”
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 19
