by Weston Ochse
He felt an ache in his back from picking up all of the duck poop. Damn but he was a good worker. When were they going to realize that?
CHAPTER 11
TEN PIN LEIGHTON BUZZARD BOWLPLEX, ENGLAND. AFTERNOON.
The three members of Section 9, Walker, and the witch sat in the rear of a hard-sided van around the corner from the Leighton Buzzard Bowling Club. Evidently Leighton Buzzard was the name of a town. If this had been America, Walker thought, they would have changed it by now. He sort of admired the steadfastness of the Brits. Then again, America still had towns such as Climax, Truth or Consequences, Intercourse, and Lizard Lick. He guessed there were some who reveled in their weirdness.
Walker was surprised that people bowled in England. It had never occurred to him that it was a sport outside of America. Not that he really ever played, but he knew a lot of enlisted friends who used to get together on Saturdays with their family and spend time at the bowling alley. Their salary didn’t go far, but bowling was something they could all afford.
Of course the fact that this bowling alley was condemned might indicate that the British didn’t bowl. He still found it strange that their target, a warlock named Van McKee, was using this as his home. The witch had said he needed the space because of his experiments and preferred someplace private.
Walker inventoried his gear and visually checked the others. They were a sad lot. That Section 9 once had more than two hundred members and had been the paradigm supernatural defense agency in the world was impossible to believe. Even their equipment was out of date. Whatever self-serving politicians had allowed this to happen should be staked to the ground, covered in honey, and fed to a herd of rabid homunculi. One look at those tiny long-armed devils and they’d shit money to fund Section 9.
While the SAS had new Mark 7 Body Armor, Section 9 used the Osprey Mark 2. While both were equally adept at stopping most rounds, the Mark 7 was more ergonomic and could withstand the rigors of combat. They all carried SA80s with ACOGs and Viper II thermal sights. The mainstay of the British military, the SA80 was a bull pup–style combat rifle, meaning the trigger housing was forward of the magazine. Although Walker liked the feel of it, he knew from experience that one of its downfalls was a weak firing pin, which was why Ian had issued them extras. They also carried Glock 17s, which rested in quick-draw chest rigs. Based on the Browning system, the Glock 17 had a counterrecoil system that helped keep the sights on target during trigger pulls. Walker would have preferred his HK416 and Sig Sauer P229, but such top-of-the-line equipment wasn’t available to him.
Beneath the body armor, they wore black fatigues with black ballistic gloves and neoprene half-face balaclavas. The witch wore the black fatigues but had demurred when asked if she wanted to wear something on her face. Ian had insisted she wear body armor. They’d actually fought about it, but once she saw that Ian wouldn’t even conduct the operation if she wouldn’t wear it she capitulated.
What they lacked was an MBITR or its like. With no interteam communications gear there’d be a lot of yelling to get information across, which meant chaos. Hopefully it would be controlled chaos.
“Listen up,” Ian said, pulling down his balaclava to be clearly heard. “Jerry and Trev, you’re stacking at the rear door. I want you to breach at GO plus thirty seconds. Walker and I will be in the front and breach on GO. Shoot anything not human. Try not to kill our target. Ms. Moore will be behind us to take care of him.”
“There’s one thing I might have forgotten to mention,” the witch said with absolutely no apology in her eyes.
Ian’s head snapped around. “What?”
“He may not be alone. Scratch that. He probably won’t be alone.”
Ian glared at her, then in a steely voice said, “I’m two seconds away from canceling the op.”
She waved her hand. “No reason to do that. Walker’s handled these things before. It’s probably going to be a piece of cake.”
Walker felt worry bitch-slap the nervous butterflies in his stomach. He’d handled a lot of things he’d hoped he’d never see again, number one probably being that absolutely fucking unbelievable obsidian butterfly he’d fought beneath Mexico City.
“What is it?” A frown underscored Ian’s words.
“Remember when I mentioned that he needed the space for his experiments? Well, Van McKee specializes in creating simulacrums. In fact, he makes them and sells them. I know he has a contract with several members of the Chinese Mafia.”
Walker groaned. Not those.
Trev’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?
“Motherfucking homunculi,” Walker said. “Little fucking Freddy Krueger–Stretch Armstrong serial-killing fucking mini-golems. Okay, here’s the deal. They swarm. As long as we pair up and keep moving, they can’t hurt us, but I saw them chew through the neck of an FBI agent who insisted on doing things solo. They die like anything else. Put enough bullets into them and then put some more.”
Ian looked to Walker. “How much does this change things?”
Walker shrugged. “It changes a lot, but we can do this if we have fire and position discipline. But it’s going to be easy for this warlock to cast a spell or escape while we’re trying to survive his minions.”
“That’s where I come in.” Sassy gave a quick, mean smile. “I’m a far better witch than he is a warlock; I just couldn’t handle his creations.” She pointed at him. “That’s where you come in.”
Walker hated the feeling of being used. But if it got him one step closer to the killers of Jen, he’d let it happen. “What do you think, boys?”
Ian gave Trev and Jerry looks and in turn they nodded.
Ian turned to the witch. “Okay, mission is still on, but if you do this to us one more time we’re going to have a serious conversation.”
To give the witch credit, she looked appropriately scolded, but Walker could still detect a smile wrinkling a corner of her lipstick-painted lips. Then she looked at him and he saw the sparkle in her eyes. She’d known exactly what she was doing and how her ploy would turn out. Walker had no doubt that she’d be up to this again and probably soon, regardless of her promise to Ian.
They synced watches and left the van. It was almost midday and there was plenty of traffic on the street, so the chances of them being seen were pretty good. But Ian had coordinated the operation with the Home Office and local police were supposed to ignore any calls about four armed men assaulting an old bowling alley. Plus, unlike America, where any given city could face four men in assault gear ready to attack a bank, the illegality of weapons in Britain made this much less likely. So when people did see heavily armed men dressed uniformly, they tended to assume it was just the government about to do something they didn’t want to know about. Or at least so said Jerry.
Ian and Walker stacked toward the front doors, close enough that they were touching. Ian was first and Walker could tell the man knew his business. They covered the distance to the door in a matter of seconds, then flattened themselves on either side. Old fliers were taped to the doors advertising family bowling nights and a missing kitten. Brown paper had been taped to the windows behind the old fliers to keep anyone from seeing into the interior. The double doors were boarded from the inside. Also on the outside of the doors was an official-looking memo purportedly from the health department stating that this edifice has been condemned until appropriate biological defense measures can be employed. It was ambiguous enough to make anyone pause.
Since the doors had been boarded shut, their plan was to go through one of the wide side panel windows to the left or right. They chose the right-hand panel, and when the time came Ian used the butt of his rifle to shatter it.
When the glass was down, they surged into the entry only to find themselves in a vestibule standing before another set of glass doors, these completely covered in plywood.
Ian and Walker looked at each other. If they had some Semtex they could have blown their way in. As it stood, they didn’t even have grenades. They
both came to the same conclusion and, with a running start, slammed their shoulders into the doors. They gave an inch or two as the glass cracked and the plywood buckled. The men backed up and tried again; this time the glass shattered and the wood cracked. Three more times and they were able to break through. But now any chance of surprise had been destroyed. Plus, the pain in Walker’s right shoulder was quickly spinning from an ache to something worse.
The interior of the bowling alley was lit with seven glass chandeliers, which by their placement had to have been installed when the warlock took residence. They cast electric light and hung lower than head height in line across the twenty lanes of the bowling alley. Directly in front of them was the reception desk, complete with bowling shoes still resting in wooden slots. The area to the left had been an arcade, but it had been cleared and was now a sitting area. The area to the right had been a concession but was now a library, books and manuscripts on bookshelves placed where the stoves and fryers had probably once been.
What they didn’t see was the warlock or any homunculi. Nothing stirred.
Walker kept his feet moving and his weapon at low ready as he scanned the immense space. “Ian?”
“Yeah, Walker?”
“Where are the bad guys?”
“Not sure.”
Suddenly Jerry and Trev burst into the room from the staff access door on the far left. They had their weapons at low ready as well and mimicked Walker’s perplexed response. Where the hell was everyone?
Then Walker felt it. It was subtle, but it was there, a minute buzzing just below the surface of his skin.
“Careful,” he said. “Something’s going on.”
“Do you feel something?” Ian asked. “What is it?”
Walker shook his head. “I don’t know.” He moved left, then right, then forward to the reception desk. The feeling didn’t increase or decrease. The magic seemed to be everywhere. Then he had an idea. He raised his weapon to ready carry and aimed at a point below one of the chandeliers. He moved his finger over the fire selector lever and switched from single to automatic. He fired three controlled bursts, raking his weapon from left to right.
“What the hell?” Ian moved next to him. “Did you see something?”
Walker stared at the area he’d fired in. It was as if he could almost see shapes, but it could just as easily have been a trick of the mind.
Sassy Moore swept in behind them. “You had the right idea, Walker, but it’ll take more than that to dispel the illusion.” She waved her hand and spoke something in harsh, guttural German and the chandeliers sang as they jingled, one reality snapping into place over the fake reality. Where there had been nothing, there was now everything: homunculi lying dead below the spots where Walker had fired, others standing and glaring, others hanging from the chandeliers, others holding bowling balls as if they were giant hand grenades, and of course the warlock, standing about forty-five degrees off to Walker’s right in the middle of lane five, a look of pure rage reshaping the doughy features of his middle-aged face into those of a wild animal.
It was like a switch snapped on and everything came to life. Walker opened fire even as the homunculi surged toward him, some swinging from the chandeliers, others running like Chucky Doll–sized linebackers. They were like the ones he’d met before in San Diego, San Fran, and Mexico. Just shy of three feet tall, they had arms long enough that they almost dragged on the ground. Bulging with muscles, their skin was a jolting orange as if their makers were trying to create monstrous versions of Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas. But what got Walker every time was their sublime expressions that telegraphed such disinterest, it was as if they knew more than him, that they knew when they were eventually going to kill him and that it was already a fait accompli.… But even that sublime look disappeared once they opened their piranha-fanged mouths.
Walker took down some of them but missed as many as he hit. He’d forgotten his selector was on automatic and switched it to single shot for more control. Then he leaped on top of the counter in front of him to put some vertical distance between him and the ground.
He gestured for Ian to follow. After a moment’s hesitation he did. Good thing too, because the little creatures were already up to the counter and trying to climb. So it was with some well-placed kicks and quick-fired shots that Ian and Walker were holding their own. Enough dead homunculi littered the ground that the others had to walk on them.
Jerry and Trev weren’t faring as well. Jerry was down on his knees and trying to get back to his feet. Beside him rolled several bowling balls, which had evidently been thrown at him. By the stunned look on his face, at least one had found its mark. Meanwhile, Trev was firing madly into the crowd of creatures rushing toward him.
Walker did the math. Even if the Section 9 guy hit every target with a kill shot he didn’t have the ammo to get them all without switching out magazines. Even if it only took a few seconds, those precious few would be enough for the homunculi to bring them down.
Walker leaped off the counter into a clear area and began running, heading for the wall Trev and Jerry had at their backs. Walker leaped on a mezzanine above the lanes as he began to fire into the herd of homunculi. Firing until his weapon was empty, he dropped the rifle and let the sling catch it, then in one smooth move pulled the Glock from its quick-draw holster and began to fire. He slowed to a walk, keeping his aim steady as he pulled the trigger with metronomic regularity. The words slow is smooth; smooth is fast ran through his mind as he found a stair down to lane level and moved into lane seventeen.
Jerry suddenly found his senses and lifted his rifle. He was still on his knees, but he fired from the hip. At last, the combined firepower of Walker, Jerry, and Trev was enough to stop the onslaught. Surviving homunculi turned and fled, flinging themselves into the chandeliers and swinging swiftly across the lanes back to where the warlock was now engaged with Sassy Moore in what appeared to be nothing more than a staring contest.
Ian came up behind Walker and the two of them ran to Trev and Jerry.
“Reload!” Walker shouted. He changed the mag in his Glock, reholstered it, then dropped the mag to his SA80 and replaced it. He chambered a round and brought his weapon around just in time to nail a homunculus square in the head coming down the stairs.
Walker kept his voice steady. “Everyone ready? With me, move steady. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast.”
The four moved shoulder to shoulder across the lanes, sweeping everything in front. While Ian and Trev had the flanks, Walker and Jerry had the center. Each of them fired as needed, knowing to preserve his ammunition and aim at only targets that presented danger.
Walker kept his eye to the chandeliers in case any were hiding there, but with their bright orange coloring he doubted they’d be able to disguise themselves.
Meanwhile he kept track of the warlock and witch out of the corner of his eye. They still stood quietly. If there was a battle occurring, it wasn’t something Walker was able to see. Just as well.
He was beginning to feel confident when something immense began to crawl out of the far end of lane five. Jerry and Ian began to fire at it, but the rounds had no visible effect.
They’d come to an immediate halt in lane eight.
Walker and Ian fired at other homunculi arrayed across the lanes while the creature emerged and stood to its full height.
Jerry’s eyes shot wide. “Bleeding Barney!”
“Crumbs!” exclaimed Trev.
Walker stared at the most terrifying aspect he’d never envisioned. It looked like Krampus but was too huge, its face too void of features to be the same as its namesake. It stood fifteen feet tall with four-foot horns curled like a ram’s. With a triangular head, where its eyes, nose, and mouth should be were blank, as if its creator hadn’t finished. Mottled-gray skin tightly covered a body with broad shoulders, long arms, and legs with the reversed knees of a goat. Its talon-tipped hands reached toward them.
The remaining homunculi gathered at its feet. S
everal clambered up its body and rested on its shoulders or clung to its legs.
“What in the holy hells,” Walker said, each word coming with shotgun force. “Back,” he said. “We gotta get back.”
The moment they began backing up, the giant horned being began moving forward. It had no eyes, but it had ears and could discern their location by the noise they made. The smaller creatures arrayed themselves in front of and beside it. No longer were they rushing pell-mell to their deaths. Now they were in a tactical formation meant to keep their god nearby.
The giant creature came to a chandelier and swept it down from the ceiling with one swipe of the arm, pieces shattering and skittering across the lanes.
Walker knew then that he had to stay out of its reach.
Jerry and Trev still fired at it but with absolutely no effect.
“Save your ammo!” Walker shouted. “Kill the small ones first.”
They backed away keeping the three-lane distance between them and the oncoming creatures. Their shift of fire had great effect as the smaller, more susceptible creatures fell beneath their well-aimed 5.56mm rounds.
The giant horned Krampus-like creature came to the next chandelier. Instead of sweeping this one aside, it wrenched it from the ceiling, then hurled it at them. It crashed against the lane in front of them as they dove out of the way.
Trev ended up in the pinsetter of lane thirteen.
The others dove the other way.
Walker climbed back to his feet and continued to fire.
Ian was slower to get up.
Jerry didn’t even try to untangle his limbs from the pinsetter. He continued to fire from the prone position.
Two homunculi attacked Trev, who was forced to drop his rifle. He pulled his Glock with his right hand and his knife with the other. The knife was long and thin, unlike the K-bar. It was a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, used exclusively by the British Special Air Service, and had more of a stiletto appearance.
