Reign of Evil - 03

by Weston Ochse

  He finally fell asleep staring at Van Dyke. He dreamed of a single crow on a battlefield staring at him with twelve eyes.

  CHAPTER 22

  CHICKSANDS RAF. MORNING.

  Walker stepped into the lounge and thanked God there was coffee. He poured himself a cup, then turned, leaning against the counter, looking at Trevor.

  “Sir Robert called you a psychopath.”

  Trev and Preeti glanced up from eating breakfast at the table. Trev gave him a look. “Good morning to you, Walker.”

  Preeti frowned. “Can’t this wait?”

  Walker cursed himself. Ever the bull in the china shop. He began to apologize, but Trev stopped him with a chop of his hand. “You really want to know, then all you have to do is ask.”

  Walker glanced from man to woman, then shrugged. “Okay, I’m asking.”

  Trev put down his utensils, took a sip of his coffee, and wiped the side of his mouth. He glanced once at Preeti, who wasn’t returning his gaze, then stared openly at Walker. “I beat seven men so bad they were hospitalized for weeks. One of them died. It was very public, it was caught on video, and it almost ended my military career. If it hadn’t been for Ian, I’d have been pulling guard duty in some inhospitable place far from everything and everyone I know and love.”

  Walker blinked. Trev hadn’t said how he’d done it, but to imagine putting seven men in the hospital was enough to shock. Physically the man didn’t look capable, but then again, Walker had been surprised by what a person who knew how to carry himself could do.

  Preeti looked up from her plate. “Trev never likes to talk about it.” She glanced at her boyfriend and squeezed his hand. He turned away and stared at the floor. “Do you know what hooligans are, Walker?”

  “Soccer fans who get too rowdy.”

  “Rowdy.” Trev laughed. “That’s rich.”

  She patted him on the arm. “Perhaps that’s a bit of an understatement, Walker. Hooligans are more than rowdy. It’s a way of life to many of them. They want to hurt. They want to break. And in many ways, they want to kill and all in the name of fandom. Long story short, a brother and sister were at a Man U–Arsenal match and ran into a hooligan firm known as the Magogs. Because this brother and sister weren’t white, they were separated from the crowd. The brother was curb stomped. Know what that is?”

  Walker gulped. He nodded, searching Trev’s implacable face. Walker had seen American History X and had shuddered when Edward Norton’s character had made the black man open his jaw and place it on the curb. When Norton’s character had then stomped on the back of the man’s head, driving the jawbone into the curb and forcing it to break wide open, Walker had turned away, unable to watch the remainder of the film.

  “They broke his jaw in three places and eleven teeth. He still can’t talk normally and can’t function. Crowds terrify him.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “They took baseball bats to her. Broke her legs and her arms. They were getting ready to curb stomp her too when Trev came upon them.”

  “Everyone was just watching.” Trev’s voice was low and angry as he took up the story. “If even half of the people watching had jumped in, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t get why people watch and don’t do anything when shit like this happens.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “Anyway, I just sort of snapped. How these hooligans could do what they were doing was beyond me, but if they wanted to play war, then I was willing to bring it to them.”

  “He surged into them like a storm, screaming at them the entire time. Then he took one of their bats and used it on them.”

  “They didn’t know how to use it right. I showed them.”

  Walker’s eyes widened as he stared at Preeti’s crutches leaning against the side of the table. “You were the girl.”

  She smiled weakly and hugged Trev’s arm. “My hero.”

  “So the crutches…” Walker felt his heart break a little for what had happened to this sweet young Indian girl. “I’m sorry, Preeti, I—”

  “Some good came from it.” Her smile was incandescent as she stared at Trev. “I met this man.”

  “Yeah, well, we could have found a better way to meet.” He stared at her legs under the table, then looked up. “I rang up Jerry’s mum. Ian told her last afternoon. I thought she’d like to know about her boy.”

  Walker pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I know how that feels.”

  Preeti put her hand on Walker’s hand that rested on the table, holding the coffee cup. “You must miss her terribly.”

  “Every waking minute. Thank god for the mission.” He looked at Trev. “What did his mom say?”

  “It’s ‘mum,’ and she said to find them, break off their legs, and beat them over their heads with them. She went on to describe some further unholy things to do with the human body. Basically, she wants revenge and then she wants me to come back and tell her about it.”

  “Some lady.”

  “Ain’t no lady there. She hawks beer in Leeds. Probably tougher than any two of us.”

  “Just the same.”

  Ian suddenly banged into the room carrying a tablet. “You’re not going to believe this.” He jerked out a chair and slammed down into it. He put the tablet flat on the table and touched the still image of a female reporter. While the video buffered, he said, “Lord Robinson called and asked me about this.” He scoffed. “Like we have any control over this.”

  The tablet sprang to life as the clip ran. “This is Jonathan Fitzhugh, groundskeeper at Chipping Sodbury Golf Club, who is able to shed some light on the disappearance of Nisam Kazmi and three other men yesterday morning.” The screen switched to the figure of a tall, slim-shouldered, bulging-bellied sixty-something with a gin-fueled nose the size of a Christmas bulb, then back to the perky British blonde. “There are growing reports of the strange events occurring throughout England. Chipping Sodbury could be just another in what may be a slew of attacks.”

  Cut to Fitzhugh. “They was coming out of the fog. I don’t bloody well know what they was, but they looked like dogs but with faces. They was all snarling and eating the golfers.…”

  The four watched with stunned looks as the man described the eating of the Pakistani businessman and his foursome.

  “… then some hooligans came and stole their clubs. I’d run up to the office to report this and when I came back it was as if they’d never even existed. No bodies. No blood. No fucking clubs. Turns out they found the bodies way down on the twelfth hole. Must have been dragged there.”

  The video cut to a view of a fog-shrouded golf course as the reporter began to give the history of the place.

  Trev barked a laugh. “How can anyone be sure he saw anything? He looks like a professional rummy.”

  “Drunk or not, we know this is accurate. Preeti already tracked suspicious disturbances at Chipping Sodbury, probably due to his call to the police. Now the description combined with the linking of the other events…” Ian shook his head. “Lord Robinson is furious.”

  Trev pointed at the tablet, which once again had the image of the groundskeeper who was making claws with his hands as he described the way the monsters attacked. “I bet he pawned the clubs.”

  Ian twisted around. “Who the fuck cares what he pawned? We need to get a handle on this.” He got up and slammed across the room and through the door.

  No one spoke for a moment.

  Walker hadn’t seen the man this angry, but then again, a lot had gone on in the past several days. This could be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Walker regarded Trev and Preeti. “What kind of station is this anyway? Does anyone actually watch this sort of shit?”

  “It’s sensational, yes, but that’s England. We don’t care about stodgy BBC news, not at least until we’re in our forties. We want to know about Beckham. We want to know about musicians. And monsters—hell, if you can give us monsters too, then it’s aces ratings.”

&nbs
p; Trev added, “This is Channel Nine. Everyone watches it, including my grandmum. She’s probably calling her local MP, then on to her parish priest, wanting to know what they’re going to do to keep the monsters out of her kitchen.” Trev shook his head. “No. This is serious. Ian’s right to be worried. Everyone’s going to be worried.”

  “Perhaps that’s what they want,” said the witch, coming into the room. “Don’t forget, the Hunt isn’t only recruiting souls; it’s also advertising and marshaling fear.”

  “Then news coverage is the last thing we need,” Walker said.

  The witch drank from a bottle of water and shrugged.

  Walker stared at the face of the rummy groundskeeper. If this were America, it would be on every station by now. What would something like this do? Alone, probably nothing. But if there were more reports.

  Then that would definitely be bad.

  CHAPTER 23

  BLACKPOOL, ENGLAND. MORNING.

  Justin Nguyen rushed back to the tent, eager to show his family the score he’d made. He’d spent the last several weeks volunteering to clean up at Swansea Bakery. He’d helped shut the place down and had swept and mopped, backbreaking work, never asking for anything in return. This was his father’s code and to violate it would be to dishonor the memory of the great man. So Justin had suffered on, hoping for some meager reward. And now he had it.

  He entered Kingscote Park at a run, weaving past the protestors who carried signs that said things like “Leave Our Land,” “Go Back to Vietnam,” and less savory things. They were just getting there and hadn’t yet rallied their voices into their usual hateful roar. As he passed, they shouted halfheartedly, then returned to their cliques, drinking steaming coffee and tea, grumbling and mean.

  Once into the park, he was safe. Police monitored the CCTV cameras and had been making arrests of anyone who attempted to harm the temporary refugee camp put in place after the cargo ship they’d booked passage on crashed on the rocks in the Irish Sea. Half of the passengers had been deported immediately, but those who had relatives who were British citizens were allowed to stay until their status was legally determined.

  Thanks to an MP friendly to the Vietnamese community, they were given temporary sanctuary, provided military tents and furniture, and fed three times a day, although the rationing of the food still left many of them hungry.

  Which was where Justin came in.

  He burst into his family’s tent. His two sisters and mother were gathered around the card table on which a heater stood, lava-red filaments radiating heat into the space.

  “Mẹ, nhìn kìa!” Mother, look! “Tôi có bánh mì và bánh sứng bò!” I have bread and croissants.

  He placed the paper bag he’d been clutching in front of her and beamed as she opened it. The Army rations they’d been eating were heavy with beef and pork, neither of which his mother’s digestive system could tolerate. Not only had Mr. Evans given him a helping of day-old bread, but he’d also provided Justin with fresh croissants. His mother selected one. When she touched it her face lit with a smile, which meant that he’d run fast enough that they were still warm.

  “Eat, Mother. Eat, and enjoy. This is just the beginning.”

  She nibbled at an end and nodded to her daughters to take some as well. Soon the entire Nguyen family was sitting around the table, basking in the heat, eating the warm bread. It was almost as if things were normal.

  This new normal lasted exactly forty-seven seconds until someone screamed outside.

  Justin shot to his feet and moved so his body was between the tent flap and his mother.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Mother.” He took a tentative step toward the flap but stopped when several more screams sounded. He glanced back at the fearful looks on his family’s faces and knew that he wore his own version.

  Suddenly a sound like a freight train descended upon them, so loud his sisters clapped their hands over their ears.

  Justin felt compelled to investigate. He felt his mother’s hand on his arm but shook it off. He stepped to the entrance and opened the tent flap.

  Indistinguishable figures hurtled by the entrance at breakneck speeds. Now everyone in the camp was screaming. The tent was ripped from its moorings and flew to the right. A tent pole struck him in his head, sending him to a knee as he fought the starry pain. With his eyes closed because of the dust and wind, he turned and crawled to his mother. He felt around, but she wasn’t there.

  He opened his eyes to the maelstrom.

  Gone was the table.

  Gone was the heater.

  Gone was the tent.

  Gone were his mother and sisters.

  He surged to his feet and screamed their names. Looking around, he saw that the land had been cleared of all the tents. Several people lay on the ground. The protestors were fleeing. Where their signs had been dropped, one picket could be seen impaled in an older man Justin only knew as Pham.

  Justin searched for his family, but his eyes were drawn toward the dogs who began to turn toward him. Realizing he was the only person left standing in the encampment, he started to back away.

  Something growled behind him.

  He whirled.

  Then the growling grew as the beasts that surrounded him began to stalk toward him.

  His mind sought to flee where his body was unable. What was this? Was it a nightmare? If so, he desperately wanted to wake—

  They lunged in pairs, grabbing his legs, ripping, tearing, raking teeth along the edges of his femurs. Another beast grabbed his head. He felt a tremendous pressure. His eyes bulged from his face. Somehow, his gaze locked in on a young woman across the street, red hair, white dress, taking picture after picture with an old Polaroid camera.

  Then came a pop.

  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that he was dead. For one second he saw everything, knew everything, and understood exactly why he’d been murdered. But then it was sucked away from him and, as if he lived on the end of a whip, he snapped back into an existence he knew all too well.

  He ran with the others.

  He bayed.

  And then came the King.

  CHAPTER 24

  CHICKSANDS RAF, ENGLAND. MORNING.

  Everyone from Section 9 including Sassy Moore stood inside the hangar watching the gargantuan plane pull forward. Although the Royal Air Force had C-17s in their inventory, there weren’t many of them. The Globemaster was the sort of plane that looked like it ate smaller ones. Preeti, Trev, and Sassy, on the one hand, stared at it in wonder. Ian, on the other hand, projected the same bored confidence he’d had when fighting the homunculi.

  The hangar was a new addition to Section 9 office space. Thanks to a phone call from Lord Robinson, space which hadn’t been available to the diminishing equities of England’s premier supernatural defense force suddenly appeared. A hangar that had been used for storage was quickly emptied. RAF airmen had then moved Section 9’s paltry belongings out of the basement and into the twenty-five-by-twenty-five-meter space. With two offices situated at the rear of the hangar, one was cleared for Sassy and Preeti to stay in for the duration of the emergency and the other was reinforced to hold a prisoner SEAL Team 666 had said they were bringing. The rest of them, SEAL Team 666 included, would sleep on cots in a common area created on the hangar’s left side. The right side had been set up with their communications suite, computer systems, a projector that blasted a map on a white screen, and several tables and chairs.

  Walker stood at the front of the group waiting outside the hangar. For all the welcome he’d had from Section 9, SEAL Team 666 was his unit and the team members were closer to him than anyone else. Where he’d once set his life against the image of his dead brother, now he had living, breathing replacements against which to measure himself. He remembered the grudge he’d held against Holmes, who’d been in charge of the SEAL team when his brother had died in a roadside bombing. Then after Holmes had relayed the classified details of hi
s brother’s death, his feelings had all but evaporated.

  Holmes could have no more influenced the way Walker’s brother lived and died than he could Walker. Although Walker and his brother were SEALs through and through, their inner cores had been forged long before. Their ideas of right and wrong, their need to be heroic, their desire to make the world a better place, had been engineered within them on a genetic level.

  The bottom line was that his brother had died saving children. Some called his actions stupid. Some called his death a waste. But Walker knew that his brother would have done it again given the chance.

  Laws had explained it well. “Sometimes the death doesn’t mean anything except in context for the living. I think your brother’s death can help you understand the man. I didn’t know him, but I know people who did and they all say he was a great SEAL and a terrific guy. He was a shepherd without a flock. I think he punished himself for not being able to take care of you and sought out avenues where he could take care of others.”

  Walker almost laughed. He could absolutely relate. He flashed to Jen, realizing that he’d been feeling his own guilt, wondering if things would have been different had he been there. He struggled to shake the idea free. It was drama. She was gone. The only thing he could do now was stop the thing that killed her and find a way to release her soul, if what the witch said was true. That was his single focus. Blame could wait, if it was ever levied at all.

  The Globemaster came to a halt. Aircrew from the RAF ran up and chocked the wheels. Then the rear ramp descended. First out was a pearl-white Cadillac Escalade with smoked-out windows. An unfamiliar man sat behind the wheel. He pulled the car down the ramp.

  Behind him came the SEALs, each carrying several go bags.

  Holmes, Laws, YaYa, and Yank.

  Walker felt elation shoot through him. These were his boys.