Farther to the north, in what looked to be a suburban area, high screams rose in the air, accompanied by the sound of screeching, tearing metal and the now familiar wailing that sounded like rock clashing on rock.
“Looks like they won’t be difficult to track so there’s that at least,” Wiggins said.
“Aye, just following the screaming,” Hynd added.
“It is not the tracking that worries me,” Olsen said quietly. “There is only sea to the north and west of us here, so we will have them trapped with their backs to the water soon enough. But between here and there are at least two schools and if legends are true, these beasts are not particular about the age of their prey.”
*
As they crossed the road and followed the screaming into the maze of suburban roads, Olsen was on the radio, presumably urgently requesting evac of the aforesaid schools. Dark clouds lowered overhead and Banks felt spits of cold rain in his face. Studying the sky, he saw there was little hope of the sun coming to their aid.
The Norwegian soldiers around them had grown tense and quiet, moving quickly and with purpose. They went speedily through empty streets and found evidence of the trolls’ passing everywhere, from mangled cars to houses with front doors—and sometimes their whole walls—caved in. And everywhere around was more evidence of the trolls’ hunger in the pitiful remains of the newly dead men, women, and children, whose partially eaten pieces were strewn across doorways, lawns, and into the roadway, as if the beasts were eating on the move. Several times, Banks saw curtains twitching nervously at their passing but no one still alive was daring to venture out into the charnel house they were walking through.
They moved fast, double-time, but the sound of screaming and the accompanying howls of the trolls were becoming more distant. Wherever it was the beasts were trying to get to, they were in a hurry about it. Olsen had the soldiers up the pace further and soon they were all running.
They had to step out of the road only once and that was when a succession of coaches carrying children came from the opposite direction. The pale, fear-filled faces at the windows told Banks all that he needed to know of the horrors the kids had endured.
Minutes after the coaches passed, they came to a deserted school. The kids hadn’t all escaped; three armed cops, all of them weeping inconsolably, stood in an otherwise empty playground above the too-small, torn remains of dead children. When Olsen asked where the trolls had gone, one of the cops managed to raise a hand and point north.
*
They came out of the suburban sprawl where it bounded a river, arriving at one end of an old stone bridge, only wide enough for a single vehicle to pass at a time. The bridge was empty of traffic but a trail of blood spatter told them that they were still on the trolls’ path. On the far side, a narrow strip of land between that and the sea contained a mish-mash of old and new factory units. But silence had fallen now; there was no more screaming, no howling, and no sight of their quarry.
“Have they gone to ground?” Banks asked but Olsen seemed distracted and didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking out over the factory complexes but had his gaze fixed on the old stone bridge that stretched for a hundred yards across a swiftly flowing river.
“Captain?” Banks said. “What has you worried?”
“Bridges and more old legends,” the Norwegian said. “Knowing what we do now about their aversion to sunlight, the tales of them lurking under bridges seems to make more sense.”
“Really?” Wiggins replied. “I’m glad it makes sense to somebody because I’m as confused as fuck here.”
“So what else is new?” Hynd replied.
“Well, your wife got a tattoo on her arse,” Wiggins replied. “Not that you’ll ever see it.”
That earned Wiggins a cuff on the ear but Banks saw that neither of them really had any heart for the banter; they’d been as badly affected as he had by the sight of the dead children in the playground and the pale, frightened faces of those who had escaped. Thoughts of saving McCallum were far from his mind now; all he wanted to do was find these trolls and put them down hard and fast before they harmed any more kids.
Olsen was still gazing out over the bridge.
“I don’t like this, Captain,” he said.
Banks agreed.
“It feels hinky to me too. My guts are telling me this is a trap.”
“But trap or no trap, we have to get over there,” Olsen said and echoed Banks’ own thoughts. “We can’t let them get near any more children.”
Olsen led them forward, with S-Squad still bring up the rear of the troop of twenty-four men.
*
“Who’s that walking on my bridge?” Wiggins said in a gravelly voice, trying for a bit of levity. He didn’t get it but was answered instead by a roar like clashing rocks. The far end of the bridge where it hit the northern bank buckled upward, the old stone surface crumbling as something pounded its way up from below.
The soldiers were still in the process of raising their weapons as the squat, barrel-like troll they’d first seen in the bunker pulled itself up from under the arches, through the structure of the bridge itself, to stand smack-center in the road ahead of them. As with McCallum, Banks was reminded of nothing so much as a silverback gorilla, claiming its territory. It stood upright, shucking off pebbles and rubble, looked down the length of the bridge at them, black eyes deep under furrowed brows, and roared an invitation to battle.
“Remember, they are vulnerable in the eyes,” Olsen said then repeated it in Norwegian, raised his weapon, and led the men forward.
The troll didn’t wait for them. It put its head down and lumbered into a run, its pounding footsteps setting the bridge underfoot to shaking.
Olsen called for his men to stand firm. The front rank sent a volley of fire directly at the oncoming troll. Chips of rock flew and the troll roared again, loud even above the gunfire, but it still had its head down, its eyes defended by the shield of its rocky brow.
Then it was on them, barreling past the front rank and sending them flying like skittles. Two men went over the wall to splash in the waters below, Olsen was thrown roughly to the ground, landing heavily, and another man tumbled at the troll’s feet only to have his chest caved in by a stomping foot that left a fine spray of blood in the air. The beast wasn’t slowed at all and treated the second rank of men with equal disdain.
Banks was about to throw himself to one side when he saw that both Wiggins and Hynd had lowered their weapons and were instead holding the syringes of sedative, grasped in their hands like combat knives.
“Davies, you and I cover them,” he shouted and was given just enough time to step behind Hynd and Wiggins while the troll continued to wreak havoc among the Norwegian troop.
Banks aimed for the thing’s head, putting three rounds into the brow ridge and heard Davies provide covering fire beside him. The two men ahead of them crouched low, wrestler’s stance and, having learned from the fight back in the fjord, rolled forward at the same time. Their opponent was squatter and faster, giving them less of both time and maneuvering room. Wiggins, being smaller, went between the thing’s legs and Hynd went to the right. Banks and Davies had to throw themselves to either side, Banks just avoiding a wild forearm swipe from the troll that would have taken his head off if it had connected, feeling the rock graze the top of this skull, then the thing was past them.
Banks wheeled on his heels, expecting another attack.
The troll came to a stop ten feet away. It had two syringes plunged into it, one at the groin and the other behind its knee—both had been plunged more than halfway in. The beast roared again—but this time it had raised its head to do so. All four members of the S-Squad fired at once, aiming for the eyes.
They were never to know which of them got the kill shot but it didn’t matter.
Both of the troll’s eyes burst in a spray of black mucus and it fell forward with a crash that shook the bridge beneath them.
- 21 -
O
lsen had lost four men—the two over the side lost to the river, the man on the ground with the caved in chest, and a fourth who lay slumped against the wall with a broken neck. The captain was moving gingerly as he came down the bridge towards Banks and was favoring what was obviously a bruised back. He was on the radio, speaking too quickly in Norwegian for Banks to catch the gist of it but when he got off the call, he shook Banks’ hand then smiled grimly at Wiggins, who was kicking at the dead troll at his feet.
“There’s a cleanup crew inbound,” the Norwegian captain said. “And thanks to you, there’s more of us alive than dead. Nice moves.”
“I learned it from my mother,” Wiggins replied. “It was her motto—when in doubt, go for the bollocks.”
Olsen turned to Banks.
“Another one down but still more than a dozen to go. Intel has them moving through the factories across the bridge, heading north. There’s a stretch of high sea cliffs in that direction.”
“And I’m guessing it’s riddled with caves?”
Olsen nodded.
“Larsen’s back at base. His theory is that they’re seeking shelter.”
“I’m loathe to take anything that wee wanker says as gospel,” Banks replied, “but this time he might have a point. Lead on, Captain, we’ve got your back.”
Olsen left two men behind to wait for the cleanup crew and led a reduced troop off the bridge and into the sprawl of factory units.
*
There was much more evidence of the trolls’ passing inside the maze of buildings. The beasts had continued on an almost straight line due north, pausing only for random acts of destruction…and feeding.
They saw signs of hurried evacuation at each unit that they passed, cars that had crashed into each other not by force of the trolls but in their hurry to flee, dropped packages and discarded briefcases. The worst thing was the torn remains and dismembered torsos of those who had been too tardy in their flight, lying discarded and partially eaten in a trail they had no trouble following.
They came to a wide central crossroads bounded by new metal sheds on all sides. Right in the center, where a rudimentary roundabout had made a perfunctory attempt to direct traffic flow, the trolls had paused long enough to leave the most gruesome sign yet of their passing.
“We’ve seen this before,” Banks told Olsen, “in the hills above the fjord.”
It was another mass feeding area and as the squad had seen in the hills, the remains had been posed as if in an attempt at art, with a tower of stacked heads overlooking gaping, emptied chests, splayed ribs, and empty bellies. And entwined in and around it all were pink and gray glistening entrails, already crusting where the blood dried. The stench, even in the open air, was almost overpowering. The only good thing was that the chill of December was too severe for flies or carrion crows. The ritual feast was a quiet, dead place, their art testament to the trolls’ hunger and fury.
They were all glad to leave it behind and continue north.
*
“Cap,” Wiggins said quietly to Banks as they walked in a deep alley between two tall factory buildings. “I don’t want to be Billy-Bad-News here, but what the fuck are we going to do if we catch up with these wankers? We don’t have the firepower to take them down if they all come at us at once. One of them took out four men at the bridge back there. I ken I was never that great at math but the sums don’t add up.”
It was a question that had occurred to Banks several times since they’d left the university. His only hope was that they could somehow herd the trolls into an area where fire could be concentrated—maybe bring the tanks up again, or call in an air strike. At least, that’s what he would do if he was in charge.
“It’s Olsen’s call,” Banks said. “We’re running backup here. Just keep your eyes peeled. At least we’re out of the heavily populated areas. And if the captain’s intel is right, they’re heading for shelter. We’ll get them there.”
He saw the word in Wiggins’ eyes; he didn’t have to hear it.
How?
*
They emerged from the canyon made by the high-sided factories onto a level seafront, a narrow pathway above a shingle shore. The path led northwest away from the factories then beneath tall rock sea cliffs. High up, over fifty yards up and two hundred away, they caught a glimpse of movement. The trolls were well camouflaged against the stone but the taller figure of the one who had been McCallum was clear enough. They were filing one by one into a wide cave mouth halfway up the cliff.
“We have them now,” Olsen said. “I will call in a strike.”
Banks walked forward and put a hand on the captain’s arm.
“Wait,” he said. “I mentioned earlier, we dropped a cave on the big bugger up in the hills and he climbed out. We can’t take the chance, he’ll do it again.”
“You’re saying we need to go up there? Go into the cave after them? That’s a big risk to ask my men to take when the easy option is, as your corporal might say, to bomb them to buggery.”
“Then let us go,” Banks said. “We started this shite when we woke McCallum. We’d like to finish it.”
“Four men against a pack of trolls? I do not like your odds, Captain.”
“Luckily, I’m not a betting man,” Banks replied. “And you’ve seen how McCallum responds to my orders. Maybe we can shift those odds in our favor. I have to try.”
Olsen looked Banks in the eye and nodded.
“Very well then. You shall have your chance. But I will be calling in the air force as backup. They will be ready to level these cliffs on my command.”
Banks looked up the narrow pathway the trolls must have climbed to reach the cave, gauging distance and time.
“You’d best give us half an hour. I’ll be up there waving if it’s all clear.”
“That’s okay,” Olsen replied. “I won’t ask my men to do it—but I too feel some responsibility here, for I should have kept a closer check on Larsen. I’m coming with you.”
- 22 -
Banks and Olsen led, with Davies and Wiggins behind them and Hynd bringing up the rear. The pathway was steep and treacherous, little more than a foot wide in places, with crumbling scree underfoot and precipitous drops at each turn and bend. Banks kept his gaze eight feet ahead of him—looking at his feet would only make him dizzy and off balance. He felt exposed and expected with every step to be ambushed, fearing a flurry of boulders from above.
But no attack came and Wiggins was even relaxed enough to light up a smoke. “Heigh, fucking ho, it’s off to work we go,” the corporal sang as he smoked then went quiet quickly when Banks looked back at him.
The glance backwards showed Banks how far they’d climbed. They were already almost thirty yards up and almost directly under the cave mouth the same distance again above them. If an attack was to come, it would be now, when they were at their most vulnerable. Every sense was heightened; he felt the winter cold seep through the soles of his boots, smelled salt spray in the air, and heard, high and far off, the screech of gulls. The rock looked damp up here, shaded all day from any sunshine. The dark clouds still lowered overhead and a breeze was getting up; he could only hope there wasn’t a snowfall imminent—that would make getting down a real problem.
He put everything to the back of his mind and concentrated eight feet ahead of him again, heading up.
*
He was concentrating so hard on not falling that it took him several steps to notice that the path had leveled out; they’d arrived on a wide ledge in front of the cave mouth where the trolls had entered.
He waited for the squad to arrive beside him. Now that they were here, he felt reluctant to go inside, the primitive hind-brain fear of the dark and monsters in enclosed spaces shouting out his rational thought. It took an effort of will to push it away and remember what had brought him this far.
There’s one of us in there. I’ll save him…if I can.
“What’s the plan, Cap?” Wiggins asked, casually flicking the butt of his
smoke away over the edge. Banks watched the sparking embers tumble away before answering.
“We go in and see if there’s anything left of McCallum that will listen to reason.” He saw the doubt in Wiggins’ eyes…he felt plenty of it in himself, now that they were here. “And if that doesn’t work, we go to Plan B. Keep the C4 and detonators ready, Wiggo. You might get to blow something to buggery after all.”
He took a last look at the view and the wide, open spaces then turned his back on it and led the squad inside the cave.
*
They’d only taken two steps before he had to turn on his rifle light. The darkness felt thick enough to touch and the only sound was the pad of their feet on stone. They didn’t have to go far, for the passageway opened out into a tall, wide cavern after only a few yards. Banks and Olsen both cast light beams around the chamber.
Most of the trolls had already gone to the rock; the walls of the cave were a fantastic conglomeration of rocky torsos, heads, faces, and limbs all tumbled together like a manic jigsaw of pieces that had begun to fuse together. Only McCallum stood free, as if waiting for their arrival. The roar as of clashing rocks greeted them.
Banks motioned that the others should stay behind him and stepped forward, aware that he was close to being within the range of a sweep of the troll’s arms should it decide to attack.
Here goes nothing.
“Private McCallum, stand down. That’s an order,” he shouted, his voice echoing almost as loudly as the troll’s roar had done seconds before. McCallum, his head almost scraping the ceiling, his fists dangling almost to the floor on impossibly long arms, gave Banks a sideways lean of the head and a puzzled look that was all-too-human.
Operation Norway (S-Squad Book 7) Page 10
