“And the Malkuths?” Duilio leads.
“Well, you might think I’m being biased.”
“Please. I know you are both rivals, but I am still interested to hear.”
“Alright, then.” David nods, pursing out his bottom lip. “They’re more sophist and social Darwinist.”
“I presume you mean sophistry in the disparaging way,” Duilio does not quite ask.
“I do, though the irony of it is that they don’t. They’re Machiavellian. They encourage internal conflict, thinking that the best will rise above, victorious, and take the reins … you know, that kind of bullshit.”
“Is it … bullshit?” Duilio advocates, “You mention Darwin. That technique is based on evolution. The strong adapt and conquer.”
“Sure, sure, and militaries aren’t a democracy, and in times of strife, martial law may be declared. I know all that, but think about it, Gaspare.” David looks back over, tilting his head away so that he sort of gazes at Duilio mostly with his left eye, squinting. “Nature is programming. That’s the basics, the survival, the mindless. Once a species advances enough to become sapient, doesn’t it rise above its programming to become something more? How far will a society get if it’s all ‘caveman’ and just club everyone and take what you want?”
“True,” Duilio gives, “But is that how the Malkuths operate? Sophistry and social Darwinism are not tools of animals.”
“Sure they are. Look at chimps,” David says, and the two chuckle, “But I get your point. It’s how those tools are used. The Malkuths aren’t offing each other in duels for leadership, but they hurt themselves sometimes in how they treat each other … and their people.”
“Well, good for you, then, since you are their rivals.”
“Yeah.” David smirks. “Good for us.”
The conversation dwindles from serious topics as some of the others begin gathering, and as the crescent moon rises, they eventually retire, leaving two on watch, along with the electronic and other forms of surveillance.
Pèire, a Malkuth who married into the family, and, as tradition generally dictates in both, changed his surname, wakes some short hours into his slumber. He rises onto an elbow, pushing his long, black hair away from his face and checks the time, then listens, hearing the sounds he might expect from within his tent. He lies there, staring up at the canopy before he realizes he shan’t be returning to sleep anytime soon, so he decides to get up. He slips on his hiking boots, having been only wearing some cotton pajama pants, and leaves his tent.
He walks somewhat quietly to a nearby tree, relieving himself, casting his eyes about slowly as he does so, ignoring the sound and smell of his urine as he keeps his senses more attuned outward. Finished, he moves away, taking a slow stroll about the boundary of this side of the camp. Though the senior Hunter, David, had not particularly enforced this arrangement, the Malkuths are on one side, the Felcrafts on the other. He knows his side is not only less in number but also weakened by the presence of Duilio, but he doesn’t think a fight between them will ensue.
“Anika?” he whispers into the darkness, wondering where his kin is, the younger woman drawing guard duty for their side during the first half of the night.
He gets no answer, but that doesn’t surprise him. She might be a few meters away, silent, watching, not inclined to reveal her presence. She may be younger than he by several years, but she is the more accomplished Hunter. He is not incapable, but he is no match for her. When they had arrived, the twenty-something lady had exchanged rather laser-pointed looks with a young lady of the Felcraft camp, a somewhat dark-seeming girl named Zoe. It had been a bit uncanny, since they are both slender, about average height, possessed of short, dark hair – Anika’s brown whereas Zoe’s is dyed black, both pale of skin, but the similarities had ended there, as the Malkuth appears more posh whereas Zoe’s style hints toward dark punk.
“Anika? It’s Pèire,” he tries again, pitching the sound of his whisper higher.
He pauses, taking in a sniff, then a much deeper one, and he experiences some alarm. He has a keen sense of smell, and he has caught the coppery tang of blood. He bends his knees, cursing himself for not bringing a weapon or light. He turns, focusing on the source of the odor, shifting left, then he proceeds cautiously, somewhat dragging his steps just above the ground, slow, deliberate, mainly using the balls of his feet.
He is not three paces in that route before he feels the object on the forest’s floor. He crouches, touching it, peering intently, and he can tell it is Anika’s weapon, a Heckler & Koch MP5A3. He knows she’d not just leave it lying here, so he picks it up, very anxious now, feeling that the magazine is in place, and he racks the slide, an unfired round flying out as another is loaded. He then turns on the tactical light, quickly locating her.
She is unconscious or dead, her head lulled as she sits there on her rear end, back against a tree, legs splayed out as though she were hit there and slumped down along the trunk. Her head and torso are covered in the dark sheen of blood, much of the clothing of her upper body in disarray or outright torn away. It appears she has a chest wound, but he can’t be sure. He rushes to her, grabbing her right arm, fingers over the inside of her wrist, and he finally feels it – a faint pulse.
“Wake up! Wake up!” he shouts, running back into the camp, the gun slung over his torso, and he experiences a very sharp, short moment of fright before anyone responds, wondering if the powerful demon has left only him untouched, perhaps as some sadistic game.
“What’s going on?” David asks, rising up from his tent, looking not at all as though he has just wakened, holding a Smith & Wesson Model 500 revolver, loaded and ready, finger near the trigger, the eight inch barrel pointed down.
He casts a wary eye on Pèire, especially as the man shifts his gun to a more ready hold.
”It’s Anika,” he informs, some measure of alarm in his voice, “She’s been attacked, seriously wounded. She needs medical attention.”
“Shit,” David replies, speaking in a much calmer tone than one might expect.
Duilio has risen, too, his own sidearm in his hand, held with the practiced assurance of a veteran, though he does not possess the proper ammunition for hunting the Infernal.
“That’s not going to do you any good, Inspector,” David says, noticing the gun, then he looks around, seeing as the others emerge from their tents, “Where’s Jeff?”
They all look around, but it’s clear the man is not coming.
“Zoe, stop!” David commands as the young Huntress had been shoving cartridges into her Remington 870 MCS, strap dangling, then used the foregrip to load the first round and make to go search for their relative. She gives him a scowl, so he amends, “Alright, go look, but take Uncle Owen with you. Don’t be long. Get back here quick. Shout if there’s trouble.”
The older man nods, hefting his own similar make and model shotgun, shells showing in the side saddle holder. His looks more conventional, with a short stock, longer barrel, and pistol grip, and he flicks on the integrated light, following in the other’s rapidly dissipating wake.
“What …,” Duilio tries, speaking very low, looking around with wary curiosity at the area and the remaining two Hunters here with him. “What’s going on?”
“The Demon is here,” David says.
“What about Anika?” Pèire pushes.
David does not acknowledge the question, just continuing to keep watchful and ready.
“It’s here?” Duilio finally chokes out.
“Gaspare?”
The inspector’s eyes have gone wide, and he points the barrel of his black Beretta 8000. There is a noticeable shake to it.
“Gaspare?” comes the voice again, speaking firmly, yet calmly, and Duilio finally looks over at David. “That gun is only going to hurt you or one of us. I’m not going to tell you to put it away, but be very careful. Zoe and Owen are out there, and I’d hate f-,” and he stops, for just then, a ruckus erupts off in the general vicinity the
two Hunters went moments ago.
All three level their weapons in that direction, and when David turns that way, Duilio manages to spy two daggers held criss-cross in a custom sheath at the man’s lower back. They look broad of blade, though short in length, the handles thick.
Gunshots ring out.
“Mierda!” Pèire curses, then lopes toward it.
“Pèire!” David shouts, the force of his voice bringing the man to a halt, “You stay here and guard the inspector. He’s here for your family. I’ll go check on Anika.”
“David, but …,” Duilio begins, but the Hunter is gone, having grabbed a small, leather bag which presumably contains first aid gear.
The inspector continues to stare after the man’s departure, hearing more sounds of battle. His eyes go wider, head jerking over into that direction, as though trying to will the ability to see whatever is going on. Even the bright moments of gunfire do not bring him any clarity, the flash at barrels, the occasional amber-tinged traces of the enhanced rounds, only adding to the chaos. He finally glances over at Pèire, noting the man’s near look of disgust.
“Qué?” Duilio asks.
“Estás muy cerca del Felcraft,” Pèire notes, his words heavy.
“Will you protect me if the Demon comes here?” Duilio asks, forcefully.
Pèire just smirks at him.
The expression is dropped instantly as a louder noise arises, much closer. Pèire turns fully in that direction, tensing, raising the rifle, knees lightly bent. He steps towards it, moving slowly, carefully, much as he did when trying to find Anika earlier. Duilio glances about, his eyes and aspect showing his continuing fear. He glances at Pèire, then in the direction the Malkuth peers, trying to add his own aid to the effort, but he sees nothing. He hears sounds of the others, insistent questions, unsure answers, hisses of pain, but those noises have lessened. He looks back at the Hunter just as it happens.
The figure comes out of the darkness, rising forth as though emerging from thin air. It looks human but not entirely so, something of the shade of its skin, its feral aspect, and the eyes. The eyes alight with a red luminescence, and they look right at Duilio as the Demon closes the short distance, claiming Pèire at the man’s throat, teeth bared for the kill.
.. if we find it, then you turn and run as fast as you can…
David’s words reverberate in his memory as adrenalin spikes through him, and Duilio whirls in the opposite direction and sprints away.
His breath is ragged, heavy, loud, no thought given to the fact that he is moving at full speed through a forest at night. He could easily twist an ankle, break a leg, collide with something and go unconscious, but he just runs. The night is not pitch black, so he is able to discern some of his surroundings. The further he moves from the camp, the less he is able to do so. Still, the monster is back there, perhaps chasing him even now, so he runs.
His noisy breaths rush out into the air, his loud, careening steps adding to the cacophony. He would certainly not be proving difficult prey to pursue. He pounds out further, feeling the burn in his leg muscles. He is not in bad shape, but he doesn’t really spend a lot of time exercising. He feels a pressure in his chest.
He spies a rising thicket of scrub brush next to some trees, and he practically dives into it, pushing his back against the woodland sentinels, taking his pistol in both hands and pointing in the direction from which he has come. He tries to catch his breath, hold his aim steady, and listen.
He hears nothing.
How can that be?
He figures if the Demon has not pursued him, then he ought to hear sounds of fighting off back toward the campsite. How far did he run? He feels panic teasing just at the edges of his perception, and he fights it back. He continues to try to catch his breath, and it settles. He opens his mouth, using it for quieter respiration, keeping his gun pointed, straining to see and hear.
Moments pass, drawn out, his ears straining for any sound, his eyes doing the same for sight. He does not want that hideous thing to find him, but he doesn’t want to be lost out here by himself. He supposes he could wait until sunrise, but that seems a silly notion.
There is a snap, and he jerks his aim in that direction, trying not to tremble too much, giving away his position. He hears another, and he fires off two quick shots.
“Gaspare?”
“David?” Duilio replies, then curses silently, “Did I hit you?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” comes the reply, and a light is flicked on, pointed toward the hiding Inspector. “Come on out.”
Duilio does, trying to look the man over.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Let’s get back.”
Once they return, Duilio sees that the wounded Malkuth Huntress has been moved to camp, and she looks to be in critical condition. David heads over, quickly, grabbing up more from the first aid kit and moving to resume assistance. Duilio follows, noticing the large amount of blood, gazing at the woman with grave concern, then looking about with a different sort of wariness. He spies the crumbled and rent corpse of Pèire. Even if the man had not been trying to protect Duilio, he gave his life, so the inspector might get away.
“Where are the others?” Duilio dares to ask.
“I found Owen out there,” David comments as he works on the rival Huntress, “He’s dead. I didn’t find Zoe … She’s gone.”
“And the … demon?”
David keeps working, intent on the stabilization and field dressing. He shakes his head without looking at the other.
“I don’t know.”
The Italian stares at the Hunter’s back, as though willful of different news, then, when none is forthcoming, he glances back around, raising his weapon.
“I told you that would only hurt you or us,” David remarks, still tending to the other.
“Forgive me,” Duilio quips, “Old habits.”
David stands, placing his hands at his waist, pulling in a deep breath, eyes on the Interpol man.
“Ask your people for some enhanced ammunition, once we get out of this.”
“Once we get out of this, yes.” Duilio nods, eyes still looking out into the night, fear still etched on his features.
“We need to pack up. Anika needs better medical attention. We need to dispose of the bodies, get the important gear and get out of here.”
“Dispose of the bodies …?” Duilio peers, this point piercing his trepidation.
“We can’t leave behind that sort of evidence to be found by others.”
“Are we going to bury them?” the man sincerely asks, brow furrowing from the deepening confusion.
“No. Leave it to me. I need you to start packing up. Quick. Mainly the technical gear, weapons, and ammo.”
Duilio looks at the man, not moving to do as he has been bid. Shock still has its way with him.
“Gaspare?” David tries, more firmly, yet still not shouting.
“S-sì?” He looks up, slowly raising his chin.
“The Demon, as you noted, is still out there. I think it’s done with us for now, but we need to pack up and get Anika to an emergency room. Are you with me?”
“Yes, yes.” He nods, blinking rapidly, fighting to collect himself. “I will help.”
“It’s me - Zoe! Don’t shoot!” calls out a female voice from the darkness, and all eyes turn.
The youthful Huntress walks in, her form taking more solid shape as she nears the camp, moving steadily on booted feet. Her shotgun is strapped to her back, and she holds a black kukri-styled, curved machete in her right hand, the twenty inch blade angled outward, dripping a black ichor that also shows to be stained quite abundantly on the young lady.
“My God,” Duilio mutters, eyes wide, “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she says to the man she perceives as not only a potential enemy but also an outsider, her tone somewhat cutting, then she looks back over, her eyes giving a very brief, cold appraisal of the wounded Huntress before settling on her relativ
e. “It’s gone.”
David nods once. “We need to pack up, and get out of here. Anika needs a doctor.”
Duilio notes a slight rise of the top lip on Zoe, and he suspects it is beneficial to the Malkuth that David is in charge.
“How do you know it is gone?” the inspector demands, but he only gets those cutting eyes as a response.
“Gaspare, it’s dark out there,” David speaks, “The trail is difficult to see, but some of us are very good at seeing in the dark. Zoe is one of those. If she says the Demon’s gone, then it’s gone.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says as they proceed to packing, “I think Owen got it before it got him. I know I hit it once with my shotgun, and all this blood on me is from a good slice I gave it with my sword, but it didn’t let up. It sounded more like it was just chuckling at us the whole time, then it just … took off. I tried to trail it, but it’s gone.”
“Chuckling?” Duilio murmurs, but he is overshadowed by the other’s response.
“Let’s finish up and get out of here,” David assesses.
The three proceed to more packing, Anika still unconscious, though somewhat stable. Zoe wipes off her blade and sheathes it, having gathered up other weapons. She then grabs a curious-seeming phial from a zipped up leather bag.
“I’ll deal with the bodies,” she somberly volunteers, then heads out after an affirming nod from David.
Duilio wants to ask, but something in the other’s aspect prohibits this. Instead he does as he is told and continues helping to pack up what is necessary and before long, they are on the road, Zoe and Anika following in their own vehicle, the third car left behind to be picked up later, if at all.
“It was toying with us,” David says to Duilio in the truck, breaking the tense silence, having reached paved road now and in hurried search of a place to take Anika. “It took out our guards, didn’t trip any sensors. We were all asleep. It could have killed all of us. It was waiting for us to wake up, waiting for us to go searching for it.”
Sword of the Butterfly Page 15
