Banshee (29 page)

“Manticores,” barked Arvin Patty-Mac as his family instantly opened up with all twenty-three guns. A second later, the militia joined in and French saw, to his surprise, that Colvin Watley was methodically working his own rifle to add to the fray.

“Do not touch them should they pass!” Orontes screamed from the right flank. “Their venom is death!” He waved toward the second group of manticores, which had dug deep into the hardscrabble and executed a single turn, like a school of darting fish. Their maneuver took them deftly under the first row of shooters, where the angle was too severe to fire with any hope of a hit. Still accelerating, the demons struck a line of militia at full velocity, and French heard the first of his people go down screaming. There were six, then twenty, and then as many as thirty of the huge beats rampaging forward. The withering fire from the platforms was dropping the manticores, but not quickly enough. French whistled a shrill two-tone note while signaling at his militia on the soft left.

“Area Fire!” came the answering cry, and three canisters of jellied fuel came lofting down from the nearest platform. The resulting explosion raked the nearest demons with the glutinous flames, causing them to roll like crocodiles in the soft earth. By forcing them to remain relatively still, the Patty-Macs zeroed in and focused their collective output on the writhing demons. Their aim was excellent; at such short range, it was easy picking for the family of lethal gunners. The last of the original six manticores heaved itself up as a final round punched through the wide skull. A half ton of demonic cat rolled down the embankment, its eyes a dull bronze as the life fled from the huge carcass.

French dropped to one knee in time to snap off two rounds at a demon that sailed overhead, paws the size of stewpots outstretched. His shots struck home in the meaty flank, but the beast didn’t slow a bit. In seconds, it scaled the wooden scaffold and bit the shooter stationed there in two. A glottal roar of triumph was cut short as Jaska, one of the twins, put a round directly into the soft palate of the howling beast. The impact jerked the cavernous head backward, and it fell stone dead to the dirt below with a meaty thump. Screams were breaking out in every direction, save the cave, and French knew that control of the field was slipping. He saw Parker take the leg of a manticore with a well-placed shot; seconds later, another of Watley’s crew finished the job with a round through the neck of the staggered demon; its fangs tore up soil as it slid to an inglorious stop before rolling close enough to a watchfire that its fur burst into flames.

Three more shooters were torn down from their perch, but one, a small, quick shadow leapt up and began firing with a modified shotgun at arm’s length from the beast as it tried to scale a second scaffold. French recognized the
wham-wham-wham
of James Nguyen’s personal weapon, a short stock Remington 870 twelve gauge that he fired as if it was fully automatic. The manticore reared back in the face of his attack before the last round spattered most of the creature’s skull in an eruption of bone and ichor. Another shout —this time a man, and he was firing with each utterance of rage, then the last wave of manticores began to top the cave lip with a communal roar of challenge.

Dauntless answered first. In a black streak, the massive dragon swept down and severed the head of the outermost demon. It was an instantaneous action; the demon roared, the air moved, a fanged head rolled to a stop as Dauntless passed by. The dragon’s pass may have been invisible, save the blaze from Bertline’s shotgun as he fired from above. The gates were open, and dragons began to scream from above as they chased the remaining demons. Feline bellows of pain mingled with the hiss of dragons as individual targets were identified, cornered, and eliminated. The gunfire had come to a complete halt once the dragons were diving among the militia; even Watley’s crew was obeying fire control and observing as the slaughter came to an end.

The screams of pain were everywhere. French stalked between squads but, before he could issue orders, Delandra’s people were policing the battlefield with faultless efficiency. Water was passed, ammunition traded, and the constant whoosh of circling dragons served as a background to the eye of the storm.

A girl no more than ten ran up to French, breathless with effort. Before he could speak, she expelled her message in one panicked tumble. “Miss Delandra says tell you to stay put and that there are a hundred hurt.” She inhaled and resumed a grave expression. “Some of the lion, uh, things got into the center of town and . . .” She paused, unsure how to continue.

French crouched, his hands spread out to take the girls’ into his own. “Go ahead. What’s your name? You must be very fast,” he prompted.

The child’s eyes rounded with mixed pride and fear. She’d stayed behind with her family, despite the evacuation orders. For some people, death was better than leaving New Madrid.

“Shonn.” Her voice was high with emotion. “I’m Shonn.”

“Go ahead, Shonn. You’re doing great. Now, tell me what you know.” French was gentle. It was the only thing he knew for dealing with those in fear.

The girl took a massive breath and held it, girding herself to report as asked. When she spoke, her voice was more stable, and her eyes bright with pride. “The school is gone. The lion things got inside and tore it all up. There are lots of people hurt, but Delandra told me to say that you can ‘splode whatever you want because all of the people are either stable, or, or . . .” She didn’t want to say dead, but there were only two types of people left after an encounter with demons; the lucky and the dead.

“You get back to the doctor, and tell her to keep her head down. The real show’s about to start. Run as fast as you can, and be careful, okay?” French admonished her, but she was already gone, her ponytail whipping furiously side to side in the glow of the fires.

Banshee hovered overhead, greeting French with relative cheer, given his muzzle was stained with the gore of a demon. “They taste rather like fouled cheese, I think.” His pronouncement brought a laugh from Saavin, who sat astride his neck with her rifle pointed skyward.

“I told you not to bite the filthy things, but you get so lathered up, you won’t listen to reason,” Saavin taunted.

Banshee coughed mightily and dislodged his rider from her seat. She fell back down with a painful crack before smacking his hide. “If you break my ass, I’ll brain you. Worthless lizard,” she added for good measure.

“I am not a lizard, nor is your backside broken, as you assert. Now, I believe we came to this hover for a reason?” Banshee asked pleasantly.

“Fine. French, are you hurt?” Saavin called down. “You’re sweating in the firelight.”

He shook his head, then adjusted the straps on his pack. “No, might have been sprayed with some venom, but not a scratch. We’ve got a lot of wounded.”

“How many?” Banshee asked.

“A hundred, perhaps more. The manticores broke through to the school.”

“Not possible,” Saavin said with conviction. “We got the advance guard before they broke out. If anything got into the school, it wasn’t a manticore.”

That was troubling. French considered the burrows he’d seen, but concluded that without a building falling into a hole, there was nothing to be determined for now. He went to say as much when a warm blast of air passed over his face, rich with death and decay.

Banshee grunted. “They’re coming.”

French looked up at the dragon and said, “Call the alarm, then get to your patterns. You know what to do.”

Saavin raised a hand to him, pointing. “Stay alive.”

His only response was an ironic smile at the discovery of something to live for now, with the wind of monsters filling his senses.
There’s no justice in this world,
he mused, then checked his weapons before wiping his brow again. The heat was becoming uncomfortable, but he began issuing commands to augment Banshee’s roar, and turned to the blackness for the final time.

Dragons

“I think the hardest thing to accept was that science failed us just as religion had. I mean, we were a society being torn apart over this low-level war between ideas. There was search for universal truth, and then there was faith. Everyone on both sides of the argument took a step back when the dragons emerged—they had to. For one thing, the dragons were sentient, and perfectly capable of expressing their disgust when humans tried to direct them at other people. More than one supposed leader was made the fool after debating a dragon; it seemed like the simplest questions made blowhards decide to speak more instead of less. The evidence was right in front of us. We didn’t need the approval of a committee to see what was happening. It was an extermination event by creatures that couldn’t exist according to science, and we were being protected by the very monsters that many people considered to be the embodiment of evil.

“After the dragons got done laughing at us, a few brave souls began compiling data about everything new under the sun, and what a feast of discovery that turned into. Dragons were modestly varied, but demons could and would take any form that we imagined. Each incarnation was more deadly than the last, but we killed them, too. Or we tried to, but often, the cost was so high that victory felt like anything but triumph.

“A defrocked Canadian bishop was the first person to write a book about dragon physiology. He was curious, a solid writer, and possessed the ability to extract maximum information with minimal questions. He’d interviewed nearly 100 dragons over two years, dutifully recording everything, right down to their ribald jokes, but it was only after the Battle of Vancouver that the scribe and war correspondent would ask something that had troubled him since the beginning of his writings.

“In the blazing ruins of beautiful Vancouver, Stephen MacGregor was hurriedly writing the lamentations of a medium-sized female dragon named Nujalik. By the light of the dying city, her hide was visibly clotted with gore from the pitched battle which left Vancouver uninhabitable, but the demons effectively crushed. Ribbons of flesh hung from her fangs, and she casually picked at them while answering MacGregor’s incessant questions. I thought it might be just another post-action interview until the light of discovery flared within Stephen’s eyes. He froze, staring at Nujalik as if seeing a dragon for the first time, then asked her in his most polite tone to open her mouth even wider. Laughing, she honored his odd request, and I watched this tottering man place one hand on a giant fang and examine the dragon’s mouth like he sought the fountain of youth. With a nodding
hmph
, the former bishop put hands on hips and asked Nujalik in that relentless tone of curiosity, ‘Do any of your kind breathe fire?’

“The dragon’s reaction was not what I expected. I’d been carrying MacGregor’s writing tools for two years, and had seen a wide range of their behavior. Nujalik reached out one enormous claw to tap the curious man with such delicacy that his aged body didn’t move. Turning to regard us both with one sparkling eye, she laughed as if a clever pet had solved a problem.

“‘Fire is rather brutish, don’t you think?’ said the dragon cryptically.”

“Years fell away from Stephen with that statement, as curiosity burned anew in his eyes. He sputtered, repeating his query like a hound on the hunt. ‘Well? Do you breathe fire, or whatever it is you’re being coy about, good dragon?’

“Nujalik leaned even closer before growling, ‘Not yet.’”—Trevor Darrow, The New Windsor School

New Madrid, August 20, 2074

“You’re certain he has it with him?” Colvin Watley was a big man, if soft, and he gripped Parker’s arm hard enough to whiten the sun-bronzed skin of the scavenger. Parker slapped him away and took a half step back, surprised at Watley’s intensity. There being nowhere to go in the shooting platform, both men stared each other down, to no avail. The other men merely observed; they’d long ago determined that neither side was worth trouble.

“It’s in his pack. He’ll try to collapse the cave on the giants, it’s the only logical thing,” Parker shot back hotly. For a glacial moment, there was silence, then a sharp nod from Watley.

“All right. That’s sensible,” Watley said, mulling something. “He needs the detonator to use the C-5, right?”

Parker shook his head emphatically. “Not even close. That explosive is stable, but put a bullet through it and the heat will trip at least a partial flash. It won’t go critical, but it will cook off an area big enough that we don’t want to be within twenty yards.”

That revelation brought Watley’s mouth to a halt. He stared vaguely toward the massive opening before them, tapping his fingers in calculation. His distraction came to a close when French whistled again, causing dragons to tighten their formation and begin circling more earnestly. The sound of several hundred rifles settling clattered out over the dead zone before them, and Watley felt his guts go to water for the first time in twenty years. He positioned himself at the far right corner of the elevated hut, tapping his foot lightly while pretending to adjust the strap on his rifle. Even Watley’s weapon reflected the man who carried it; his .375 Weatherby had been decorated past the point of usefulness. The rifle was a showpiece that could not perform; a mismatched scope and altered stock made the competent shooter into little more than a warm body on the firing line. It looked good, though, and for Colvin Watley, that was as important as being effective at bringing down the creatures who would rend his body, navel to chin, given the chance. Watley brandished the weapon and let genuine concern creep into his voice.

“They’re coming,” he said. Nothing else mattered to the men lined up beside him. They were quiet and composed, with the expression of people raised in a world that bit first and asked questions later. Watley took note of French calmly walking backward until he reclaimed a position at the center of the nearest outcrop. The shooters in that area would have unfettered shots at the beast that should burst from the blackness at any second. More fuel was thrown on every fire, and new blazes began in three rows. The cumulative light and heat made the entire battlefield seem as if hell had already won the war.

Banshee screamed from above as a hideous barrage of sound echoed upward from underneath. There was to be no staggered fire with these monsters; the militia had been instructed to melt their guns down, firing if necessary, in order to stop any creature of hell. The thunderous boom of the Hecate .50s announced the emergence of a ghastly head into the firelight, and cries of shock and surprise caromed off the stones of the cave like errant rounds. The monster was low, wide, and built with a sturdy set that made speed difficult to achieve. Pale, milky skin was stretched over a reptilian body bulging with muscles; its knees were higher than the shoulders and, with each step up out of the black, it wove side to side like a desert snake. Cracked fangs of yellow ivory sprouted with reckless abandon from a mouth large enough to encompass a small house. When the light of the fires struck the monster full in its round, deep-set eyes, it unleashed a scream of challenge at the effrontery that humans should bring their filthy light to bear on the darkness. In length, it was well over a sixty meters, but three times the weight of any dragon present, save the burly Dauntless. It paused after roaring, shaking the great head in irritation at the aimed fire tearing gouts of flesh from the body, and then the dragons called for a halt as they began their combat pass.

Spellbound and Hert struck first in a blinding rush. From opposing sides, they launched a delayed dual assault that caused the clasping jaws of the pale lizard to snap shut on empty air. Spellbound had lagged intentionally, drawing the demon into an attempted bite, even as Rae poured rifle fire into the enormous black eyes during the pass. With its neck turned hard left, the demon could not see the onrushing Hert and Alvaro. Hert’s claws raked deep furrows across the lizard’s softer neck, even as Alvaro fired with both shotguns, the dizzying reports following each other so quickly as to seem one long, punishing shot. Dark ichor leapt up and out from the shredded opalescent flesh to expose glistening bone. Staggered, the demon burst into an accelerated climb, veering wildly to the left from its wounds. It struck the first berm of earth with one shoulder and rolled over, snapping a powerful tail out with incredible speed. For several of the shooters atop their poles, it was fatal. The long pines used to mount firing stands snapped at the base, sending five single riflemen to the ground after short exclamations of horror. There was no time to even cry out before the men were rolled under the bulk of the demon and pulped into the rocky earth.

What the creature gained in altitude by emerging form the cave, it lost in time due to that fall. Dragons whistled downward at incredible speed, their approach made even faster by the limited globe of light cast by the fires. Within the dancing glow of the raging flames, a dragon would simply appear at maximum velocity before tearing into the monster with a savagery born of their purpose. In between the dragon attacks, the merciless Hecates pounded the increasingly supine demon until it uttered a last timorous cry before slumping to the earth bleeding from a hundred wounds.

French stood in awe of the dragons. The entire militia leapt into action, carrying wounded away while looking over one shoulder with a weather eye. He didn’t bother asking for casualties; they would know soon enough if there were sufficient rifles to meet the challenge ahead. What mattered most was water, deep breaths, and maintaining order. Fortunately, the dragons and their riders were so well practiced at this form of warfare, they took over from sheer instinct. Saavin deftly repositioned two lines based on hand gestures from French, and waved appreciatively before checking his weapon and drinking deeply from a canteen.

Gods, but it is hot
. French shrugged again, his shoulders and back suffused with heat that felt as if he were cooking from within.
There has to be toxin in the air. I need to stay sharp until the end.
He shook his head to clear it before taking a shooting position. “Ready?” he shouted to no one and everyone.

Answering calls reached him over the roar of the fires, and dragons passed overhead low enough to confirm their awareness of the plan.

Where the first demon had been low, the next was tall and graceful. It didn’t walk or run from the recesses of the cave. It danced. Six triple-jointed legs tapped over the broken ground in a frenzy of delicate steps, moving easily aside from the steaming corpse of the first monster to break out into clear ground. The legs were arrayed on a circular body, covered in streamers of diaphanous fur that lazed about the still air like spindrift. A long neck held the slim, equine head aloft on which four ears swiveled at the slightest sounds. The translucent rabbit’s ears were veined with silver; the creature, who was nearly free of coloration and soft organs, pulsed with unknown purpose in the revealing light of the fires. There were no eyes, merely indentations suggesting that sockets lay underneath a layer of mottled flesh which changed colors wildly like the chromatophores of a squid. A low, underslung jaw gave the beast an air of comedy, until the fleshy lips parted to reveal black gums and a floral tongue that lolled, whip like and steaming in the cool evening air. Before a single weapon fired, the monster parted its cumbersome jaws impossibly wide as every floating tatter of fur shot backward in unity. The motion streamlined the ungainly creature for the briefest moments, and it leapt forward in a blur to spray a haze of clear fluid from two reddened glands under the plump tongue. The cloud drifted over the nearest elevated shooters who covered up instinctively but, in seconds, the miasma dissipated.

“Don’t hurt at all, French!” shouted one of the steady men from Agriculture. He was mounted next to Jenn Alberville, who shrugged and raised her rifle. Without any signal, fire erupted along the lines as the Patty-Macs, and their Hecates targeted the incredible beast as it glided about with predatory ease. In two massive leaps, the spidery equine covered enough ground that it was crowding the right flank while taking hideous damage from the combined fire.

A quartet of dragons bellowed as one, and the rifles fell silent to allow the Four Explorers a clear path to their first combat pass. Meri and Lasalle swept in from the left, Bartolome and Nicolet from the right. The creature seemed wholly unaware of their murderous approach, and every dragon succeeded in gouging the high, erect head of the beast as they passed. The monster was easily eighty feet in height and radius; the gangly form had surprisingly good balance and never wavered despite the brutality of the combined draconic attack. Before rifle fire could resume, the creature lashed forward with the bulk of its furred tentacles, their gauzy presence drifting with purpose across the gulf between the demon and the elevated shooters. French noted that Colvin Watley’s men never blinked, they merely raised their weapons and fired at the oncoming digits.

Not everyone was quick enough to avoid contact.

The purpose of the clear fluid emitted by the demon was soon revealed. Whatever the tentacles touched, they stuck to with a near molecular bond. Screaming militia were plucked from their stands and stuffed whole onto the rolling tongue of the beast, their clothes instantly flaring into ashes as they were rammed methodically down the translucent gullet. It was a spectacle of unlimited horror, as family members watched loved ones descend the esophagus of a monster that served no order in the natural world. The throat constricted repeatedly as French watched a dozen or more fighters be consumed without recourse. The Hecates blazed away along with every other gun; once the shock had subsided, the salty fighters of New Madrid let anger guide their hands, but for many it was too late.

The warning scream from Banshee preceded a dive of such speed that the last bullets and his claws struck the monster simultaneously.
He’s cutting it too close
, thought more than one observer just as the unholy carnage began. Saavin urged Banshee on as he climbed the demon, tearing the grasping filaments from the circular body. Banshee’s wicked talons ripped and tore until wide swaths of clear skin were visible in the firelight. The demon attempted to rear back and kick with a triple-jointed leg, but the streaking Windy’s forelegs closed on the last segment as it lashed out toward Banshee’s unprotected belly; with a savage jerk, the bulky dragon tore half of the appendage away in a shower of gore. The demon staggered before firing its filaments again, this time seizing two of Watley’s men who had time for a short scream and nothing more. Three, then five, and at least fifteen militia were rolled up by the hairy tendrils. The monster opted for a less-invasive death with the newest victims. The howling men and women were not forced into the mouth, but crushed with a muscular flex of the long tentacles that held their struggling bodies.

The cooler air of the cave mouth was fogged with the air of battle, and still the demon strode forth. Meri launched a gashing attack under the legs of the demon, displaying an affinity for ground combat that would have surprised everyone, had they not been furiously firing downrange. Nicolet mimed the rolling attack and another of the demon’s legs faltered, the upper knee crushed by a powerful blow from both dragons’ crunching together in a move that was sheer brute force. Looking back, the people of New Madrid would agree that was the moment in which they seized the advantage, but the demon was far from done. Trailing fluids from two ruined legs, the translucent equine head tossed in a series of sharp jabs as the beast lunged forward once more toward the heart of New Madrid. Its body was incredibly lithe for one so awkward and, in four steps, it stood whirling in place as two of the massive, clawed leg tips crashed into the first row of sod homes inside the defensive perimeter.

“Aimed fire only!” French bellowed, a call that the dragons took up and amplified. Unleashing gunfire toward the clinic was ill advised given the power of the rifles being used, but there was no choice. French had to depend on the aim of his militia.

His trust was well-founded. There is a moment in each battle between demon and humans where time compresses and the participants are given an opportunity to ascend to heights unseen in terms of skill and aggression. Clarity descends on the field and one side will gain an advantage that is not to be relinquished. French watched Saavin guide Banshee through a fast, shallow arc that culminated with a crashing impact at the base of the demon’s graceful skull. Banshee’s arms encircled the long jaw, digging hard into the milky flesh until they audibly scraped bone. Tucking his wings, Banshee cleared the way for Saavin to fire ruthlessly into the depression of the monster’s right eye, while dragon and rider gave the invader a short, powerful lesson in applied physics.