Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2)

FIRE AND STEEL

Lesley Wayne Woodral

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and situations are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Lesley W. Woodral

All rights reserved.

other titles by the author

-The Merryweather Chronicles-

RAIN OF STONE

FIRE AND STEEL

PROLOGUE

      The sun hung low and forlorn in the sky, painting the ruined parking lot of the Old Kirkman Mill with pale October light and picking out the handful of vehicles parked at the concrete's edge. The fading light glinted off the windshield of the last of the vehicles as it pulled up next to an old Ford and its tired engine shut off, ticking loudly in the sudden silence. Officer Chet MacDonald was the last to arrive. Grabbing the shotgun off the seat beside him, he climbed out of his wife's mini van and went to meet the others. The youngest of the men gathered in the old mill parking lot, he'd only been a deputy for the Matheson P. D. for 7 months. It was a part time job, his mostly because he had an uncle who was on the city council, but if Chet had his way it would be a full time job soon. The sun dipped below the horizon, disappearing behind the big silos and throwing long shadows across the broken concrete and the tufts of dying grass growing up between the cracks. Traces from the catastrophic party two nights before were scattered across the ground. Empty cups and beer bottles. Trash and debris, drifting in the wind. Wistful remnants of forgotten youth for some of the waiting men. A stark reminder of why they were there for all of them.

      There were three more deputies waiting with the Chief of police. Each man armed with a sidearm and a hunting rifle. Arnold Golph was a big man in his late forties who owned the old pick-up truck squatting next to the mini van. He had a .444 Marlin slung over his shoulder. Bill Hembry, soft bellied and only a few years older than Chet, had a .308 Remington, along with his .357 Colt Python. Dale Wilhem was the oldest of the deputies. He was in his sixties. A long and lean old fella, with an easy manner. He also carried a Remington. The five men at the mill represented half of Matheson's police force. The rest were out on regular patrol, all except Assistant Chief Teague, who was home with a sick little girl. At least, that was the reason he gave for not coming. Everybody knew that he and the Chief didn't get along.

      Chet was the odd man out in the group and not just because he was twenty-two years old and had only been a deputy for a little over six months. He was also the only deputy carrying a shotgun, instead of a hunting rifle. It was a modified AA-12 assault shotgun. Instead of the usual eight round box magazine, he had the gun fitted with a twenty round drum. The drum was loaded with Frag-12 explosive rounds for maximum stopping power. The other men looked at Chet like he was crazy when he showed up with the shotgun.

      All except Chief Wyntrop. He looked at the shotgun in Chet's hands and gave a nod of approval. The chief stood next to his four wheel drive, smoking a cigarette. Dale sat on the open tailgate, his rifle resting across his knees. None of the men were in uniform. This was strictly an off duty hunting trip. Each knew that tonight was deadly serious. Five kids, missing or dead, was very fucking serious.

      "Now that everyone is here, we can get this show on the road." Chief Wyntrop said, looking at his deputies. He'd been Chief of police for nearly twenty years and was as hard as a railroad spike. Iron gray hair sweeping back from his forehead, he looked a lot like the Marlboro man as he drew on his cigarette and said. "We're going to do this smart, boys. Me, Arnold, and Hembry are going in there and flushing out whatever it is that's been causing this shit. You other boys are going to wait right here with the vehicles."

      Dale looked at Chet, then back at the Chief. He said. "Wait here and do what?"

      "Just wait." Chief Wyntrop said, looking at the two of them. He glanced at the sky and shook his head. "It'll be dark soon. Wait and listen. If it sounds like we need your help, then come running. But, otherwise, just watch that tree line. If anything that walks on more than two legs comes running out. Put it down. I don't care if it's a deer, a rabbit, or a grizzly bear. If it isn't one of us, put a bullet into it."

      Chet gave a nod, hefting his shotgun. "No problem, sir."

      Dale nodded, too, though he grumbled a bit to himself. Chief Wyntrop and the others double checked their gear before heading across the parking lot. Chet watched them go and sighed. He glanced over at Dale and said. "This is gonna be a long night."

      "Don't I know it." Dale said. He shook a cigarette out of a wrinkled pack dug out of his shirt pocket. Lighting it, he huffed a cloud of gray and shook his head. "I could be watching the game, right now, my feet up and a beer in my hand."

      Chet didn't say anything. He thought of Julie, waiting for him at home. Of her chestnut hair and the way that the soft skin on the inside of her thigh felt against his cheek. He had a lot of things he would rather be doing than sitting out in a cold ass parking lot, that was for sure.               

      A cold wind cut across the lot, making Chet shiver and pull his coat closed. It seemed like hours had passed since the others had entered the woods, though Chet knew that it hadn't been nowhere near. The last vestiges of sunlight faded from the sky and the moon had become visible in the sky, obscured by drifting wisps of clouds. Dale was lighting his third cigarette when, from deep in the woods, they heard the first of the shots. It was followed, quickly, by another.

      Dale hefted his gun and looked at Chet. "Sounds like the hunt has started. We better get ready."

      Chet nodded. He checked the shotgun, making sure that a shell was chambered, and moved out into the open with Dale. Both men waited, anxiously, for the first animals to break from the cover of the tree line.

      Out in the woods, there was more gunfire. The pop and crack of rifles and handguns. He wasn't sure, but Chet thought he heard shouts too. He could feel sweat rolling down his back, despite the cold. Dale watched the woods intently, the cigarette jutting from his clenched teeth.

      There was a sudden scream, long and drawn out, and the gunfire intensified. Chet and Dale looked at each other and began to move toward the trees. There was a commotion and Wyntrop burst out of the trees, tripping as he ran. He hit the ground hard and scrambled to his feet. He was covered in blood. He saw Dale and Chet staring and bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO ASSHOLES WAITING FOR?"

      The two deputies started running. From the woods, they heard more screams. More screams, but less gunfire. Chief Wyntrop was pressing one hand to his side and holding a gun with his other, aiming into the woods and pulling the trigger. He didn't appear too awfully worried that he might hit the other men.

      Chet followed Dale, running along behind the older man. They ran up on Chief Wyntrop as his gun ran dry. Tossing the empty gun aside, Wyntrop spun around and advanced on Chet. There was a slash across the Chief's forehead, laying open a wide flap of skin, and his face was covered in blood. His shirt was torn in a lot of places, blood splattered down the front of his chest, and he still had a hand pressed against his side. Blood spurted from between his fingers.

      Wyntrop reached Chet and grabbed the shotgun, yanking it from the younger man's grip. Chet could only gape, stupidly, as the chief spun around and started back into the woods. The screams from the forest had tapered off into gurgling choking squeals. Chet felt his legs trying to go all rubbery. He pulled the Glock from the holster on his hip and followed Wyntrop into the forest. When he didn't notice Dale behind him, Chet turned and found the older man watching them. His cigarette dropped from his lip and Dale met Chet's gaze.

      "Come on, Dale." Chet said, urgently.

      "I can't." Dale said. He took a shaky step back. "I can't go in there."

      "What the hell are you talking about?" Chet took a step toward the older man. Dale was shaking his head and backing away. Chet said. "Dale, you chickenshit, those are our friends out there."

      But Dale wasn't listening. He was already running for the parked vehicles. From behind Chet came the sound of the automatic shotgun, booming in the night. He turned in time to see Chief Wyntrop stumble out of the trees. He was screaming and waving the shotgun over his head. There was something on his back, its head buried in the side of his neck. Blood blasted down the front of Wyntrop's shirt as he screamed and thrashed around in the things grasp.

      Chet ran toward the chief, reaching him as he collapsed to the ground. The thing on his back reared up and glared at Chet, its muzzle dripping with gore. It was some kind of giant lizard. It looked like a snake's head, attached to a human body. It looked up at Chet and hissed.

      Wyntrop was no longer screaming. Or breathing, by the look of it. Chet screamed and shot the thing in the face, the Glock jumping in his hand. The round hit the thing in the right eye, blowing the side of its head off. There was a screech from behind him and something slammed into his back, knocking him off his feet. Hot fetid breath blew across his neck and when Chet turned his head, he was looking into the eyes of a large cat. Chet tried to roll over onto his hands and knees.

      Something sharp punched into the back of Chet's shoulder and he screamed, twisting and grabbing at the cat. It stabbed him again. Chet slammed the gun into the side of the things head, causing it to squeal, and knocked it off of his back. The cat landed on its feet and spun, launching itself at Chet.

      Before it reached him, the cat exploded in a burst of fur and blood, splattering his face. Suddenly, Dale was dragging him to his feet. "Come on." Dale said. He held Chet up as they ran. The forest behind them came alive as more of the monsters boiled out of the shadows. Racing across the ground after the two men.

      Dale fired at the things as they ran, emptying his gun and tossing it aside. Chet could barely keep his eyes open. He had one hand held against the wound in his shoulder; the other dangled at his side as he ran, the gun banging against his leg.

      They were almost to the cars when the things ran them down, hitting them from behind and pulling them to the ground. Dale screamed, pounding at the boar faced thing goring his stomach. Chet felt knives slamming into the backs of his legs as he clawed at the ground, screaming and choking on his own blood.

      Chet rolled over onto his back and felt his stomach torn open, his intestines spilling out, and something snarled and began to eat them. Teeth tore into the side of his neck and blood sprayed across his face, filling his eyes.

      Chet's last sight as he died was Dale being dragged away. The older man clawed at the ground as he was pulled into the trees, his face a ripped and bleeding ruin. Shadows danced around him, scampering and howling as they devoured their prey. The sound of the old man's screams chased Chet into the darkness as the meat was torn from his bones.

      Sha'ha'Zel watched the grohlm feast from atop his perch on the tallest of the empty grain silos and felt the briefest moment of sympathy for the unfortunate police officers. Not so much for the young one being torn apart on the broken and overgrown parking lot, but for the one being taken into the woods. He knew what the grohlm did to captives that they took. He didn't envy the old man.

      The Curse looked up at the moon, hanging fat and bloated in the night sky. His long cloak twitched, as if touched by a non-existent wind. Clouds moved over the moon's surface, blanketing the nightmare below in twisting shadows. Spreading his arms, Sha'ha'Zel stepped off of the silo and dropped to the ground, cloak billowing behind him as he landed. A couple of dog faced grohlm charged out of the darkness, racing toward the Curse.

      But turned when they got close enough to smell what they were attacking, racing away with their tails between their legs.

      Sha'ha'Zel watched the grohlm flee and thought, briefly, of following. Of going into the woods and killing as many grohlm as he could find. It would be an interesting distraction to take his mind off of his mission.

      But he didn't.

      Sha'ha'Zel turned and stared into the night. He could feel the boy, somewhere distant. Pulling his swords free of their sheaths, he stared down at the curved blades. They weren't the swords of his father, the swords that he carried as a living man. Those were lost the day he died. The day he ceased being Jarek Fel and became Sha'ha'Zel.

      Those blades were taken by the Usurper and used in the spell that bound Sha'ha'Zel to his path. The new blades were bound to him, as well. He could never lay them down. Not completely.

      Not until his task was done.

      Not until Brandon Merryweather was a wet, rotting memory.