Blackbone (13 page)

She sat fingering it, unmoving.

“I showed it to the mullahs. They said it’s very powerful.”

“What else would they say?” Loring felt a stab of hopelessness. “Professor, I’m a scientist and you’re a scholar. I’m chasing a demon—and you’re offering me a magic charm.”

“Now who’s the skeptic?”

He took the talisman from her and slipped the chain over her head. He dropped the talisman down her blouse and she felt its cool weight against her skin. It was like one of those fat old brooches her grandmother used to wear. She had always hated the look of them. They reminded her of age and vanity.

“If nothing else,” said Yazir, “this will offer some small comfort—for both of us. As long as you are within the djinn’s sphere of influence, do not take it off.”

Her brows knitted in a troubled frown as she grew worried that this task was too dangerous to attempt alone. She almost asked Yazir to come with her. He must have sensed that coming because he leaned over, kissed her forehead, and said, “For luck. And remember this—all djinn have one thing in common.”

“What’s that?”

“A quick and violent temper. Its one great weakness and its greatest danger.”

He stood up then, and as the last boarding whistle sounded, he turned and was gone.

“The situation must be improving with Doenitz in charge of the Navy, eh, Kirst? There’s a man who understands that the U-boat is our only hope of victory.”

Gebhard finished stoking the fire and adjusting the water flow, then tromped into the shower hut with Kirst following. On Steuben’s advice, Gebhard had put behind him Kirst’s disagreeable remarks at their first meeting. If anything, Steuben had reasoned, Kirst needed a friend who would help him get accustomed to life in the camp. Gebhard was the only other submariner, so it fell to him. And Gebhard knew just what a submariner would appreciate most in this camp.

Kirst stood eyeing the shower—the broad concrete floor, the overhead network of pipes and spouts, across from it the troughlike sink with its wall-length mirror.

As they stripped and hung their clothing on pegs, Gebhard quizzed Kirst about his service. “I hear the snorkel cut our losses considerably.”

“The snorkel... ?”

Gebhard found Kirst exasperating: his mind was constantly adrift, as if he weren’t really paying attention. Or maybe... another thought occurred to Gebhard... maybe he didn’t really know any of this.... Maybe he knew it but it wasn’t second nature to him as it would be to a real submariner with extensive sea duty....

“The snorkel...” Kirst appeared to think for a while, then began to speak. “Yes, for a time it boosted morale, but with the intake and exhaust heads always sticking up out of the water, the boats were easily detected by enemy airborne radar. When our commanding officers began calculating losses to air attack as opposed to other—”

“They’ve stopped using the snorkel?”

“Oh, it’s still in use. On U-221, the snorkel heads were encased in a rubberized shield that had a waffle pattern to deflect radar....”

Gebhard frowned. Kirst talked like a textbook. He turned on the water and waited for it to run hot, but it came out merely tepid. Gebhard grumbled and stepped under the spray with his soap, then quickly lathered up. Kirst stepped under the next spout.

“Tell me more,” Gebhard said.

The djinn searched Kirst’s brain for half-buried facts. Kirst could almost feel gates opening inside his head as the blackness gained access to his memory. The words emerged as smooth as glass.

“One thing about the snorkel that no one likes—it shortens deep diving capability. Submerged depth is limited to the length of the snorkel pipe—”

Gebhard grinned. “Might as well stick your cock up in the air and wave it around for all the good that does.”

They continued discussing submarine technology until Gebhard tired of it. He passed the soap to Kirst, and he lathered up, too. Gebhard rolled his head back and let water run into his mouth and overflow his lips. He gargled and spat. The water got warmer and he sighed gratefully.

“Feel that?” he said. “Takes forever, but the heat comes. Usually when you’re about through.” He reached for the soap. “Nothing like this on the U-boats, eh, Kirst? The purest luxury on earth.” He soaped up a second time. “So, Kirst, how did they get you? The plane bombed your boat and you went into the water? What’s the rest of it? How were you rescued?”

Kirst rolled his head under the spray. He almost blacked out as the thing rushed up inside him and slammed the mental doors it had opened earlier. He stood there like a department-store mannequin, the spray running into his open eyes and mouth and down his body. When he returned to reality only seconds later, Gebhard was repeating his question.

Kirst searched for the answer but could find neither words nor thoughts. His mind kept hitting a black wall. His frustration mounted as Gebhard studied him oddly. He wanted to answer the question, wanted desperately to regain control of himself and scream out the truth, but he couldn’t. Something must have shown on his face because Gebhard was looking at him oddly, but then he realized it was pure curiosity—Gebhard had asked him something, and Kirst hadn’t answered.

I have to answer!
he screamed at the black wall.

His arm rose. His hand gripped the valve and shut off the spray then stretched out toward Gebhard, motioning for the soap. Gebhard gave it to him. Kirst had no idea what he was doing or why. His legs propelled him out of the shower area and over to the long sink. The mirror was fogged, but he turned the tap and ran water and began to lather his face with soap.

A shave!

The thing inside had rooted around in his mind for the next obvious thing Kirst would do after a shower, and it had come up with a shave. Fascinated and detached, he watched his hand spread soap over his stubble. Then it reached for a razor attached to a wall hook by a length of chain. His fingers opened the blade and ran it across the strop beneath the mirror.

The razor was motionless in his hand as his eyes locked on the cloudy mirror.

Everything was still for a moment, then the blackness tingled mischievously inside him and he grew aware of an urge, a pressing desire to bring that razor up to his bared throat. He fought it but the urge was stronger. The tingle ran down his hand holding the razor. The blackness pulsed in his head, mocking him with insane, thunderous laughter. His fear mounted. The blackness reached out and devoured it hungrily. But that didn’t sate it. It wanted more. Kirst trembled inside as his hand was forced to the mirror surface to wipe away a clear space so that he could see to shave. To shave, he screamed inside. His hand holding the razor was forced up.

Gebhard switched off his shower and reached for his towel. He was humming to himself.

Kirst’s palm wiped the glass in broad strokes. His eyes were shut. The razor was at his throat. The blackness boiled inside him, hysterically happy, feeding off his terror.

His eyes flew open and he saw his reflection, and it must have been the one thing
it
hadn’t counted on, because the horror that shot through Kirst at what he saw was not devoured. It too was shocked at this single moment of lost control. Because where Kirst’s face should have been were a pair of deep feral eyes, monstrous snarling jaws, sallow mottled skin, and reptilian scales. It was like no animal Kirst had ever seen. It flung him backward, recoiling in anger, ripping through him in an uncontrollable rage. It whipped him around and, through his eyes, stared at Gebhard—poor surprised Gebhard, who stood confused with the towel to his body—and then it made Kirst snatch up his gear—his clothing and towel —and run away from the mirror, out the door, and down the steps, making him dash naked across the compound.

Gebhard missed seeing the image in the mirror. He saw only Kirst bolting from the hut and assumed that he ran because he couldn’t explain to a submariner how he had survived two days and nights in the freezing Atlantic. Why? Gebhard asked himself. Because he had something to hide?

The djinn laughed inside Kirst, a soundless laugh that sent blackness rippling through Kirst’s body. He stopped and flung himself against a tree and sobbed in front of the prisoners lounging outside the rec hut. They stared at him. He tried to get dressed but fumbled with his shorts, suddenly panicked about his nakedness.

The djinn bellowed dark laughter into his ears and rushed to his loins.

Kirst felt a warmth build in his crotch. He looked down and saw his penis thicken and lengthen until it stood out from his body in a stiff purple arch—massive, threatening, bigger than he had ever seen it in his life. He groaned and prayed that it wouldn’t burst, and he cursed the dark tenant that filled it.

The men at the rec hut spotted his giant erection. They pointed and laughed.

The djinn let Kirst struggle with his shorts. He stumbled about, trying to get them up over his knees then over that massive aching bone. He fell against the tree and choked out a sob, despair wracking his throat—

And filling the djinn with pleasurable sustenance.

Gradually, the djinn withdrew, and Kirst’s erection subsided. He dressed hurriedly, ignoring the men at the rec hut. When he looked up, weak and wanting nothing more than a bed to lie on and warm covers to pull over his body, he saw two MPs marching toward him. They were grinning.

Kirst sat in Loats’ posing chair again, limp and disinterested as the sergeant adjusted his flash and loaded the Speed Graphic. Loats was chuckling with the two MPs. Kirst knew they were joking about his cock. He heard words like horse and stallion and knew exactly what they were saying.
Well, the hell with them.
He fought to keep himself calm, not wanting to alert the imp in his gut. He could feel it curled up there like a little black ball, sated from feeding off his terror. But he knew that it slept with one eye open and, if he so much as blurted a word about its existence, it would roar through his body like an enraged lion. He had no desire to test it.

“Okay, Herr Leutnant Horse-cock,” Loats said, “let’s see if you can look pretty this time.”

The ball stirred in his stomach and started to spread. But the flash went off before the djinn could emerge from its slumbering torpor. The explosion of light so terrified the djinn that it slammed Kirst’s body backward violently. He flew from the chair and skidded across the floor.

Loats and the two MPs stared at him in amazement.

Kirst was conscious of furious blackness boiling inside his head, obscuring his vision. Through a whipping dark cloud, he glimpsed the three Americans bending over him, conversing, worried. His eyelids fluttered and he felt himself losing consciousness and, as he slipped into limbo, he was aware of the imp’s rage and helplessness, and the image of the fence around the compound loomed in his mind, the fence and a sensation of freedom and a vicious anger that he wouldn’t stay awake because—

It forced his eyes open.

Because he had to stay awake. He was needed. The imp needed him to express his needs—its needs—it had to stay outside the fence—
why outside the fence?
—
awake
—
stay awake so you
can tell them
—
tell them what?
—
tell them you need
—
you need a doctor!
—
their doctor!
—
the
one with the
—

Kirst got an image of eyeglasses.

Borden, you want Borden? The American doctor? Why?

Awake
—
stay awake
—

But Kirst slipped into unconsciousness, for one brief second feeling true happiness at the imp’s displeasure.

Chapter 11

“What about the picture?” Gilman said. “Did you get it?”

Loats shook his head. “Didn’t come out. The negative is a blur. When the flash went off, he flew right the hell out of that chair, sir. Banged his head on the floor, out like a light.”

Gilman grunted and looked down at Kirst, lying unconscious on a cot in Borden’s dispensary. Borden finished examining him and rose, puzzled.

“No sign of concussion. No bruise, bump, no blood. I don’t see any reason why he should be unconscious.”

“He’s faking.” Hopkins stepped forward, hands on his hips, glaring at Kirst.

“Thank you, Dr. Hopkins,” said Gilman. “Send us a bill for the consultation.”

“Well, sir, that’s my opinion. Back in the third grade, I knew a guy used to faint—just pass right out—whenever it looked like he’d have to do something he didn’t like. Eyes would roll back up in his head, knees would buckle—always managed to land on something soft, though.”

“Your head,” muttered Borden.

“I heard that.”

Gilman stepped between them. “This isn’t helping. Borden, what’s your recommendation?”

Borden glanced at Kirst then at his watch. “Getting close to evening mess, Major. I say let him sleep it off. Well check him when he wakes and, if nothing’s wrong, send him back inside.”

Hopkins was horrified. “You mean keep him here—in our hospital?”

“Spare us the moral outrage,” said Gilman. “Sergeant Loats, can we live without a picture?”