I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (37 page)

His back pressed against the stone wall,
rounds zipped past Boone on either side. He looked left and right,
making sure no one was approaching him on this section of walkway.
No one was. He rose up and let rip with his H&K before dropping
down, the answering fire abraiding the stone of the merlon,
showering dust and rock across the ramparts.

He looked to his right—still nothing—and then
his left, where a Thuggee with a dagger was crouched over and
stalking towards him. The turbaned assassin saw that Boone saw him
and turned to run when Boone cleared the big Colt Anaconda from its
holster, the .44 booming, fluted cylinder jerking skyward with each
discharge, one shot going wide—two—a third—Boone centering the man
in the iron sights—

Boom
!

—his fourth shot lifting the man from his
feet, his turban knocked from his head.

Bullets continued to smack into the opposite
side of the wall. For good measure Boone fired over the merlon to
his left and right, emptying the stainless steel revolver to no
effect. Son of a bitch had some kick to it. He was reloading the
.44 when explosions sounded across the way. Boone looked up to see
the walkway opposite his position enveloped in fire, incinerated
rag dolls of men pitching from the wall.

Someone had helped his ass out.

Boone looked down to Colson, the vampire
holding its ground against the remaining ninja, only two of them
now. Looked like the vamp was doing just fine.

Holstering the Anaconda, Boone resumed his
path. The walkway curved as he followed it, the keep looming ever
closer. Between Boone and his target, a machicolated stone tower
jutted out of the wall. He stepped into the shadows of the tower
and found it deserted. Crossing to where the walkway resumed—

“
Shko
n’kar
!”

—Boone ducked back as a section of the stone
wall erupted, chunks of stone and mortar showering the walk. He
coughed and waved the dust from his face, chancing a look around
the corner. A tall, heavy man in fatigues with a rubber-banded
spade beard had a multi-barreled grenade launcher up at his
shoulder. And the motherfucker was shooting the thing at him!

Boone hugged the wall as the man sent another
40mm round into the side of the tower, a cloud of concrete dust
billowing around him. When the ringing from the close-quarters
explosion died down, Boone clearly heard the man raging in
Albanian: “
Te
dhjefsha
racen
!”

Boone fired the UMP around the wall, a ragged
burst of 9mm lead. He yanked his hand and the submachine gun back
as the cylinder on the multi-shot grenade launcher rotated, a third
grenade bouncing off the stone wall, catapulting into empty space
and detonating in mid-air.

“
Te
qifsha
motren
!” The
man was screaming at Boone, telling him he’d fuck his sister. The
threats abruptly choked off in a gargled scream.

Boone risked a look around the wall.

The big man was on his knees, the grenade
launcher on the stones beside him. He was reaching over his
shoulder, trying to dislodge the axe buried in his clavicle. Blood
geysered from him in little spurts, spattering his beard and face.
Damian stood behind the man in his Knight’s Templar get-up,
grasping the axe with both hands, trying to free it from the
man.

Boone strode out onto the walkway. “Move,
Damian.”

Damian let go of the axe and went to the wall
as Boone leveled the Benelli.

The soldier looked up at Boone with hatred in
his eyes.

“…
budol
douch
…” he managed
weakly before the 12-gauge boomed.

Damian wore the mantel over the surcoat but
his arms were bare, the muscles and tattoos of his upper and lower
arms rippling. Covered in a great deal of blood, he only managed to
get more on himself as he yanked the axe out of the bearded
man.

“Where you been?” Boone asked him. The
gunfire below wasn’t as heavy as before.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”
Damian flicked his wrist, blood spraying from the axe-blade and
head.

“I got hung up.”

“I’ve been clearing the wall. What do we have
in that direction?”

“Couple Ninja, couple Thuggee, bunch of other
dead fucks.”

“Big Mike’s in the tower.”

Tracer rounds streaked down into the frozen
vehicles, into the soldiers stranded on the road.

“I was wondering who was on the machine
gun.”

“You mind if I hang onto this?” Damian had
taken up the bearded man’s grenade launcher.

“Knock yourself out.”

“You’re going into the Keep? Kane’s in there
already.” A parachute fluttered from the roof of the main
tower.

“What about you?” Boone replaced the shell
he’d fired from his shotgun.

“I’m clearing the wall.”

They parted, Boone watching Damian go: the
big blood-covered blonde charging across the wall with the axe in
his hands like hell’s fireman rushing into the blaze. That or a
berserk Norseman.

Boone leaned over the wall, looking down into
the bailey. Colson and Halstead were moving around on the ground,
mopping up.

He turned to the task at hand.

The keep loomed before him, tall and
inviting, the secrets of this place hidden inside.

ABR Management.

Yo. I know where your boy at.

Excuse me?

I said I know where your boy at.

And this is?

That ain’t what’s important. I’m sayin’, I
know where your boy Busta at. Now let’s talk about a rewar—

Hold on a minute. I’m transferring your
call.

Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.

Hiya.

Yeah, I was sayin’, I know where he—

Where you calling from mate?

I get to that in a minute. Ain’t you gonna
ask me why I’m callin’?

We know why you’re calling.

Oh you do, huh?

You have information that would be very
valuable to us. About the whereabouts of our client. That’s it,
innit?

Now
that’s
what I’m talkin’ bout. Yo,
lemme ask—how come I ain’t seen this shit on the news?

We’re trying to keep it low profile.

Low profile gonna cost ya.

Let’s talk wedge then.

I don’t understand half of what you sayin’,
but if it’s money we talkin’…

It is.

Then we’s in business.

Good show, mate. Let’s discuss the
particulars.

The walkway circled the outside of the keep.
A massive wooden door granted access to the forbidding tower. A
soldier’s body had propped the door open. The Benelli shotgun
leveled at his side, taut on its sling, Boone peered into the
tower, seeing little. He glanced back the way he’d come and then up
at the white parachute fluttering in the night sky from the top of
the keep. Kane had landed up there. The Wrath of God.

The door opened outward with a mighty creak.
Boone stepped on the body of the downed soldier and into a narrow,
spiraling stairwell. The flames of ensconced torches flickered,
illuminating the stone walls and stairs. The electric lights were
out, the generator blown. Boone listened and heard nothing except a
burst of submachine gun fire from without.

He ascended the stairs, 12-gauge at the
ready, prepared to blast whatever might come down at him. The
windows set in the stone wall were sealed with cement to reflect
the needs of the recent tenants. Boone stayed close to the inner
wall as the stairwell rose and turned, presenting less of a target
to anyone above him.

He came to a cluster of bodies strewn on the
steps. Soldiers with various sword wounds, the stairs slick with
their blood. One man sat against the wall, his eyes staring
straight ahead of him, mouth open. He’d died holding his stomach
in. H&K G36s lay scattered. Kane had come this way.

After several more turns and corpses, the
stairs gave to a second immense wooden door. Boone entered the bed
chamber cautiously, scanning the room, taking it all in. More
corpses scattered all over the place, draped over one another. A
raised platform bed, its silk sheets and pillows blood drenched.
Ornate candelabra complimented the modern electric lamps. Marble
statuary decorated the room. The sole window’s wooden shutters were
drawn back on the night, and as Boone looked an explosion briefly
lit the sky outside.

He turned his nose up at the coppery stench
of blood in the room. There were so many bodies—one atop another,
limbs entwined in the encroaching rictus of death—so many he
couldn’t tell how many there were. Camouflaged limbs separate from
their torsos. Turbans unraveled on the wooden floor. A katana
locked in a severed hand.

Boone stepped through it all to the bed. In
the center of the slashed mattress, a grey stain of ash. A vampire
had died on it.

Leaving the room, Boone descended the keep,
passing the door he’d entered by. More soldiers littered the
winding stairwell. Perhaps it was his heightened senses, awaiting
the next attack, but Boone had the sense of descending for some
time. When the stairwell ended it did in a tight, winding
passageway. The air felt damp here. There were two directions to
choose from and Boone decided on the passage to his left.

The corridor was tight and claustrophobic,
the floor earthen. Torches crackled in their sconces.

A heavy door gave unto the dungeon. Boone
stepped onto a stone landing and looked about the room. A short
stairwell gave to a larger chamber dug from the earth. Three people
were chained to the furthest wall across from and beneath him. They
stood in place, their wrists shackled. One man looked up as Boone
entered and flashed his fangs, growling.

Bloodsucker
, Boone corrected himself.
Fucker was no man.

Secured to a leather chair, a seated form had
its back to Boone. Something that looked like a traffic cone
obscured its head.

“Gossitch?” Boone called and the traffic cone
stirred.

He stepped down into the dungeon, crossing
the open space to the man in the chair. The torches were few and
far between here, casting much of the chamber in shadow and dark.
The thing on the wall was still hissing at him, fangs bared.

Boone ignored it, taken aback by the
condition of the seated figure.

The hands had been removed at the wrists and
funnels were attached to the stumps, stapled into place. Blood
dripped through clear tubes that connected the funnels to
collection bottles on the ground. IVs were inserted in the man’s
upper arms, the intravenous bags hanging from stands. The traffic
cone wasn’t a traffic cone. It was a dunce cap, pushed down over
the man’s head to his shoulders.

Boone reached out and removed it, revealing a
head of curly graying hair, a big crooked nose above a gag.
Gossitch’s upper body bare, his arms, chest and neck riddled with
puncture scars from vampire bites. The bites teemed with
maggots.

“Gossitch.” Boone went down on his knees,
overcome with emotion. “Frank…”

“
Mmmmmph
—” Gossitch through his
gag.

“They did this to you, Goose…” Boone near
tears as he fumbled with a side flap. “They did this to you.” His
hand came away with a pack of cigarettes, Marlboros. “Look what I
got for you, Frank.” He fumbled for the lighter.

“
Mmmmmph
!” Gossitch trying to tell
Boone something.

“It’s okay now, Frank,” Lighting the
cigarette, Boone puffed at it, “I’m here,” got it going.
They
were
feeding
off
him
. He
dislodged the gag, holding the smoke up to Frank’s mouth.
The
bloodsucker
fuck
freaks
were
feeding
off
him
—

“Kid—” Gossitch ignored the cigarette
“—behind you!”

Lightning exploded in Boone’s head and he
went down, the red glow of the cigarette arcing across the
room.

Beeeeeep

Hi, Cathy? Cath, it’s me.

It’s Bill.

You there? Scott? Todd? It’s dad, either of
you…no.

Look, Cath, I was just calling to say hello,
calling to…like I said, say hello. See how you’re doing. We haven’t
spoken for awhile. I just wanted to check in, check on you and the
boys.

Hey boys. How’re you two doing? How ‘bout
them Yankees, huh Scott?

Look Cathy, ah, you get a chance, give me a
call back. It won’t hurt, you know? The thing is, I saw this
group—rock ‘n roll band—and I wanted to tell you about them,
figured they’d be right up your alley. Reminded me of one of the
shows we’d catch at the Village East back in the, well, you
remember them days don’t you? See, boys, the Village East is what
they renamed the old Filmore East over on Second Avenue, this was
after it closed back in, what was that, Cath, ’70, ’71? No, it was
’71. The Allman’s played there, you can hear on
Eat
a
Peach
but—Christ, listen to me.

Rambling away.

Sorry.

Anyhow, uh, Scott, Todd, I hope you boys are
well and looking out for your mother. Same goes for you, Cath. Hope
you’re all fine.

I’m fine.

You know me, staying out of trouble.

Yeah, you know me.

Anyway, like I said, you get a chance, pick
up the phone. Give me a call. Okay, I love you all.

Bye now.

“You…” Boone shook his head and regained his
feet, having been knocked three yards across the room.

The jailer stepped from the shadows and into
the flicker of the torch flames, his features masked behind a
leather steampunk gas mask hood. In one hand he grasped a bullwhip,
in the other an executioner’s skull axe, double bladed, a circle of
metal spikes on top and a spike on the end to jab with. Studded
leather straps criss-crossed his hairy chest and stomach. Keys
jangled on a ring worn at his waist. The round glass eye goggles of
the mask tracked Boone.