Necropolis

Chapter 5

Lyta grimaced as the yoke came off her neck. The harsh corners of the steel collar took tiny slivers of flesh with it, peeling away whatever upper epidermis was left where the metal had chafed against her skin. The other prisoners were already up, moving drunkenly but with a semblance of speed and energy. The men immediately picked up firearms from the dead guards, and one of the three people dressed in jet-black skinsuits pulled off a hood.

Brigid Baptiste revealed herself as a woman, a white woman with hair that looked like streams of curled copper spilling over her shoulders. She was so tall, Lyta had originally thought her to be a skinny man, like the African with the staff or the humanoid who looked as if he was half cobra.

“Most of us speak English, if you do,” Lyta spoke up to the woman.

Brigid smiled. “Thanks. We’ve found that out working with your countrymen. We need to get to the other camp and get more stuff for you. Food, water, weapons and ammunition. Clothing would be good, too.”

“That’s a good plan,” Lyta replied. “Who are you people?”

“He is from India,” Brigid said, pointing to the cobra man. “His name is Thurpa. The other man is from Harare. His name is Nathan Longa.”

Lyta glanced toward the man she’d indicated. “Longa...I had an uncle named Longa.”

Nathan frowned. “What was his given name?”

“Nelson,” Lyta replied.

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m his son.”

Lyta didn’t take long to put the subtext of Nathan’s painful reaction into context. “How did he die?”

Nathan looked around, hating to take time from preparing for evacuation from the area, but he spoke after only a moment. “He was murdered. By something that might be working with the Panthers.”

Lyta nodded, repeating what he’d said. “Something. As in what would eat us at the end of this march.”

“Not anymore,” Nathan returned. “You and the others take off. Get back to your home.”

Lyta narrowed her eyes. “I intend to find out what these animals wanted to do with me.”

Nathan glowered at her. “You’re not in condition to come with us.”

“She could be,” Thurpa spoke.

“Help the others gather supplies,” Nathan snapped at him.

Thurpa frowned. “They’re doing well on their own.”

“Then stop convincing my cousin that she has to risk her life,” Nathan hissed harshly.

Thurpa looked between the two. “As if you risking yours is any better?”

Nathan rubbed his brow. “I’ve got an advantage.”

“What?” Lyta asked.

“None of your—”

“The snake-headed staff that Nelson Longa owned,” Thurpa spoke up.

“Snake-headed... Is that why you’re interested in it?” Lyta asked.

Thurpa shook his head. “It’s an artifact, from the dawn of time.”

“It’s too complicated to explain here and now. You’re hurt. Exhausted...”

“And free,” Lyta responded. “Why would you deny me the chance to find out why my home was attacked? There’ve been so many people killed...”

Nathan grumbled. He gripped the strange walking stick, one she remembered from when Uncle Nelson had visited her so long ago. The object was as tall as Nathan, who was a shade under six feet, and it was one central ebony rod with strange designs inlaid along its length, wound about by two metallic serpents whose heads poked straight up. Lyta glanced at the space between the ominous snake heads and saw that there was a space for another object up there, braced or locked in between them.

Thurpa walked closer to Nathan, whispering into his ear. She couldn’t make out what was being said.

“I don’t know,” Nathan replied. He seemed crestfallen, looking first to the strange staff and then toward Lyta.

“Just give it some thought,” Thurpa said.

“Could I get some assistance?” the woman, Brigid, asked them. The two men walked away, leaving her be.

Lyta felt hands on her shoulders, sitting her down. Petroleum jelly salve was spread over her neck and shoulders. The ooze was an important supply for a militia on the move to deal with blisters, cuts and abrasions of all forms. As soon as the balm was spread across her raw back and about her wrists, she began to feel better. There were several jars of the stuff for the militia, so there was more than enough for the prisoners. Bandages from the Panthers’ first-aid supplies were also put to good use to protect the ravaged flesh.

Lyta accepted a shirt and a web belt. The shirt was long enough on her to act like a minidress, but there was enough air around her bottom to make her feel self-conscious until a pair of men’s briefs was provided for her from the militia’s laundry.

Clean clothes, after being naked for so many days, were wonderful. A bottle of water was also provided for her, and she took several deep pulls before passing the bottle on. Fresh water, clothes, she didn’t even mind the cooling of the evaporating wetness on her shirt. Boots, unfortunately, were in short supply, but Lyta didn’t mind. Most of the people in her town didn’t have much use for footwear, and the soles of her feet were only slightly less tough than rhinoceros skin.

Finally, Lyta got a weapon, two of them actually. One was a machete that looked rusted and pitted, but it was still heavy and felt good in her hand. The other was a .45-caliber pistol. Since the weapons of the Mashona were mostly stolen from the Zambian and Harare armed forces, she knew this pistol. She dumped the magazine and saw that it was loaded. She pulled back the slide and noted that the chamber was empty.

Lyta would keep it that way. She wasn’t sure about the safety on the pistol, and she wouldn’t carry one with a hammer on a live round. It would take a moment to slingshot a fresh round into the breech, if necessary. Both came with sheathes, so she put them onto the belt that tugged the long uniform tunic about her hips snugly. She rubbed her hand across her bare scalp, wishing that she still had her hair and idly wondering how she looked. Right now, she felt wonderful, but she was certain that a glance in a mirror would show her the truth of her ramshackle appearance.

Here you are, covered in bandages and the clothes of dead men, and you’re wondering if you’re hot or not, she thought, trying to hold down her disgust.

“It sure beats being raped and dead,” she muttered. “I look human again.”

“Are you all right?” It was Brigid, the beautiful woman from America, from the place she called Cerberus redoubt.

“Just trying to get my mind off of my vanity,” Lyta replied. “Can I join your group?”

Brigid looked taken aback. “We’re on a dangerous journey, Lyta. I don’t know if it would be wise.”

“Wisdom comes from mistakes,” Lyta replied. “And I know this could be a big mistake, but if I survive, I’ll at least know what awaited me. What was on the other end of this journey.”

Brigid’s brilliant green eyes looked the young woman over. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’ll see what my compatriots have to say.”

“If it’s any help, I’m a resident of a frontier town in Zambia. We all receive firearms training,” Lyta added. She looked at the other prisoners. Though dressed, bandaged, rehydrating from water bottles and gobbling down random bits of food left behind by the Mashonan militia, they were ragged. They were unmistakably former prisoners, gaunt, wounded, eyes darting at the slightest sound.

“Not that it seemed to help us,” Lyta amended, frowning.

“Does anyone else want to see where the Panthers were taking you?” Brigid asked.

“I have to see to my family,” one man said. Others nodded, muttering in agreement. “If there’s any left.”

Brigid glanced to Lyta, and the young Zambian woman bit her lower lip, trying not to show any emotion. That effort translated into exactly what she tried to avoid as Brigid laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

It was a warm, comforting action, and she looked worried for Lyta.

“I want to know what was worth the life of my mother, my fiancé,” Lyta admitted.

Brigid nodded.

“I’ll see what we can do,” Brigid replied.

Lyta watched her head to the tree line. Her spilling curls of golden-lit crimson provided a beacon by which she could be seen in the light of the moon and stars above.

Kane mulled over the whispered Commtact message from Brigid, then looked toward Grant’s position. He was a hundred yards away, barely a silhouette picked up by his night optics.

“Grant, you have an opinion on this?” Kane asked.

“The girl can use some closure,” Grant replied. “And if we send her back, she’ll just break from the group and follow us, maybe make a mistake which gives us away. At least we can keep an eye on her.”

“Baptiste?” Kane inquired.

“She has a powerful desire to know. And when something like that hits, it’s hard to resist,” Brigid responded. “She’ll definitely end up following us. We can keep her out of trouble.”

“Pretty much my feeling, too,” Kane said. “We might actually have some luck bringing her with. She seems smart and determined.”

“Any sign of the Panthers regrouping?” Brigid asked.

Kane swept the forest. It had been twenty minutes since they’d driven the militia away, and their footprints had cooled to the temperature of the surrounding foliage. The blood of the injured was still only a few degrees warmer than the background ambient heat, showing signs of where the gunmen had escaped. Scanning between the trees, using the telescopic optics in conjunction with infrared and light amplification modes on the shadow suit hoods, he couldn’t see any sign of them returning. Even so, he and Grant had moved along their path for a good distance, keeping their eyes open and scanning as far as the advanced suits would let them, but also making time for the rest of their senses, as well. Infrared tracking could be beaten, especially with the use of a shield of “room temperature” woven foliage that blocked out the heat signatures behind it.

For all the advantages that the two former Magistrates possessed, there were still ways for the enemy to sneak past them. Caution and alertness were the order of the day.

“Nothing so far, but I still want those people on the move to someplace safer,” Kane said. “I noticed a couple of vehicles in the camp that they could use.”

“We’ve fit as many as we could, those with the least ability to walk back,” Nathan explained over the shared frequency. “Tell me we’re not going to bring my cousin with us.”

“She’s family?” Kane asked him.

“Yeah,” Nathan responded. “I’d rather not have her join us. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t have any innate advantages like experience, cobra scales or a mystical artifact.”

“No, but she does have frontier militia training,” Brigid spoke up.

“Fifteen rounds a month shot at a paper target on a wall,” Nathan countered.

“Her advantages don’t matter,” Kane said. “She seems dead set on joining this expedition. So let’s have her with us, rather than tripping over her.”

Nathan grumbled, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Don’t pout over it. Our job will be a little trickier, but she’s the one who asked to come with,” Kane offered. “She knows where we’re going is dangerous. We can only hope to survive with her help, just like she survives with ours.”

“All right,” Nathan answered. He sounded much less sullen. It’d take a while for him to be comfortable with the idea of having a cousin along or their journey, but, in the end, Lyta was determined to join them.

“Kane,” Grant warned over the Commtact. “I’ve got contacts. Seventy-five yards out. Three, no, five. Armed, moving low to the ground.”

“Test force?” Kane asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Grant said. “None of them appear wounded. They don’t seem to have any night optics, so they might not be expecting us to have the same.”

“Don’t engage unless they make the first move,” Kane returned. “Keep an eye on them.”

“Right,” Grant said.

“Baptiste, they’re early,” Kane told her.

“Already back to the group,” Brigid answered. He could hear her shouting orders for the prisoners to pack up and start moving out. In the distance, Kane could hear the low rumble of engines starting. He was glad that it was the audio sensors in the shadow suit hood. Still, he kept ready for Grant to tell him that the enemy were reacting to their vehicles powering up.

At the same time, he continued to sweep for signs of other foes in the forest. There might only have been five left uninjured after the initial assault, but Kane didn’t feel like he was that lucky. If anything, they wouldn’t put all their forces in one spot, especially not in the flanking maneuver that Grant observed.

Something else was happening. His nerves were on edge.

“Grant, status on the group moving up.”

“They appeared, but they only advanced about twenty yards,” Grant returned. “Then they hunkered down. Every so often, they look back, but that’s it. Why?”

“There’s something going on. I can’t put my finger on it, but those guys have backup on the way,” Kane explained. “I just can’t see it.”

“That void chick, Neekra?” Grant asked. “She could be oozing in?”

Kane thought about it. That’s when he began to feel the vibration. He looked down at the ground. “Grant, get out of the forest. Get back to the truck.”

“Shit,” Grant hissed, and Kane could hear his effort at running, his increased breathing, the thump of his body as he landed on the ground—all conveyed via vibration over the Commtact. Unfortunately, Grant seemed to be moving in slow motion, just as Kane was, in relation to the rising throb of forces seething beneath the earth. Kane charged through the forest.

“Baptiste!”

“Go!” Brigid shouted loud enough to make Kane’s inner ear ring. She was in full command mode, scooting two dozen noncombatants from the area. There were two trucks in the camp, enough to carry about sixteen people, tightly packed, so there were going to be people still on foot.

Running from a force that shook the ground and filled Kane’s spine with ice-water terror.

“Kane!” Grant bellowed. “The ground split ahead of me!”

“Double around!” Kane returned.

Then Kane realized Grant’s dilemma firsthand. He skidded to a halt as suddenly the ground split all around him. He threw himself down, reaching for the far edge of the ever-growing chasm, and he clawed at the ledge, but only for a moment. He hadn’t rooted himself on rock; he’d grabbed a handful of soil. It crumbled beneath his grasp, and gravity sucked him down the face of the cracking cliff.

In free fall, Kane felt absolutely helpless, but that stopped a moment later when he slammed hard against a crag. The sudden alteration of the kinetic force kept Kane from bouncing off the ledge, but even so, every inch of his body throbbed, aching from the abuse it’d just absorbed. He clung to the side of the chasm, listening as the rumble suddenly stopped.

The earth beneath Kane disappeared into inky oblivion. Kane would have used the optics on his shadow suit hood, but somewhere along the way, the seal that kept its faceplate on had failed, probably when he’d planted into the wall while tumbling in flight. He couldn’t find it anywhere, and he realized that most of his equipment was gone.

Sitting up slowly, taking deep breaths and forcing himself not to vomit, Kane brought himself back to a semblance of clearheadedness. He scanned the darkness, one hand absently digging for a flashlight. He clicked it on, and it spilled only a modicum of light. He ran his fingers over the surface. The lens had been shattered. Likely, several of the LEDs embedded in the lens had been similarly knocked out by his plummet.

Now he knew why he felt like a punching bag for the gods. He’d likely rebounded from cliff face to cliff face, spiraling down the chasm until everything in his inventory had been smashed or torn from him. Even his right arm didn’t feel right, as if it were too light. He shone his torch and saw that the hydraulic holster’s arm brace was there, but the Sin Eater was gone, torn off completely. There was no Copperhead to be seen, either, at least not on the ledge with him.

Kane dug his fingers into the cliff face, taking advantage of what light there was from his torch to mark his territory. The ledge was a long one, disappearing out of the spray of LED-emitted light at about twenty-five feet.

He also realized that there was a small lip along the ledge. Slowly it continued to rumble, rising until it stopped, a slender barrier of stone three feet in height. Kane limped over to it, examining it. Over the stone railing, the abyss continued beneath him. He glanced upward, but the night sky was gone. Invisible.

Had the earth shut again?

He checked the floor of the ledge again and noticed that it had a tile-like pattern on its surface.

Kane realized that this was not a random formation along the chasm wall. This was constructed, but he couldn’t tell by which force. He’d seen the rail rise before his eyes. He turned off the light in order to conserve its battery.

Nothing was around for him to see. Whatever had fallen off him had missed the ledge entirely.

And the way my luck goes, that’s not happenstance, Kane mused. A force must have guided me here. That bitch queen who played with my subconscious only a few days ago.

Kane sneered, then checked himself all over. He was relieved when he found that his web belt was still somewhat intact. He’d only retained two grenades and the Colt .45 he’d brought to back up the Sin Eater and the Copperhead. It had only one magazine in it.

He felt for the pouch and found the other magazines; their steel shells were bent and crushed by impacts. Kane figured he could pry shells from the damaged pair of clips to feed the one already in the gun, which meant that he was good for about eight shots before needing to retreat and spend minutes thumbing bullets into the remaining magazine. He checked the pistol for signs of damage, but the frame of the gun was thick enough not to have bent or warped under his impacts against the chasm walls. The grip was splintered on one side, though.

Luckily, Kane still had some duct tape in his kit. He wound it around the splintered wood, evening it out. He made sure the tape didn’t interfere with the magazine release or block the magazine well, but other than that, his pistol was much like himself. Battered, held together by a reliable wonder material, but still ready to fight.

He also had his knife in its leg sheath. The one part of him that felt like it hadn’t been swung at with a sledgehammer was his leg below the knee, where the fighting blade rested.

A knife. A gun. His shadow suit, sans optics. Two grenades. A flickering LED flashlight.

He touched his face. The Commtact plate must have been jarred loose when the face of his shadow suit hood had been torn off. He patted himself down, reaching down the neck of the suit, but he couldn’t find the contact plate.

Maybe it was better this way.

Brigid and Grant had shadow suits, as well, clothing that could have cushioned their plummet down the chasm.

But that was an advantage denied to Nathan, Thurpa and the new girl, Lyta.

He looked up. The sky was gone. Had the earth closed up? And had it been only he and Grant who had fallen? Indeed, had Grant fallen? Or was he still trapped aboveground, kept from advancing by the rift that had opened ahead of him?

Alone in the darkness, Kane knew that there were two ways to go. Up the inclined ledge, toward the surface where his friends may or may not be, or down, deeper into the belly of the underground, where he was certain the trouble originated.

His enemies were likely ahead of him. That meant going down.

Kane descended into the abyss.

Chapter 6

Neekra rode in Warlord Gamal’s skin. She’d carved his psyche out using the telepathic equivalent of a rusted fork, hurling the man’s personality into the void. His body, despite the loss of a foot when his truck-bed platform imploded on it, was more than sufficient for her needs.