[MH] (Caribbean by Night) Driving Miss Piggy

[Icelander]

Impatiently, Kit waved aside the irreverent aside from the old Night Rider. “That was Jim Bridger telling a tall tale to a tenderfoot around the campfire. When the tenderfoot asked him how he survived, Bridger said, ‘I didn’t. That dratted Injun killed me.’”

Wojciechowski shrugged, “Also works, tenderfoot.” He grinned without joy. “Except, of course, I survived, as per evidence of your senses. Dratted Injun birdmen were fast, swift as striking falcons, but they didn’t have guns.

“Heavy staccato barks from behind me told me that Vlad was firing his suppressed pistol. Controlled pairs, quick as he could, way he always worked. One of birdman mother[fornicators] ran right at me, another tried to flank me to left. Both must have thought I had not spotted them because of lighting and because I was still standing up.

“Muscle memory, żabko. Hell of thing. Keeps you alive in situations you’ve trained for, but also doesn’t ask questions, even when you need thought more than action. I rose from knees into two-handed shooting stance, leaving knife on ground. Mozambique drill at first one, two in chest, one in forehead. Didn’t stop, didn’t slow, because tulpa didn’t come with vital organs or brain and it didn’t seem to care about blessed salt or copper hollow-points. Faster than thought, I drilled it again, two in chest, one in head, but same effect.

“It reached me, then. Fortunately, thought caught up before war club split my head. Somehow, I slip to side, release one hand from weapon, block descending arm, grab, shift center of gravity and let birdman fly over hip. I felt ten feet tall, for all of heartbeat, until other birdman hit me. I dodged club, took bastard [sphincter] square to side.

“Boat-anchor pistol had one advantage. Both weapon and can were steel, close enough to iron for government work. Heavy too, like spiked mace. So I hit bastard birdman on head, hard enough to kill human. Then again. And again. As it slumped down, I did threat scan, two more [fornicating] birdmen coming for me, screeching horribly.

“I was thinking now, so I stepped backward to my knife, shooting low, at legs and knees. No vitals doesn’t mean no load-bearing joints. Dropped one [fornicator] when leg buckled under it on run, dove down to grab knife. Emptied my handgun into legs of birdman [fornicator] I’d put on the ground first, trying to encourage it to stay down. Rolled away with knife in one hand, still firing with other, managed to parry sharp claws with knife from limited-mobility bastard on ground. Hit bastard in face with handgun, slashed arm and when it rolled on top of me, jammed knife into neck and kept hitting it.

“Copper hollow-points might not kill bastard birdmen, żabko, but they put ugly holes in thought-forms and I could see neon light through head where I’d put two bullets earlier. Screeching hate through inhuman beak, it started to dissolve. I left pistol on ground, rolled to feet and blasphemously cursed Virgin and Child. I’d spotted four on my side after we took out sentries. Destroyed one, put two on ground, one with ruined leg, another with battered head. Fourth was in air, jumping at me with razor talons coming.

“Something hit it in face as it dove, but it was little comfort. I managed to take one talon on rifle plate, but other ripped open side and stomach. Large, jagged cuts hurt more than being shot, żabko. Hurt like hell, feel like your guts are torn from your body. All your world becomes pain and horror that you’ll never recover, die screaming with innards ripped from belly.”

“I know,” Kit said quietly.

Wojciechowski looked into the rear-view mirror and there was a long moment of eye contact. “So. You know, żabko. And I screamed. While I screamed, I slashed, trying to disable legs and stop talons from tearing more of me.

“Vlad hadn’t been able to reach me in time, but he’d thrown his axe. Crazy [fornicating] Białorusin! Birdman face was ruined mess, beak split in two. Some tulpa feel pain or maybe confusion. I brought it down next to me, establishing leg lock with knife, cutting back of knee joint. I couldn’t stand up, pain almost blinded me, but I rolled over on top of it and stabbed it in back, again and again.

“Vlad arrived, chopping with big Vityaz Cossack knife, taking its head in three strokes. Then he ripped axe from dissolving head and moved to finish crippled or stunned [fornicators] on ground. I lay there, trying to breathe, and bled into puddle on ground. Cursed Maryja Dziewica some more, because it felt better than screaming, reached for IFAK, got out Israeli bandage and tried to put pressure on stomach. Realized that ‘Medice, cura te ipsum’ was [bull droppings] by the time Vlad had secured immediate surroundings well enough to render assistance.

“Vlad had taken couple of blows, but stupid Białoruski head too thick to break. Also, he wore helmet and took one blow on vest. Broken nose and bad cut on forehead, lacerations on arm, but no serious injuries. So he put on pressure bandage to keep my guts inside. Loaded our pistols, put Mannlicher in my arms in case more bastards arrived and asked what we were going to tell police.

“I told him what to tell police. Explicitly and at great length, until he told me to stop cursing at him. Then I reached into IFAK and injected Aunty Genie’s obeah elixir for holding death at bay. It’s herbal. Well, mostly herbal. Hurts like liquid fire when it hits you, then makes you cold as ice. Upside is you don’t feel anything else, like your guts trying to escape your stomach. And it slows bleeding, prevents shock and lets you function when you really need to. Good thing about high-quality load-bearing gear, it’s got solid belts and stout buckles to rig around an open stomach wound.”

“Jesus,” Kit said. “Why didn’t you just call the police? Ambulance? SWAT, if there was a hostage situation inside? I get that you might catch a gun charge, but [excrement], what the hell help were you going to be with your stomach ripped open?”

A dry chuckle escaped Wojciechowski. “You think I cared about gun charge, żabko? No. If it helped other Night Riders, I’d have gone to even American prison. Besides, Old Man Kessler employs best lawyers. I think I could have walked, if I could convince jury I was black celebrity. In right light, I am blacker than Michael Jackson.

“It was not that. Consider, żabko, Vlad and I were old in war. We had been reckoned beside very tough men for many, many years, in Spetsnaz or GROM, in 2e REP of Legion, and among Night Riders. And we were used to being best. No empty boasting; but no false modesty. We were warriors born; forged in battle like tempered steel. We’d lost speed and conditioning since we were young, but dealing death is not sport. It is not hard abs that kill. It is hard heart.

“And we knew about supernatural, we knew how fast and strong some things could be. We knew that shooting them did not always work. We had training, knowledge, basis for forming some kind of tactical plan. With all these advantages, we’d barely survived that attack. What were ordinary police going to do? Would they even see stalking, predatory birdmen bastards? If they shot at them and it did not work, what could they do? When they looked into eyes filled with insane cruelty of bottomless evil, what would they cling to?

“No, żabko. Even good men, brave men, cannot just come upon that kind of thing and hope to survive long enough to learn. Cops would have tried, some in terror, some with courage. Most would show both, because one cannot exist without other. But they would have died. The first responders, certainly. Likely enough, officers from several cars also, as many as tried to get in to pull out others until orders were given to close everything down and wait for SWAT. And SWAT? They’d probably win in end, but fighting beings that required cold steel to kill, they’d lose many men. More men than I was comfortable condemning to death in fight where they didn’t know rules.

“So. We stuck to plan. I tried walking, found that I could. Went to exchange Mannlicher with Mosin, because Mosin had steel armor-piercing ammo. Picked out zones of fire, took up firing posts, identified fallback positions. Waited for Dr. Lapointe to finish his ritual, because as much as we wanted to rush into health club, we knew that rushing in blind was useless. Whoreson bastards inside, whoever they were, knew we were there. We needed to know what they were and what they wanted.

“In light of single candle and flickering neon, every shadow looks like monster. Enochian is made-up language, fraudulent creation of forger and conman. It has no connection to angels or demons, it just happens to be a very effective ceremonial language for Hermetic magic. But chanted in low voice next to you while you are straining every fiber in body to sense rapacious foes you imagine all around you, any language can sound demonic.

“In voice not like his own, Dr. Lapointe called upon the Metatron, Raziel, Jophiel, Zaphkiel, Phanuel, Gabriel and Uriel. When he ended his chant, he closed his eyes, sat in silent contemplation. My friend Alfred Lapointe is born in the Congo. His eyes are as brown as his skin. Yet when he opened them again, they were blue. Bright blue and glowing. He spoke and in voice of Izzy Landry, he told us: ‘We yet live. Enter and slay none unless attacked. Trust no one, expect treachery, but do not incite violence. Make your way to the baths in the basement, on the east of the house. We are – ‘”

“Then voice stopped and my friend Lapointe had his own brown eyes again. If he were different sort of man, he would have sworn like sailor. Since he isn’t, he sighed. ‘Something stopped it. Or I just couldn’t hold it any longer.’