CHAPTER 18
Bottoms, Illinois...
Gloria Dawn walked in a garden of indescribable beauty. Flowers that had never thrived beneath Earth’s single sun surrounded her in a blaze of color that struck wonder from her dying heart.
A blue sky stretched overhead, but she could make out no sun, or any source for the pearlescent illumination that pervaded this place. There was a sound, like the hum of a million ethereal voices raised in celebration, in the air. On the ground near her feet stirred pools of something that looked like clear water. But the liquid, if liquid it was, seemed to vibrate with life and vitality, a lifeforce, that left Gloria Dawn dumbfounded. Looking at the pools evoked a deep sense of longing in her. She stooped to touch one of the pools, feel it’s coolness upon her skin, and the Voice stopped her.
“Do not touch them, child. To do so would bring only woe to one such as you. My kind have brought harm enough to your world.”
Startled, Gloria Dawn stood and turned to see the owner of the now familiar Voice. Coming toward her was a creature like none she’d ever seen or imagined in all her childhood dreams. It was a being seemingly made of light, tall, vaguely tree- like, yet mobile, aware. Moving nodes of bright luminescence spun lazily through the upper “branches” of the creature’s body glimmering motes propelled by the gentlest of breezes.
For a moment, the coldness of the cell in which her physical body lay exploded back into her awareness and with it, the face of the man who was murdering her body burst into being before her mind's eye.
Then the vision failed, swept away by the power she sensed emanating from the shining creature. Some distant remanant of Gloria Dawn's old self felt the urge to attack the being who stood before her, to rip and kick and tear at it until it lay bloody and dying, as she lay dying, back in her own world.
“You would be correct to condemn me, my child. For I am the Cause, and the source of all your suffering. Nevertheless…”
The tall creature leaned down, and gazed into Gloria Dawn’s eyes. Its eyes were many, and filled with the light from a thousand stars.
“Your sacrifice will help us redeem worlds.”
*****
CHAPTER 19
Chicago...
“You moron," Lang snapped. “If the Circle were still in control, don’t you think that they would have found a way to contact us by now?”
They'd been arguing about the next move all day, shouting back and forth between their adjoined suites, until finally, Lang had reached the end of his patience. He needed to get out of this room, out of the Downtown Hilton frickin' Hotel. He needed to get far away from the one man who continued to chap his hide till it bled: Harold Nathaniel Bendix; Super Agent and El Negro Supremo Grande.
An explosion from somewhere nearby snapped their focus to the large window in their suite. Grateful for the distraction, Lang went to see what was happening.
Outside their window, nine storey's below, the “El” was on fire. The section of the Elevated train tracks that penetrated the Loop from the rest of the city had broken in half. The first two cars of the train had plunged into the streets and exploded, igniting two stores and several abandoned cars.
The use of trains had been restricted in the seventy-two hours since the fall of the black spheres. The fire department had commandeered the train system in order to fight the fires raging around the Loop. But "wakers" had been hi-jacking the trains, ambushing firefighters as they arrived to put out the fires. Now, apparently, the bombers had struck again.
“It’s all falling down,” Lang whispered.
“What did you say?” Bendix said.
But before Lang could answer, someone in the hotel screamed.
A shot rang out from the floors beneath their feet, and whoever had screamed a few moments earlier, screamed again.
“Wait…” Bendix began.
But Lang was already gone. Bendix swore, then turned and went after his partner.
He followed Lang down three flights of stairs to the ninth floor, moving unerringly toward the source of the screams. Bendix checked his sidearm, the Browning Hi-Power he kept in the holster under his left arm. It held a full clip. Lang, his silenced nine-mm Beretta held pointed at the floor, opened the ninth floor entry door and crept into the hallway as Bendix came up behind him.
The two men moved as silently as ghosts. Bendix let the door close quietly so as not to alert whoever was doing the shooting to their presence. At the end of the hallway, the double doors to one of the luxury suites were open. Harsh voices emanated from inside, and Lang moved slowly toward the room while Bendix guarded his back. A few paces from the open doors, they paused. The sound of a fist repeatedly striking flesh snapped out of the room. Bendix could hear someone whimpering, crying out as each blow made contact. A burst of laughter echoed from inside the suite.
“Maybe she don’t like you, Oscar. Maybe she want somethin’ mas gordo!”
There were more catcalls from the other men inside. Lang cautiously stuck his head around the door jam.
Inside the suite, eight dark- haired men had surrounded a half-naked, blonde woman. The woman had been gagged and tied to the bedpost. She kicked and squirmed as the man closest to her held her by the throat, one hand kneading her cheek, while with the other, he drank from a bottle of whiskey. Red masking tape covered the woman’s mouth. Bruises covered her face. One eye was blackened and swollen shut.
The other men in the room were simply standing around. Some drank from bottles of wine or vodka. Three of the men were passing a fat joint back and forth. Lang also noted the vials of white powder that lined the nightstand and the bar.
The room had been demolished. The mirrors had all been smashed and spray-painted with the words “Latin Lords.” Bendix had briefed Lang about the street gang that terrorized portions of the city’s South and West Sides. It was their insignia that had been painted all over the room.
Lang watched as one of the men approached the woman, tugging on his zipper.
“I’m gonna take off that tape, dumbass,” he said to the man holding the roll of tape. “Nobody left to hear her screamin anyway. And there's more than one way to skin a cat, know what I’m sayin’?"
The blonde woman had stopped fighting and turned away from her tormentors. Apart from an occasional gasp, she put up no struggle as the man closest to her laughed and poured whiskey over her head.
Lang snapped his head back as the man turned to the two who were passing the joint.
"Come on, Luis," one of them said. "Let's do this!"
Lang held up eight fingers, indicating the number of targets in the room. Bendix nodded calmly as Lang peered around the corner again. The man who had suggested removing the tape stood in front of the woman and bent to pull the tape from her mouth.
Something in the blonde woman’s soul roused itself, and she began to struggle, whipping her head back and forth as the man attempted to remove the tape, until the attacker struck her across the face.
“I’m goin’ to the head,” one of the men said. "Shit is boring, man."
As he walked toward the bathroom, the woman’s eyes followed him. And her shattered gaze landed on Scott Lang standing in the doorway. Even as the two men began to undress her, hope sparked in her eyes.
Lang aimed his gun at the center of her abductor's spine, took a shallow breath and squeezed the trigger. The first shot hit the man who was bent over the blonde woman and smashed through his spinal column. The attacker had a moment to realize that he’d been hit by something that hurt...then he flopped off of the bed and fell to the floor. Lang’s second shot took the man still trying to tear off the woman's jeans. The high-powered slug pierced the attacker's left buttock and pulped his heart. The man slumped forward and died, twitching atop his last victim.
The other men, all armed, had just realized their danger when Lang’s first target hit the floor. They were still reaching for their guns even as Lang and Bendix swept fire into the room. Bendix took out the two pot smokers while they fumbled with their clothing. They wore baggy pants, ironically to conceal their weapons. But one man's gun had slid down the back of his pants and lodged in the seat of his jeans. While he fumbled for his gun, Bendix took him with a clean shot through the forehead. The second pot smoker managed to lift his gun, but Bendix’ second shot nearly tore his right arm off at the shoulder. The lopsided banger fell, shrieking, to the floor.
In one fluid motion, Bendix shot one of the men standing at the bar and dove behind a desk as the dead man’s brains splattered the face and chest of the'Lord' standing behind him.
The bartender, who couldn't have been older than eighteen, ogled his dead friends for a moment, then he dropped the bottle of gin he was holding and ducked behind the bar.
Lang rolled behind the queen- sized bed which still containined its two occupants, as bullets smashed into the wall behind him: The surviving attackers, one hiding behind the bar, and one over behind the big sofa near the dead television, returned fire. The one behind the sofa emptied his clip, then produced another automatic handgun from his waistband. But Bendix was on him in a second. The operative dove across the table that separated them, landing at an angle that placed him squarely in the sights of the terrified would be rapist. The gang-banger screamed and fired just as Bendix rolled under the table and out of sight.
“You fuckin’ with me? Huh?” the gang-banger screamed, his voice a terrfied squeak. He stood up and fired at the place Bendix had been a second ago and all he hit was air. Then he made a dash for the door. Lang rose to one knee, fired across the bed and took him down.
Bendix came out from the other side of the table as Lang caught more fire from the youthful bartender. For the moment, he was pinned down behind the bed. From behind him, the sound of breaking glass announced that the unarmed man hiding in the bathroom had decided to make his exit.
He’s the lucky one, Lang thought, keeping his head down while the bartender fired at both he and Bendix from the cover of the bar.
Bendix was stuck where he’d landed behind the big tv cabinet. He calculated the angles, searching for the most expedient and economical solution to the problem at hand. Then he decided. Somehow, Lang sensed his partner’s resolve and laid down covering fire on the man behind the bar, while Bendix reached behind the cabinet, yanked the power cord that ran to the back of the thirty- inch plasma t.v.. Moving swiftly, he lifted the heavy television, carried it over to the bar and dropped it on the bartender’s head. The surprised scream and sudden silence behind the bar told Lang that, for the moment, all was right with his world.
Bendix walked around the bar and pumped a couple of high-powered slugs into the bartender. Just in case.
He’s the detail guy, Lang mused, almost fondly.
That’s just so... him.
*
The blonde woman’s name was Marta Robiloff.
She was a Russian émigré, who had married an American to get her citizenship. She’d secured a job working at the hotel as a waitress. One of the men who’d kidnapped her worked in the kitchens. He and his friends had held her hostage while they explored the hotel, long after the other employees had fled. Up to the moment Hector Ribiera grabbed her as she was walking to her car, Marta Robiloff hadn’t known he was alive.
Bendix left Lang to his own devices once the danger was over. The bathroom had proved empty, the window smashed. Presumably the escaped gang-banger had either made it down alive or fallen to his death. No one cared.
As the woman got dressed, Lang was thinking about all the unfolding around him. The world was going mad. He'd heard stories, wild tales of...things that invaded cities and slaugtered thousands. But Lang hadn’t seen any aliens in Chicago. In the Windy City the biggest threat to the safety of the public was the public. As Lang wondered why this should be, Marta Robiloff made her way to the door of the suite.
"Thank you, mister," she said, still crying. "I will pray for you tonight."
"I'm good," Lang said.
Then he shot her between the eyes.
He watched her lights go out, then he stepped across her body, stuck a pinky into the neatly cut lines of cocaine one of the ‘bangers had left and tasted it. It was good, so he leaned down and inhaled a line, coughed once, then clapped his hands and did the "Cocaine Dance," and thought once more about killing Bendix and hitting the road. The Circle was dead in all likelihood. The world was running down, like it said in that old song by The Police. And when the world was running down what else did the song say?
"You make the best of what's still around."
Lang packed up the cocaine into a plastic baggie he’d brought up from the hotel kitchen. It added up to about five pounds of high- octane “fuck you” powder. Then he made his way upstairs to kill his partner.
As he passed the room where he’d met, rescued and murdered Marta Robiloff, he noticed with some concern that her body was not where he’d left it. He stepped into the room, his nostrils making out the distinctive blend of sex, blood and high- voltage mayhem that had recently transpired there.
No Russkie.
He knew with absolute certainty that she was dead. He’d never seen such dead. But now…?
Curious, he turned to leave.
Marta Robiloff was standing in the doorway.
Her head was decorated with the blood of her rapists as well as her own. Her red- stained shoulders bore grim testament to Lang’s excellent marksmanship. But there she stood, the back of her blonde head leaking from the exit wound she’d received at his hand.
And somehow she’d managed to get her clothes off again.
Repulsed, Lang propelled himself backward, away from the dead woman who stood red and gore- drenched before him. Marta stepped into the room. And Lang saw that her eyes had gone the color of black pearls.
She lifted her thin arm and pointed at her rescuer/murderer.
“You’ll do nicely,” she said. “You… will make…a comfortable…home.”
And Lang felt a sudden wave of wrenching nausea. His world flipped upside down and he fell to his hands and knees and vomited. At first, he was sure that Robiloff had killed him. His guts clenched and unclenched as burning agony boiled through them like molten lead. Gasping, he reached for his gun, onlt to remember that he'd left it on the bed. Then he looked up to see that Marta Robiloff was gone.
As he tried to get to his feet, Lang’s left hand fell on something hard, and he looked down to see a small, black marble lying in a puddle of blood and brains. To the best of his awareness, the black marble hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
Curious, he picked up the black orb
And curiosity got the better of him again.
*
Bendix was standing at the window when Lang walked into the suite. Outside, the burning train lay smoking in the streets. No one had arrived to put it out.
“What did you do with her?” Bendix asked.
"Made the best of what's still around," Lang said.
“What the hell does that mean?"
Bendix abruptly decided he didn't care. He went to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and cracked it open. Then he pulled up a chair, sat down and stared into the glow of the burning train, nine storeys below.
Lang picked up the heavy, metal lamp from the desk next to him and struck Bendix on the back of the head with it. Bendix went down.
Then, with something like wonder in his eyes, Lang bent and gently stroked his partner's cheek.
****
To Be Continued...