Jim Butcher - Ghost Story

When the dust cleared enough to see through, the door swung freely on its hinges. Murphy stuck her foot around the corner and kicked it all the way open, then gestured to Molly.

Molly murmured and closed her eyes, then lifted her hand. Abruptly, there were two Murphys crouched by the door. The one nearest it was chewing gum. Noisily. She stood up with her P-90, flicked on the little flashlight under the barrel, and stepped around the corner, the gun pointing down the stairs.

Gunfire erupted. The gum-chewing Murphy dropped to one knee and started shooting, the assault rifle chattering in two- and three-round bursts. It was noisy as hell for about five seconds, and then there was silence. Gum-chewing Murphy withdrew back around the corner. Once she was out of sight of whoever was inside, she vanished.

The real Murphy stood up then and pitched an object down the stairs. A moment later, there was an eye-searing flash of light and thunder.

“Go, go, go!” Murphy called, and swung to point her gun down the stairs with just a portion of her upper body and face exposed to possible fire, while the rest of her body was hidden behind the wall. The three wolves rose and plunged through the dusty doorway in a single blur of motion.

Wolves in general get underestimated in the modern world—after all, humans have guns. And helicopters. But back in the day, when things were more muscle powered, wolves were a real threat to humans, possibly the number-two predator on the planet. People don’t remember that wolves are far stronger, far faster, and far more dangerous than human beings. That humanity taught wolves to fear and avoid them—and that without that fear and advanced weaponry, a human being was nothing more than a possible threat and a potential meal. A wolf with no fear could tear several human beings apart. A wolf with no fear and an intelligent mind directing it to work in close concert with teammates was a force of freaking nature, more or less literally.

The point being that three wolves against a dozen Big Hoods, in those tiny confines, was not a fair fight—it wasn’t even close.

People started screaming, and Murphy moved in, dropping her assault rifle to let it hang from her harness, and holding a little personal stunner in her hand.

I watched from the doorway, unable to proceed farther. Will, Marci, and Andi plowed into the first guy, half a dozen steps down, in a single bound. I don’t care how big and strong you are; getting hit by a stun grenade and about five hundred pounds of wolf in the wake of a closequarters explosion is going to make you want to call it a day. He went down, taking the next several Big Hoods with him. There was a huge tangle of frantic bodies and flashing teeth. The wolves had the advantage. Hands holding weapons got targeted first, and blood-spattered guns tumbled down the stairs.

One of the Big Hoods produced a knife about the size of a cafeteria tray and drew back to hack awkwardly at Will’s back with it. Murphy stomped the weapon down flat against the stairs and jabbed the arm holding it with a stunner. A cry of pain rose sharply, and the weapon fell.

Then it was about momentum and snarling wolves. The Big Hoods were driven down the stairs, stunned, bruised, and bleeding. Once at the bottom, the wolves started attacking with even more savage growls—herding the Big Hoods like so many dazed and overmuscled sheep. They drove the guards down the length of the electrical-junction room and out of my direct line of sight. I had to imagine them all piled up in a corner. I heard growls rolling up out of the wolves’ throats in a low, continual thunder.

Murphy went down the rest of the stairs, hands on her gun again, but not actually pointing it at anyone. “You,” she said, nodding toward the presumed position of the Big Hoods. “Knife Boy. What’s your name?”

“I . . .” stammered a voice. “I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

“Murph,” I called. “Corpsetaker’s been messing with these guys’ heads for a while now, ever since that thing with Sue. They are not operating at one hundred percent.”

Murphy glanced at the radio in her pocket and then back at whoever she was talking to. Her expression had changed, from potential executioner to something more like a schoolteacher you don’t want to cross. Murphy had been damaged in the same way before. “That’s a wallet in your pocket, son?”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbled the voice.

She nodded. “Take it out with just two fingers. Toss it over here to me. Nice and easy.”

“I don’t want you to hurt me,” said the voice.

Murphy tilted her head and I saw pain in her eyes. She lowered the gun and her voice became gentler yet. “Just toss me the wallet. I’m going to set things right.”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbled the voice again. A ratty old nylon wallet hit the floor near Murphy’s feet.

Murphy picked it up, never taking her eyes off the group. I saw her go through the wallet.

“I like dogs,” ventured the voice. There was a disconnected tone to it.

“They won’t hurt you if you stay there,” Murphy said. “Joshua? Is that your name?”

“I . . . Yes, ma’am. It was. I mean, it is. Josh.”

“Josh. Age nineteen,” Murphy said. A flicker of anger entered her blue eyes. “Jesus, these game-playing bastards.”

“Bitch, technically,” I said.

Murphy snorted. “Come here, Josh.”

Molly approached the top of the stairway and stood next to me, where she usually did, a little behind me and to my left. She must have gotten a look at my position through her little tuning fork.

A Big Hood appeared in front of Murphy. He was about five hundred times bigger than she was. He had hands like shovels. One of his hands was bleeding.

“Take the hood off, please,” Murphy said.

He hastened to do so. He was an ugly, blunt-featured kid. His hair was longish and matted. It had been months since it was cut, combed, or washed. He didn’t have enough beard to notice from the top of the staircase, and he didn’t look too bright. He blinked his eyes several times in the light coming from Murphy’s flashlight.

“Hello, Josh,” Murphy said, keeping her tone level and calm. “My name is Karrin.”

“ ’Lo, Karrin,” Josh said.

“Let me see your hand,” she said firmly.

“Establish the pattern,” Molly murmured under her breath. “Good.”

Josh hesitated a moment and then held out his hand. Murphy examined it. “Doesn’t look too deep. It’s already beginning to stop bleeding.”

“Had worse, ma’am,” Josh mumbled.

She nodded again. “Do you know why you were on those stairs?”

“Bad people,” Josh said. “Bad people who were going to hurt us.” He frowned. “You?”

“I could hurt you right now, but I’m not going to. Am I?” Murphy said.

“No.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I know this is hard, Josh, but I’m probably your friend.”

He frowned. “I don’t know you. You’re a stranger.”

“I’m going to help you,” she said. “Help all of you, if you’ll let me. Get you some food and some clean clothes.”

Josh shrugged a shoulder. “ ’Kay. I’m hungry.”

Murphy looked away from him, and I saw her control another expression of anger. “I’m looking for a little bald man. I know he’s here.”

Josh looked uncomfortable.

“Is he here? Downstairs?”

“You know he is,” I muttered.

It hadn’t carried to the radio, but Murphy glanced with an arched eyebrow up the stairway, then turned back to the kid.

Josh looked back and forth and shifted his weight.

“Tell me the truth, Josh,” Murphy said. “It’s all right.”

“Downstairs,” Josh said. “With Boz.”

“Boz?” Murphy asked.

“Boz is big,” Josh said.