Weston Ochse: Reign of Evil

He could just make out Mr. Kazmi lining up to hit his ball. It looked like a five-iron shot would do the job, but the damn Paki was using a fairway wood. Fitzhugh moved behind the tractor. If the man was going to overshoot the hole, he’d be damned if he’d be hit.

Kazmi swung, and as his club made it to the apex of his backswing a gigantic creature came from his right and hit him square in the chest, ripping out his throat. Part human, part beast, it was terrible to see. Its front two legs were human arms, but bent in the way of an animal’s legs. The back legs were those of a dog or a wolf. It had a gray hairless body like an armadillo’s and the face of a long-nosed baboon.

Five more beasts loped out of the fog and took down the three other golfers. They went for the soft places like the jugular, the stomach, and the crotch, ripping and chewing. Their human hands gripping the bodies as they fed and tore flesh free.

Fitzhugh felt warmth flood his own crotch as urine evacuated down his leg. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He managed to get down on his trembling knees and then onto the ground, where he watched the men being eaten from his view beneath his tractor.

Then a giant white stag appeared with a man on his back.

The beasts howled and the man laughed.

He looked like a king, regal and broad shouldered. Not at all like that big-eared Prince Charles with the small chin and smaller shoulders. No, this was a true man. Fitzhugh knew without knowing how he knew that if asked he’d follow the figure and do whatever he was told.

The man glanced his way as did the beasts, their heads turning to stare at his hiding place at the exact same time. Fitzhugh felt like puking. They knew he was there. He closed his eyes. If this was the end and they were going to rip out his guts, he didn’t want to see it happen.

He counted to fifty.

Then he started over and counted to a hundred.

Then he counted to a hundred again.

He opened one eye but didn’t see a thing. He slowly turned his gaze behind him but saw nothing there but the pond. After what seemed like ten minutes, he finally got to his feet. At first he couldn’t stop shaking, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that he’d been spared.

He climbed on his tractor well aware that they could be playing with him, but as the fog began to dissipate and he saw more and more of the course he felt increasingly certain that he would make it. He started the tractor and began to head for the clubhouse. He had to tell someone what had happened.

But he paused. He turned in his seat and saw the four sets of golf clubs still on the ground. Of the golfers there was nary a trace.

Then he remembered the note to see the manager. What was he going to tell him? That a king riding a white stag brought some monstrous hounds who ate the golfers? No way. No how. No. He was already in trouble. Four club members being eaten on the third hole would somehow become his fault too. He turned the tractor around and grabbed the golf clubs. Just in case, he’d wait two weeks for his trip to Wales, then he’d find a pawnbroker.

He felt an ache in his back from picking up all of the duck poop. Damn but he was a good worker. When were they going to realize that?

The three members of Section 9, Walker, and the witch sat in the rear of a hard-sided van around the corner from the Leighton Buzzard Bowling Club. Evidently Leighton Buzzard was the name of a town. If this had been America, Walker thought, they would have changed it by now. He sort of admired the steadfastness of the Brits. Then again, America still had towns such as Climax, Truth or Consequences, Intercourse, and Lizard Lick. He guessed there were some who reveled in their weirdness.

Walker was surprised that people bowled in England. It had never occurred to him that it was a sport outside of America. Not that he really ever played, but he knew a lot of enlisted friends who used to get together on Saturdays with their family and spend time at the bowling alley. Their salary didn’t go far, but bowling was something they could all afford.

Of course the fact that this bowling alley was condemned might indicate that the British didn’t bowl. He still found it strange that their target, a warlock named Van McKee, was using this as his home. The witch had said he needed the space because of his experiments and preferred someplace private.

Walker inventoried his gear and visually checked the others. They were a sad lot. That Section 9 once had more than two hundred members and had been the paradigm supernatural defense agency in the world was impossible to believe. Even their equipment was out of date. Whatever self-serving politicians had allowed this to happen should be staked to the ground, covered in honey, and fed to a herd of rabid homunculi. One look at those tiny long-armed devils and they’d shit money to fund Section 9.

While the SAS had new Mark 7 Body Armor, Section 9 used the Osprey Mark 2. While both were equally adept at stopping most rounds, the Mark 7 was more ergonomic and could withstand the rigors of combat. They all carried SA80s with ACOGs and Viper II thermal sights. The mainstay of the British military, the SA80 was a bull pup–style combat rifle, meaning the trigger housing was forward of the magazine. Although Walker liked the feel of it, he knew from experience that one of its downfalls was a weak firing pin, which was why Ian had issued them extras. They also carried Glock 17s, which rested in quick-draw chest rigs. Based on the Browning system, the Glock 17 had a counterrecoil system that helped keep the sights on target during trigger pulls. Walker would have preferred his HK416 and Sig Sauer P229, but such top-of-the-line equipment wasn’t available to him.

Beneath the body armor, they wore black fatigues with black ballistic gloves and neoprene half-face balaclavas. The witch wore the black fatigues but had demurred when asked if she wanted to wear something on her face. Ian had insisted she wear body armor. They’d actually fought about it, but once she saw that Ian wouldn’t even conduct the operation if she wouldn’t wear it she capitulated.

What they lacked was an MBITR or its like. With no interteam communications gear there’d be a lot of yelling to get information across, which meant chaos. Hopefully it would be controlled chaos.

“Listen up,” Ian said, pulling down his balaclava to be clearly heard. “Jerry and Trev, you’re stacking at the rear door. I want you to breach at GO plus thirty seconds. Walker and I will be in the front and breach on GO . Shoot anything not human. Try not to kill our target. Ms. Moore will be behind us to take care of him.”

“There’s one thing I might have forgotten to mention,” the witch said with absolutely no apology in her eyes.

Ian’s head snapped around. “What?”

“He may not be alone. Scratch that. He probably won’t be alone.”

Ian glared at her, then in a steely voice said, “I’m two seconds away from canceling the op.”

She waved her hand. “No reason to do that. Walker’s handled these things before. It’s probably going to be a piece of cake.”

Walker felt worry bitch-slap the nervous butterflies in his stomach. He’d handled a lot of things he’d hoped he’d never see again, number one probably being that absolutely fucking unbelievable obsidian butterfly he’d fought beneath Mexico City.

“What is it?” A frown underscored Ian’s words.

“Remember when I mentioned that he needed the space for his experiments? Well, Van McKee specializes in creating simulacrums. In fact, he makes them and sells them. I know he has a contract with several members of the Chinese Mafia.”