Weston Ochse - Reign of Evil

He pulled free an M34 model United States white phosphorous grenade. The UK had ceased to use them in 1997, but for Ian they were so much more useful than his other options. On the one hand, a smoke grenade would merely conceal the door. A fragmentation grenade would destroy it and possibly innocents behind it. The white phosphorous grenade, on the other hand, could burn at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit for up to sixty seconds. He liked it because of its duration and its disruption.

He pulled the safety, then the pin from the cylindrical grenade, then stepped free from the shrubbery and walked across the street. When he was ten feet away from the door, he tossed it. The spoon flew free and it rolled until gently bumping into the door. Then he turned and walked into the street, continuing east down the road.

He heard the pop and the hiss, then the roar of white phosphorous burning violently. Walking away as he did would put eyes on him instead of the two hide sites. He felt an itch in the center of his back like someone was training a rifle on him. Would he even feel the bullet? Not if it hit his spine or the back of his head.

Then he heard Magerts through the radio coms. “Front door is on fire. They’re breaking it down from the inside. They’ve tossed a body on top of the grenade. Jesus. It burned right through.”

Ian prayed that it wasn’t Trevor but suspected that it probably had been. Bastards.

He kept walking until he knew he was out of sight, then peeled off to the right and made his way back using the shrubbery as cover.

A howl went up from somewhere behind the house. As it died in the overcast morning, it was followed by another.

A minute had gone by, but the grenade was still spouting flame. The doorframe was on fire. He could see shadows through the flames but couldn’t make out anything inside.

And the party still went on.

The howls came again… closer.

A hound tore around the left side of the house. It skidded to a stop and regarded the burning canister in front of it. As it circled it was joined by another. They both regarded the grenade as it died, their heads turning at odd angles, as if they were trying to decide what it was.

Their presence made him uneasy, especially when he observed their eerily human fronts. Their simian faces held human eyes and bore odd expressions. Sometimes it seemed like they were in pain, sometimes it seemed as if they were trying to laugh, neither of which they could accomplish with their animal facial structure.

“Get ready.” He backed away from the men standing in front of him and drew his sword. When he was ready and when his men had their swords drawn, their Fairbarn-Sykes commando knives in their other hands, he made the call. “Here, doggie, doggie. Come to Poppa.”

The machine gunner up the road with the front of the house vantage spoke through the coms. “You got their attention. Call again.”

Ian whistled. “Here, doggy, doggy.”

“Here they come.”

The men heard it as well.

He gripped Guy of Warwick’s sword tightly.

Instead of coming through the shrubbery, the hounds leaped over the seven-foot hedge. They came down on the other side of the line of men, facing Ian all alone.

This was not exactly how the plan was supposed to have gone. One of the hounds rushed at him and he brought his sword down on its shoulder, the black blade slicing through meat until it struck bone. He jerked the blade free and brought it down for another attack, but this time the beast backed away.

Meanwhile three Marines had caught the second hound by surprise and were busy hacking it to death. Even as it tried to spin, pieces of it fell away. Once separated, they turned to smoke and drifted away.

Ian feinted.

The hound jerked back, then leaped forward.

Ian was forced to backpedal. He barely kept his balance.

The hound leaped.

Ian brought his sword up in a blind defense and ended up skewering the creature, the tip of the blade entering through the mouth. It fell hard, ripping the sword free from his hand. For a moment, he was worried that he was now weaponless. But the hound was dead and he watched it first fall to pieces and then those pieces turn to smoke. His sword was left lying in the grass. He snatched it from the ground and looked for something else to attack.

But the hounds were gone.

Not that they’d won the day or anything, but succeeding in killing what they’d previously been unable to kill elated him.

He could see the Marines smiling at their accomplishment, but he had to force himself to remain unaffected.

“They weren’t prepared. They will be now.”

The Marine at the back of the vacant house with his machine gun reported, “They’re massing a platoon of men with weapons—looks like SA80s—up on the Tor. Looks like there are some robed figures with them and several dozen hounds.”

Ian wished he could see their formation. “Are they coming down, or are they performing a blocking maneuver?”

“They’re not moving, if that’s what you mean.”

Ian had worked his way back to the shrubbery and the party at the house was still going in full force. He ordered four of his men to the door.

They ran the length of the shrubbery, then exited onto the road, east of the house. If they were being observed, now was the moment for an observer to fire at them. But no shots came. They were able to stack themselves on either side of the smoldering doorframe.

“The body is Asian,” one of the men said.

Ian let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t Trevor.

One of the Marines peered inside, then jerked his head back.

“Report?”

“Uh…”

“Come on, Marine, what do you see?”

“A lot of bloody fucking.”

Ian had no response.

“Everywhere. Everyone. It’s one big orgy. What do you want us to do?”

Ian had been prepared for pretty much anything. But not this. He’d been ready to defend or to attack, but what could he do to rooms filled with people in coitus?

“We have more hounds coming your way,” a Marine said hurriedly.

Another Marine added, “Oh shit. Here comes one of the—”

The four Marines at the door stood as stock-still as mannequins.

A figure was coming through the darkness from inside. It was a woman. A tall, naked woman with her lips sewn shut. Tresses of long black hair fell down her back. She made the doorway and put a hand on each of the men in turn. When she touched them, they fell, immediately falling into a seizure, their entire bodies shaking and jerking.

Then she pointed toward the shrubbery. Ian watched as all eleven remaining men jerked straight as if invisible strings attached to their limbs had been pulled tight. Then she pointed toward the thicket.

“Magerts, report,” ordered Ian.

Nothing.

His amulet felt warm beneath his shirt, but he was still able to move. He sheathed his sword, snatched up a rifle, and took aim. He locked on her face and fired six times. She fell backwards and then went down.

His men immediately relaxed their poses and began to whisper among one another.

“Quiet,” he reassured them.

The four men at the door had stopped seizing and began to get up.

First two hounds, then one naked possessed girl. They were being underestimated. It was only a matter of time before they’d realize it and attack.

But for now, he had to prepare for more hounds.

Even as he thought it, they attacked.

Four hounds came for him and his men. Two of them burst through the shrubbery, creating gaping holes. The other three leaped over the top of it like the previous pair. Although their bodies were the same diseased-looking hairless gray, they were different sizes by degrees.

One set of blue eyes flashed at him; then the beast came for him, low, mouth open with protruding fangs.