James Axler - Oblivion Stone

“Ohio,” Kane instructed as he stepped across the small room to her side, “give me the sword.”

Blue didn’t need to be told twice. She handed Kane the two-foot-long sword as the shambling zombies took another step closer.

In return, Kane handed the blond-haired trader his knife. “I need you to free Brigid,” he instructed, stepping away from Ohio to face the zombies once again, sword held upright in a ready position.

The demands of her Outlander lifestyle had made Ohio Blue a very perceptive woman and, although she didn’t comment on it, she noticed that Kane had referred to his partner by her first name. That was unusual—very nearly unheard of, in fact—and though Blue didn’t know it, was a sign of his concern for the beautiful redhead trapped in the alien chair.

As Ohio trotted past the fallen body of Papa Hurbon, he reached out and snatched her ankle, pulling her down toward him. “Not so fast, pretty peach,” he said, that sickly sweet breath exuding from his mouth with each word he spoke. “There are other games we can play, man and woman.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ohio rammed the short blade of the combat knife into Hurbon’s crotch, and the man let out a pained shriek. “I’ll pass,” she told him as she scrambled away from the overweight priest.

A few steps away, Kane swung the length of tempered-steel blade at the approaching zombies, ignoring the howl coming from the floor behind him. The sword itself was the ritual weapon used to cut the curtain between the physical and the spiritual world in voodoo ceremony. Right now, however, Kane was using it in a less metaphorical manner, as he hacked at the looming figures, slicing chunks from their torsos as they silently strode ever onwards at him in the confines of the room. With a downward slice, Kane chopped off the reaching hand of the closest zombie, leaving the undead man with a stump that oozed putrid white pus. The hand itself slapped against the floor, a cloud of dust puffing up in its wake. Kane elbowed the wounded zombie aside and drove the length of the blade at the other figure’s torso, spreading the zombie’s ribs with the brutality of his attack.

Even as Kane dispatched the second zombie, three more had appeared in the open doorway to the inner sanctum, instinctively obeying the commands of Papa Hurbon as the man himself lay in a widening pool of his own blood. Kane steadied himself and swung the sword at the next wave of attackers.

Just six feet away from the scene of carnage, Ohio Blue ripped the last of the waving tendrils from Brigid’s form and pulled her from the savage embrace of the alien chair. A network of veinlike tendrils clung to the woman’s face and bare hands, and Blue hastily brushed these aside, feeling their spines snag at her own flesh like nettles.

“Are you okay, Ms. Baptiste?” Ohio asked as she swept the last of the tendrils from Brigid’s skin. As she did so, red welts formed and runnels of blood appeared on Brigid’s face in a cobweblike pattern.

Brigid’s breath came in an uneven, stuttered rush as she spoke. “What the—? Where was I?”

“Right here,” Blue assured her. “You were right here.”

Brigid rubbed a hand over her eyes, seeing the eerie alien visions still playing there for a moment. “I saw something,” she said, groping for the words to describe it, “like alien cartography.”

“We need to get out of here,” Blue told Brigid, and the words seemed to snap the former archivist out of her daze. “It was all a setup. Or something very much like it.”

Brigid saw Kane then, and she saw the horde of zombies shambling toward him through the open doorway of the sanctum. “Kane…” she began.

Without turning, Kane batted another zombie aside as it grasped for him from the open doorway. “We about done here, Baptiste?”

“I think so,” Brigid told him, still breathless.

Using the sword’s hilt as a club, Kane slammed another of the undead figures in the chest, forcing it to step backward as a cloud of foul-smelling dust burst from the point of impact. Knocked back, the zombie fell into one of its colleagues, and the two slow-moving figures struggled in the doorway for several seconds. As they did so, Kane turned and indicated the far door—the one through which he and the others had entered with Hurbon.

“Let’s get moving,” Kane instructed.

From his place on the floor, the one-legged priest shouted angrily, “You won’t get far. The chair has chosen her lover. You can’t escape it now.”

As Ohio and Brigid rushed out of the cramped inner room, Kane turned back to look at Hurbon, fixing him with his steely blue-gray glare. “I’ll bring your sword back when I’m done,” he told the corpulent man, whose hands still held his bleeding groin.

With false bravado, Hurbon laughed for a moment, until he saw the grim look on Kane’s face. “I’ll be ready,” he said, blood pooling beneath him.

“No, you won’t,” Kane told him as he stepped through the doorway and out of the inner sanctum of the voodoo temple.

OUTSIDE THE WOODEN STRUCTURE, crouched against the bole of a tree, Grant waited, the SSG-550 sniper rifle leveled in the direction of the building’s rotted doorway. Approximately two hundred feet from the doorway itself, Grant peered through the lens of the rifle’s scope. He had had no further radio contact with Kane since the initial burst when his partner had requested covering fire in two minutes. That had been more than five minutes ago, and Grant was pondering whether he should enter the temple himself and recover his teammates. One thing that was certain was that his Commtact was dead. Not only had he been unable to raise Kane and Brigid, but Grant had also failed to patch through to the Cerberus base. In short, he was out in the field on his own now, with no access to backup.

Irritated, Grant comforted himself with the fact that he hadn’t heard any gunfire coming from the voodoo temple itself. Kane, Brigid and Ohio had gone in unarmed at the request of Papa Hurbon—a standard indicator of trust between two trading parties in the Outlands—but there was no reason to suspect that Hurbon’s people would remain unarmed if trouble arose. And based on Kane’s record, Grant reckoned that trouble would undoubtedly arise.

Grant glanced up over the rim of the sniper scope to check that no one was approaching. All he saw were the clouds of insects that buzzed all about the sweltering Louisiana bayou. He fixed his eye back on the scope and waited; he would give Kane one more minute to show himself. If he didn’t appear by then, Grant would have to go inside and find out just what the heck was going on.

“Come on, Kane,” Grant muttered under his breath, “let’s keep the game in motion.”

INSIDE THE SINGLE-STORY TEMPLE, Kane, Brigid and Ohio were running through the large Djévo room, their shoes banging loudly against the wooden floorboards.

“You okay, Baptiste?” Kane asked as he glanced behind them to see a horde of followers, both the living and the apparently undead, clambering through the doorway of the inner sanctum in pursuit. Several of their pursuers were balancing on false legs, Kane noted, recalling the horrific story that Papa Hurbon had told them regarding his deity’s awful request.

“I’ve been better,” Brigid replied breathlessly, “but I’ll get over it. Just let me breathe some fresh air.”

Jogging along beside her, Ohio Blue chuckled. “You’ll be lucky, Brigid,” she said. “We’re in the middle of a swamp—all you’ll breathe when we get outside is local stink.”

“Stink will do,” Brigid assured the blonde woman as the three of them hurried through another doorway and into a corridor lined with shelves. The shelves contained jars filled with fascinating and disturbing items: human ears and pickled fetuses; shrunken heads; a vase full of dyed feathers; a sealed jar brimming with canine teeth.