Necropolis

Brigid nodded. “That was who was spoken of. She is real, unfortunately. And we’ve encountered her machinations already.”

“There’s movement,” Nathan said. He clicked on a light, but the beam, despite an intense brightness, could not reach the edge of it.

And still there were movements visible in the gloom beyond, odd flickers of shapes.

Brigid knew that she had the ability to get a closer look at whatever glimmered in the inky blackness. She swiftly tugged her hood up, feeling her long flowing curls bunch against the base of her neck, but it was something that she could endure for the time being. She swiftly adhered the shadow suit’s faceplate on, switching to night vision and image magnification.

Immediately, her stomach twisted with revulsion as she spotted the creatures rising from the depths. They whipped out their hands, which stretched out on pseudopods, not arms. Stretching out, hurled like lariats, the hands snapped shut as they gripped the walls. It was an obscene parody of how she’d seen amoeba attack and devour their prey.

Her photographic memory flashed back to the story Nathan had told of his father, Nelson, and Nelson’s death. The disappearance of the murderer through a hole that no man with a skeleton could fit recalled a similar “stretchiness.”

There were a dozen of the things, and they were moving toward her, Nathan, Thurpa and Lyta as swiftly as they could. Her mouth went dry, but she whipped up the Copperhead and peered through the low-powered scope atop the compact submachine gun. They were quick, but she anticipated the path of one of the beasts and she cut loose with the Copperhead, spitting high-velocity bullets toward it. The rounds slapped into it, and her shadow suit’s optics extended, picking up on the thing seemingly blowing apart in chunks.

She pivoted the gun’s muzzle, aimed at another and fired.

“What?” Thurpa asked.

“Monsters,” Brigid said. She ripped off a burst into the third of the creatures, but even as she did so, she could see the first of her targets reassembling itself. It’d been hurt, yes, but she was firing into gelatin-like bodies that could reassemble themselves.

Thurpa shouldered his rifle and looked through the scope. He let out a grunt of dismay at the image of the newcomers. “Enki help me.”

“They’re bulletproof,” Brigid shouted. “Move!”

Thurpa grimaced and triggered his weapon.

“I said—” Brigid began.

Thurpa glared at her. “That little gun doesn’t have the punch this does. I can at least break them up, stun them.”

Brigid glanced back and saw that the creatures that Thurpa had struck were down. They still showed signs of life, but the heavier rifle that the Nagah expatriate had used on them had left them stunned and confused.

She glanced after Nathan, who was leading Lyta away as quickly as his legs could carry them both. Thankfully for Brigid, they weren’t enhanced by the ancient staff’s power. She could catch up. “We both go, now.”

Thurpa kept shooting. “Aim for their center line. That seems to disturb and stagger them the most! I’ll hold this line as long as I can....”

Brigid grimaced. She took off, realizing that she could not allow Nehushtan to fall into the wrong hands.

Durga and his queen, Neekra, were definitely the wrong hands.

She sent a silent prayer of hope to Thurpa, knowing what he was risking for their sakes.

The big rifle kicked hard against Thurpa’s shoulder, and he knew that each bullet he put into one of the strange creatures coming up the underworld path bought more yards, more seconds for his newfound friends and allies to get away. He didn’t want to think of what horrors would befall him once they got to him, but, dammit, the fallen prince Durga had led him astray, pushed thoughts into his head and brought him to this countryside.

He dumped the spent magazine from his gun, pushed another one home and worked the bolt. Even as he did so, he realized that two of the things had survived his rain of lead. Technically, they’d all survived, but these two had avoided his shots and had not been slowed. They were only thirty feet away, and they showed no sign of slowing down.

Thurpa let out a roar of frustration as he tracked one of the slippery pair of translucent, stretchy foes, firing bullets to chase it down. As he did so, he felt a hand grasp him by the throat. Within moments, he was sailing through the air toward one of the underground horrors. Thurpa tried to scream, but the elongated limb around his throat cut him off. The strength of the creature was such that it pulled him through the air, feet airborne.

Those fingers clutching at his throat were as strong as iron, and he struck the ground behind the pair of gelatinous assailants. Thurpa blinked, struggling to bring his thoughts back into line, to get his limbs to respond to commands.

The two leapers continued on their path, having forgotten the cobra man after they’d unceremoniously dumped him on the ground. He twisted himself, rolling from his back to where he could get his hands and knees beneath him. Even as he did so, a hammer blow struck him between the shoulder blades, and his face was mashed into the ground, dirt digging into his nostrils. He turned his head, exhaling and clearing his airways, but another rubbery paw pressed down on his cheek and neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thurpa could see it was one of the horrors. It had fissures through its flesh and cracks on the surface of its skin. It looked vaguely male, but inside bones hung like pieces of fruit in dessert gelatin. His nostrils were assailed with the sickening, ugly stench of copper and salt, a cloying reek of decaying and drying blood.

The creature’s face lowered nearer to Thurpa’s, and it seemed to sniff.

“No,” came the order from another. “She says...no.”

Thurpa felt a moment of relief, but even so, the slimy, clammy grip on his neck and face was steely, rigid, unforgiving.

“Lucky,” Thurpa’s captor growled. “Lucky you.”

Thurpa wanted to say something, but he knew better. These creatures had some intellect, but they were following the orders of another. Someone who wanted living captives.

If the shimmering monstrosity hadn’t been resting its weight on his shoulders, neck and head, he would have been able to move, to shift the creature’s weight atop him, but the thing was either too well balanced on him or it had somehow laid down roots to make any motion on the Nagah’s part impossible. Seeing glimmering pseudopods digging into the dirt before his eyes confirmed his second suspicion, and he realized that he was a prisoner, pinioned and helpless.

He watched as translucent legs raced past, heading into the forest after Brigid Baptiste, Nathan Longa and Lyta.

Thurpa’s stomach churned with regret that he couldn’t protect the young woman.

* * *

GRANT HEARD THE RATTLE of gunfire and grimaced. He was separated from his friends and allies by the rift in the earth. Kane was gone, down through the pit, and while he was concerned for his friend, he knew his partner was wearing his shadow suit and had the devil’s luck when it came to surviving bad situations and the same devil’s cunning when that luck was not enough.

Right now, Grant knew that Brigid and the others were in combat. With what, he couldn’t tell, but everything he observed told him that this was not the work of a simple militia, even one with as much manpower and firepower as the Panthers of Mashona. This was more akin to the work of the Annunaki or the Tuatha de Danaan, ancient technology, and perhaps a subterranean city. He’d encountered many such hidden societies. One was lodged within a bubble in the basalt that separated the surface of the earth from its molten, fiery interior, a true lost world of dinosaurs, cast-off pan-terrestrial humanoids and ancient horrors.

Whether in the depths of space or at the center of the world, there were millions of secrets still strewn about the planet in multiple forms, and most of what they had encountered was deadly and dark.

Grant looked up and down the rift between him and his friends, and he saw that there was a tree, tottering with its gnarled roots showing out over the drop-off. The trunk of the tree was thick enough for him to walk on and long enough to use as a bridge. Running in either direction, looking for a better crossing, would eat up valuable time while his allies fought against the unseen force.

He rushed to the tree and hurled himself at the trunk with all his might. The shadow suit helped protect his shoulder from potential dislocation by the amount of force he’d thrown at it. Dirt broke and cracked, and he listened to the snap of roots.

One blow and he’d loosened an already half-uprooted tree. He immediately wrapped his arms around the trunk and pulled back. The tree rocked toward him, more cracks, more snaps echoing the distant gunfire, reminding him of the countdown he fought against. Grant surged with all his muscle, weight and leverage, and he felt the tree begin to loosen.

Pushing the tree down straight across the chasm wouldn’t do much. All it would do was rip out the tree by its roots, and perhaps send his only bridge toppling into the depths of the rift. Toppling the tree “inland” would take the ungraceful roots and make them into a grapnel, then leave the upper branches and trunk to rest on his side of the improvised bridge.