Ghouls (52 page)

Bard grinned fatly, like a sated tomcat. “Maybe, huh? Too bad you’re not a betting man… We’ll give him a day—fair enough? If we don’t hear from him by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll go to the magistrate and see if I can rustle up a warrant to search his place.”

Kurt nodded, depressed.

“And be in at six tonight, to relieve Higgins,” Bard added, and with notable effort slipped his thumbs under his belt. He was known for generosity when things went his way, which was about as often as Christmas. “I’m rescinding your suspension. State attorneyon. Ss office can kiss my whizzer if they don’t like it. Time you got back on the road.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

Bard shambled away, as awkward as a woman pregnant with triplets. After the tow truck pulled uproariously off with Stokes’s Chevelle, Higgins began kicking the whitened stubs of the flares into the shoulder. They sizzled out in puddles like fat cigars.

Another day, another dollar.

Kurt looked out over the gully, into the marsh. There, a family of water rats slithered for cover amid weeds. Toads as large as lopsided softballs grimaced at him, and even larger bullfrogs threateningly expanded sacs in their throats as if to warn him off. Beyond, the muck-bottomed forest seemed impenetrable and stretched on forever. Again Kurt was inundated by the notion that he was crazy to be here, that danger pulsed all around this place for miles.

Shit on this town,
he thought.
Shit on this job, this state. Shit on everything.
He congratulated himself on a scholarly course of thought. If indeed he were wrong about it all, as was Bard’s apparent conclusion, then his reaction was a great cop-out. He’d painted himself into a corner with trust and was now trapped by it.

Behind him, Higgins and Bard were laughing over a joke as they prepared to go back to the station. The clarity of Bard’s laughter shone with relief, an attitude of normality returned; Bard believed Tylersville’s troubles were over.

But Kurt felt rancid, sour inside. It was a shriveling premonition. This was far more universal, and more primitive, than the tawdry sixth sense most police officers claimed to have. His spirit felt alone in the eye of a crushing storm, waiting for the worst, which had not quite yet arrived.

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I must become a borrower of the night for a dark hour…

The line made him smile.

Backed by light, he was a weirdly slatted shape behind the door’s half-opened louvers. He seemed to be waiting for something. In his head droned a very distant but mechanical screeching that reminded him of the nitrogen-recharge units found in most General Motors tank turrets. What an odd thing to fill his head now. He could imagine the same sound filling the heads of madmen everywhere.

He was waiting for his cover, his equalizer. The dark.

Only half of the sun was visible now, its fading furnace-red glow drawing thin along the horizon. Above him came a slow, silent explosion of stillness and peace as the sky gave away its radiance. There was something reminiscent, almost excitingly so, about the coming night. It sparked a barrage of quiet Bavarian memories. The 0300-hour road marches in blackout drive along the Ludwig Canal. Radio silence during Czech border reconnaissance. Waiting for the commencement flare at the night-fire range in
Grafenwöhr
, and the way the world looked through a passive sight and SABOT reticle. He’d taken speed once, to stay awake all night and watch the moon creep across the bulk shapes of
munition
igloos at Area November, the brigade ordnance depot. These memories pleased him very much.

No stars yet,
he thought and held his smile as he faced the dying sun.
There’s husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out. Don’t die under Daddy’s cap,
Fleance
, you young cocker, you.

He cranked the louvers closed and stepped away.

Earlier he’d set everything out on the bed, a queer schematic diagram of objects whose sole purpose was to end life. Each of the three thirty-round clips for the M16 had been deliberately loaded with twenty-eight rounds, to reduce the statistical likelihood of a
misfeed
. There would be no taping one magazine under the other; the time saved by this method of rapid reloading did not justify the disadvantages. This particular ploy exposed the upside-down magazine’s lip to dirt and possible damage, made it easier to load a clip backward and to forget when a clip was empty, and altered the weapon’s balance by an overall increase in weight. He hadn’t done it in combat, and he wouldn’t do it now. The clips would be carried in a general-issue three-capacity magazine holder worn on his left side.

Jeans and jeans jacket won out over
cammies
—a million street thieves couldn’t be wrong; denim proved very functional as camouflage without being conspicuous. He’d purchased the jeans jacket purposely oversized, to be worn over the Bristol protective vest. Boots were too noisy; therefore, black lightweight running shoes would be worn, “felony specials,” as the police liked to say, and not without good reason. No keys, no coins, no wallet. Matches in a waterproof container in top right jacket pocket, his set of picks and a sleeved penlight in top left. Brown jersey gloves and a
mouthless
navy blue ski mask to diffuse his breath in case the temperature dropped. Standard field flashlight with an additional screw-on red lens to help preserve his night vision. He chose HALT! brand dog repellent since its active ingredient, capsaicin, a red pepper extract, worked well on humans as well as animals, unlike the more popular GOEC chemical mace. The canister had been painted flat black, as had his garrison belt buckle and the brass buttons of the jeans jacket.

Now, he removed the Gerber MK I fighting knife from its modified sheath, satisfied that he’d bought it instead of a flashier knife. The Gerber was less prone to breakage at the tip and the tang, possessed a stronger, more robust blade, better design and inherently better balance which provided an improved thrust capacity. The aluminum sandblast-finished handle felt alien but somehow agreeable to him. Plus there was the extra advantage of the protruding pommel at the end (known to gun-shop geeks as a “skull-crusher”) that doubled as an excellent judo stick for vital nerve centers. He would hang the knife upside down over his left pectoral from a quick-release scabbard corded to the jacket.

He put the grenades and a field kit in an OD string bag.

Within thirty minutes his gear was donned and checked and rechecked. His stomach growled and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten today. Only fools were shot on full stomachs. Peritonitis was a hell of a way to go.

Time ticked on. He grew uneasy with a familiar static edge. He went to the door again, reeled open the louvers, and glanced intently out.

The sun had sunk further. Another hour, and it would be dark.

It was more than Willard and his nightmares that awaited beyond the door. It was his past that waited as well, like a cheated reaper, waiting no less intently than Sanders himself had waited for this day.

And it would be waiting, he knew, with open arms.

— | — | —

PART THREE

…find many
vampirelike
myth-creatures whose emblematic designs rest much deeper psychologically than the aforementioned “Hannibal’s-at-the-Gate” effect. The yogini (Hindu), the lamia (Greek), the baba
jaga
(Russian), the
brechta
(German), and the
berserkr
(Norse) are but a few examples. Interestingly, save for the shape-shifting
berserkr
of Nordic lore, all are female and overtly hypersexual in modus, which might impress the definitive student by clear psycho-erotic roots, and even Freudian
thematics
, when examined on an individual basis. A fascinating exception to the sex-base is the Mohammedan ghoul, a genderless hermaphroditic plunderer of graves and eater of the dead. Here we find not only an objectification for the terror and unknown of the desert and other implicitly dangerous settings, but darker, more naturalistic implications. Did the ghoul evolve merely as a children’s terror tactic, or is there a more socially functional infrastructure? No one can know, of course; nevertheless, it is interesting to note that the ghoul to this day remains a popular myth in world areas (1) where daily nutritional requirements are rarely met, (2) where nomadic post-burial cannibalism is not uncommon during periods of extreme food shortage, and (3) where reports of missing persons, particularly children, are statistically high.

—from “Sexual and Societal
Mechanistics
,”

Mythology as
Functionalísm
a thesis by ADAM T. THORPE IV

ghoul (
ghãla
) chiefly from Moslem folklore; an evil creature, spirit, or
subcarnate
that unearths graves and feeds on corpses. Though variations are found in Chinese mythology, the ghoul is founded solidly in Islamic legend and is still well known throughout India, parts of the Middle East, and most of Africa. Ghouls are nocturnal, roaming alone or in small packs. They exist exclusively to murder the living and to consume the dead.

—from “Denotations in Brief,”
The
Morakis
Dictionary of World Myth

— | — | —

CHAPTER THIRTY

Kurt snapped the last leather spacer over his black Hume
gunbelt
. He immediately realized how much he missed that snug extra weight riding his hip. The newly pressed pants bore creases like the edge of a cutting bezel. He buttoned down the shirt pockets, swept at some apparitional lint, and adjusted his collar for what must have been the fifth time. Yes, it felt good to be back in the “monkey suit,” as Higgins called it.

“Well,” he said to Vicky. “How do I look?”

Vicky’s neck tensed up, as though she were trying hard not to laugh at something unduly amusing. “The truth?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like a new wave Cub Scout master.”

Kurt’s self-image flew away like a released balloon. “You don’t know how good that makes me feel. Thanks a heap.”

“No, don’t misunderstand me,” she hurried to explain, but now her laughter was close to rampant. “It’s not you, it’s the uniform. I’m not sure why, but it just looks…dumb.”

“Kind of you to elaborate. At least our uniforms don’t look as bad as the county’s.”

“Yours look worse,” Melissa said, just strolling into the kitchen. She reached into the refrigerator and removed a cherry-filled Danish. “At least the county police look like police.”

Kurt’s expression solidified into a deep frown.

Melissa continued, nibbling. “Admit it, Kurt. Your uniforms look stupid. Tell Bard to get new uniforms. With the ones you got now, people won’t know if you’re a cop or a gas station attendant. You’ll be pulling folks over for speeding and they’ll be asking you to check under the hood.”

He resisted the impulse to push the Danish in her face and throw what was left at Vicky. “When I want your opinions, I’ll ask for ’
em
.”

“Well, you
did
ask,” Vicky said, her amusement still very plain. “And don’t be so sensitive. We’re not cutting
you
down. It’s not your fault the uniforms look asinine.”

“But since you look the part,” Melissa said, “you might as well check the oil and do the windshield.”