Shakedown, page 19
The visions had grown stronger with each succeeding toll of the unseen bell, and this latest one was the strongest of all. It came with an emotional flavor, one that Angel recognized. It was the pure, heady taste of obsession, bringing with it a clarity of purpose that erased all doubts, all fears, and replaced them with a fierce joy.
It was a taste Angel had known all too well. It was the secret drug he was ashamed to admit he sometimes still craved, and as that joy tried to impose itself on his soul, he felt the Angelus inside him welcome it with open arms. Welcome it as he began to rise to the surface . . .
“NO!” Angel rejected the imagery with every ounce of his will.
It was enough to snap him free; there was no place in the shared mind for dissension. There was only a single, terrible sense of purpose, and Angel felt it recede from him as if he were falling from a burning aircraft.
He was in his cell once more. Fisca and Sarah had joined the lifeguard in unconsciousness; that, or they were still trapped in the Tremblor’s vision of certainty.
Angel was certain of only two things: first, that the Quake demons were now unified in a new and terrifying way.
Second, they were now all insane.
“He’ll be all right,” Doyle said. “Angel’s a pro.” His group was taking a break topside, while another team of five Serpentene kept digging. Buckets of dirt were emptied into side passages, of which there were quite a few. Doyle just hoped they were on the right course.
“Sure,” Cordelia said. “I mean, two of the things generally in short supply in underground caves are sunlight and wooden stakes, right? So down there he’ll practically be Superman.”
“Well, there is the matter of lava,” Doyle said.
“What? Nobody mentioned lava! What does lava have to do with anything?” Cordelia demanded, pacing back and forth. “These are supposed to be earthquake demons, not—not Hawaiian volcano demons! And Angel’s not even a virgin!”
Maureen handed her a glass of Scotch and led her to a chair. “Just take it easy,” she said. “We’re working as hard as we can.”
Cordelia sat, then gulped her drink. “I know, I know. I just wish I could do something useful.”
“Well, you could help dig,” Doyle said.
“Doyle, I’m trying to be serious,” Cordelia said.
“Sorry.”
“Perhaps I can cheer you up a bit,” Galvin said, emerging from the mouth of the tunnel. He’d been supervising their progress, organizing the work details and arranging for supplies. “I understand you had a bit of trouble at the office. Well, I think that comes under the heading of expenses, which makes it my responsibility.” He fished in the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a check. “I had someone go over there and do an estimate on repairs. I know it’s cold comfort, but at least it’s one less thing to worry about.” He handed the check to Cordelia.
“Thanks, Galvin,” Cordelia said. She tucked the check into her pocket without even looking at it.
Now Doyle knew just how worried she was.
Angel was truly on his own now.
He used Fisca’s Zippo to take inventory. He made a decision.
First, he took apart one of his wrist harnesses. He removed the short, hollow metal tube that a wooden stake was usually seated in and examined it critically.
He took it over to where the lifeguard sat slumped against the rocky wall, breathing shallowly. He tried to fit the hollow tube over the steel bar, but it didn’t quite fit. Angel spent the next few minutes using a small rock and his own strength to crimp the tube into a more square shape.
Finally, he was able to slide the tube over the bar. He took the modified tube and used Fisca’s keys like tongs to hold it over the flame of the Zippo. He got it as hot as he could, then slid it over the metal bar like a sheath.
“Sorry about this,” Angel said to the comatose lifeguard. He used the keys to slide the heated tube down the bar, and into the wound itself.
The stink of burning flesh was immediate. Angel held his breath, hoping the heated metal would both sterilize and cauterize the puncture, preventing infection and bleeding. The squared tube was barely long enough to reach all the way through the wound.
Holding the tube in place with the keys, Angel slowly pulled the bar out.
It worked. The tube plugged the hole, there didn’t seem to be any additional bleeding and the lifeguard never twitched. Angel had a weapon.
The bar was almost two feet in length, longer than the stakes he usually used. Angel was pretty sure he could modify his two wrist harnesses into one that held the bar, letting him conceal it up his sleeve.
He got to work.
“I think I’m through,” Doyle said.
He dug faster, clearing dirt away from the growingopening. The other members of his crew shone lights through, revealing another long, dark tunnel. It seemed unoccupied.
“Well, what do you think?” Ian said.
And then the rumbling began.
“Oh, shite,” Doyle said.
A tremor shook the ground, knocking both of them off their feet, while dirt rained down from above. Doyle huddled against a wooden support, waiting for it to come crashing down.
Angel felt the tremors, too, but he ignored them. He was preparing himself.
The Zippo had run out of fuel, forcing him to complete the last of the harness modifications in the dark. He’d worked by touch, taking his time, being as deliberate and thorough as he could. A mistake now could prove fatal later.
He was done. All that was left was to wait.
He sat cross-legged, his hands open at his sides. He cleared his mind. The tremors that shook the earth did not matter. The smell of blood from the lifeguard’s wounds did not matter. The gnawing thirst in his throat, his stomach, did not matter.
All that mattered was to be ready.
The rumbling stopped. Doyle realized he wasn’t dead; the tunnel supports had held.
A few moments later the thick dust was cut by the beams of the returning Serpentene, who’d run up the tunnel when the quake had started. They called Doyle and Ian’s name, and Doyle managed to cough out an answer. Ian didn’t. He’d been struck by a falling rock and was out cold.
They hauled both of them out, dressed Ian’s scalp wound and poured each a medicinal shot of brandy. Since Ian was still unconscious, Doyle drank his, too.
“How bad is it?” Galvin asked.
“Hard t’say. Our section held, but I don’t know how much came down.”
“So what do we do?” Cordelia asked.
“We keep diggin’,” Doyle said. “And hope we didn’t just use up the last of our luck.”
Baasalt surveyed the results of his handiwork.
The six stone columns that comprised the Grounding now each sported a pickax. Two of the members no longer seemed to be functioning, but that did not concern Baasalt. What were two among many—especially when the many were one?
He turned his attention inward, to the newfound unity he’d forged. All the Tremblor minds were as a single being now, an extension of his own will. His thoughts ran through their minds, and theirs through his. But while their minds had been predictable and rigid, his was the rushing torrent of an underground river, the unrelenting white-hot flow of molten rock. He had created his own ritual, sacrificing his tribe’s individuality to shape a new being.
But creating new traditions didn’t mean forgetting about old ones. Oh, no. The Crushing of Souls would go forward as planned—but with the vampire’s soul as the Fourth Sacrifice, the race Baasalt would bring forth would be greater than any that had gone before. A race of conquerors, a race composed entirely of Warrior-Priests. They would transform the World, from its Heart to its Skin, and Baasalt would be their leader.
Come, he thought. Come, my children. It is time to gather for the birth of something new.
It is time for the Crushing of Souls.
It is time for the Dance of the Sleeping Giants.
And in their alcoves, in their caves and tunnels and hidden places in the earth, the Tremblors stirred and began to move. One by one, they converged on what had been the chamber of the Grounding, and the pool of magma that glowed in its center.
When they came for him, Angel went peacefully.
They marched him down a tunnel, two Tremblors in front of him and two behind. Three other Quake demons carried the still-comatose bodies of the others.
Angel kept his right arm stiff by his side; the steel bar up his sleeve kept him from bending his elbow. He’d be fine as long as no one asked to shake hands. Somehow, he doubted that would come up.
After a ten-minute hike, he found himself back in the chamber of the Grounding. There had been some changes: the pool of magma seemed fuller than the last time he was there, the temperature had gone from winter in Miami to summer in Death Valley . . . and all six columns of stone now had steel pickaxes embedded in them.
That, and the place was filled with Quake demons.
They stood in a circle around the perimeter of the chamber. Waves of heat rising from the lava pit made the air shimmer. Angel did a quick estimate, and came up with around two hundred; probably the whole tribe, from what his research had indicated. They were still as statues, not even moving their heads to look at Angel and his entourage when they arrived—with two exceptions.
Associate Rome stood beside one of the columns, drinking a bottle of Perrier. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief, then waved as if they were two members of a country club running into each other on the golf course.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
A Tremblor with a pickax protruding from the back of his head nodded at Angel. He stood in the narrow ring between the edge of the lava pit and the six stone columns, which is where the Tremblors laid the limp forms of Fisca, Sarah and the lifeguard, spacing them evenly around the pit.
Angel himself was brought face-to-face with Baasalt.
It is fitting that you face your death with your mind intact, Baasalt thought.
“Wish I could say the same about you,” Angel answered. “I think you’ve made a horrible mistake in your interpretation of the phrase ‘I’d like to pick your brain.’ ”
What you Skin-Dwellers call humor, correct? A strange reaction in the face of imminent destruction; I shall have to study it, once I have bent the surface world to my will. So much to learn . . .
“Well, I’ve been told I’m a helluva teacher. My lessons tend to stick for the rest of my pupils’ lives—usually a good two or three seconds. Five, tops.”
Then consider this to be my lesson to you.
Baasalt reached out and wrapped one rocky claw around Angel’s throat.
Angel tensed, but didn’t move. He felt the Tremblor trying to invade his mind; normally that was impossible with a vampire, but Baasalt’s mind seemed different, and if the Quake demon sensed his plan, Angel wouldn’t have a chance. Angel forced his mind to be still, to be calm, to be blank . . .
To be a void.
Baasalt’s probe recoiled suddenly. Angel’s mind unsettled him in a deeply conditioned way; as much as all Tremblors loathed large, empty spaces, they were completely unused to encountering such a thing on a mental level. Baasalt withdrew, disturbed but still confident.
It was time.
Fellow Tremblors. All of you know the First Story, of how the Ig explored the Body of the World . . .
Angel recognized the cadence of a ritual begun. He knew the Tremblors’ concentration would be focused, that the outside world would mean less and less as the ritual progressed. He also knew the ritual involved him and the other three being tossed into the pit of lava, but he didn’t know exactly when .
He had to act now.
Baasalt’s claw was still wrapped around his throat. The Quake demon could crush Angel’s windpipe simply by closing his fist—which meant the first order of business was getting him to let go.
Angel focused his own concentration. The Tremblors were made of rock and were inhumanly strong, but they still walked on two feet, had arms and legs and hands. From an engineering standpoint, they had many of the same weak spots a human being had; they were simply better armored.
All armor has flaws, Angel thought. All mountains have fissures.
All arms have elbows.
Two feet of tempered steel dropped into his right hand at the flick of a wrist. He crossed his left hand over to join his right in a katana -style grip, and drove the point of the bar sideways into the elbow joint of Baasalt’s arm as hard as he could.
The joint snapped, sounding like a sledgehammer cracking granite. The Tremblor lost his grip on Angel as his arm suddenly bent the wrong way.
Angel dropped to a crouch, drew back his weapon and lunged forward again. This time, he went for Baasalt’s knee.
Another loud crack, and Angel was rolling out of the way as Baasalt crashed to the ground. He wound up at the foot of Associate Rome, who tried to punt him over the lip of the pit.
Angel dodged the kick and leapt to his feet. Rome immediately stepped back, not interested in a fair fight.
As much as Angel wanted to protect the other captives, he simply couldn’t do it at the moment. They were too spread out, in hard-to-defend positions. The best he could do was hold his own ground, and hope they couldn’t continue the ritual without him.
He backed his way into a small alcove. It was barely more than an indent in the wall of the cave, but it was made of solid rock from floor to ceiling; the Tremblors wouldn’t be able to burrow in from behind or underneath him as easily as they could through dirt. At the very least, he’d be able to hear them coming.
No, the only way to attack him now was oneonone—the opening was too narrow to admit more than a single Quake demon at a time.
The first Tremblor rushed forward. Angel rammed the end of the steel bar into the Quake demon’s throat, bringing him to a halt, then kicked him in the chest and sent him sprawling.
Angel summoned his vampire side, his face distorting into a yellow-eyed mask of fury. “Who’s next?” he snarled.
Another one rushed him. Angel beat him back with a vicious series of strikes to the eyes and neck. The demon withdrew in pain.
“You’re just delaying the inevitable,” Rome called out.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m kind of having fun.”
You will tire, long before we do, Baasalt thought.
“Think so? I’ll tell you what I think. I think if I do enough damage to your troops, they’re going to start to doubt you. And once that happens, you’re finished. That’s the flip side of being a dictator, Baasalt—total control means total responsibility. Something goes wrong, you’re the first one to get blamed.”
Then I shall have to ensure nothing goes wrong.
The crowd of Tremblors at the mouth of the alcove suddenly parted. Baasalt stood about twenty feet away, beside one of the stone columns of the Grounding. He had a large rock in his hand, which he was hefting experimentally.
I’ve learned a great deal from you Skin-Dwellers, Baasalt thought. He drew his arm back and launched the rock like a cannonball.
“Not enough,” Angel grunted, and swung the bar from his shoulders. It connected solidly with the rock, sending it rocketing straight into the face of another Quake demon. The Tremblor staggered backward a few steps and collapsed.
“That’s called a line drive,” Angel said. “Good for a single. You want to try for a grand slam, I’m ready.”
Rome laughed. “Not bad. A shame there’s no place to run.”
I suppose, Baasalt thought, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way, then.
Another Tremblor charged. Angel concentrated on weak spots once more, and managed to drive the demon back. There was another one waiting right behind the first.
It went on and on. Angel couldn’t even kill them, just hurt them enough to make them drop back— and be replaced by another.
He knew Baasalt was right. He couldn’t keep this up forever.
His world contracted into a mindless rhythm of violence, of strikes and spins and lunges. His arms ached and his lungs burned, but he would not give up . . .
“Typical,” a voice said. “Can’t leave you alone for a few minutes without you gettin’ in a fight.”
The Tremblors paused and turned, as one. Doyle stood at the entrance to the cave with a satchel in his hand, and he wasn’t alone. A group of Serpentene was gathered around him.
You were foolish to come here, Baasalt thought. Here, we are powerful and you are weak. We will bury you all.
Doyle shook his head. “I don’t think so. Even here, you’ve got a weakness—‘Only that which opposes you can oppose you,’ right? Took me a long time t’figure out what that meant, but I think I finally did.”
Doyle reached into the satchel and pulled something out. He lobbed it overhand at Angel and yelled, “Catch!” at the same time.
Angel snatched it out of the air one-handed, praying it was a weapon.
It was plastic. It was bright pink.
It was a hair-dryer.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he groaned.
“Runs on batteries,” Doyle said. “And dispenses the element opposite to earth—wind.”
Angel understood in a flash. He thumbed the On switch—and shot the nearest Tremblor in the face with a blast of air.
The effect was instantaneous. The Quake demon’s head came apart like a sandcastle in a windstorm, leaving only a skull that looked like it was made of crystal. The Tremblor collapsed, the skull ringing on the rock floor but not breaking.
“Now!” Doyle said.
He moved aside, revealing a bulky shape wrapped in a tarpaulin behind him, one that took up most of the tunnel. The Serpentene yanked the tarp off, revealing their secret weapon: a Hollywood wind machine, a giant portable fan.
