Lazarus 6 - FIFTEEN: Thunderdome

Spinning in a slow circle, I reached deep into the earth, feeling the sturdy power of the bedrock. Of ancient plate tectonics and stones unmoved in an age. I called forth earth like a snake charmer. Sweat poured down my face and my arms shook from the strain as I forced the ground to part, opening up into cavernous rifts that descended down in the dark heart of Outworld. Those enormous cervices swallowed more than a few of the encroaching hoard, eating them and their inhuman squeals, while simultaneously forcing others into more unconventional paths. Elsewhere, rock walls and spits of razor-sharp stone jutted up, skewering more than a few fiends and transforming the room into a labyrinth of walls, spikes, and pits.

I had enough foresight to leave a narrow, unobstructed path between our party and the exit out of this deathtrap. That was a risk, since it would create a funnel of sorts, but I had no doubt Sullivan could clear us a path.

I finished my circle, back toward the group once more, and cut the flows of power raging through me with a knife of will. Without the power of two demons propping me up, pulling a construct like that off would’ve been impossible, and even with their help I felt like puking from the raw exertion. It felt like I’d just run a marathon while hauling a Big Rig with flat tires behind me. Now wasn’t the time for weakness, though, because even with the innumerable barriers littering the floor, the hybrid creatures were coming. An unrelentless force. Steeling my resolve, I lifted my M4, pressed it firmly into my shoulder pocket, and let loose.

I picked my shots carefully, aiming for torsos and heads. Kill shots. After seeing the kind of damage that Kristi the receptionist had taken without batting an eye, I very much doubted I would be able to slow these things down with disabling shots. Plus, they had like six friggin’ legs made out of vines. Where would I even start? How do you kneecap an ambulatory lawn bush?

The rifled barked, vomiting out light and lead.

A maggot skinned halfie without a nose let out an undulating shriek as a trio of bullets littered his throat and chewed through a waggling chin. Down he went, leafy limbs refusing to hold his weight. Another of the creatures, this one with the mishappen torso of a human woman, scampered over her fallen comrade without so much as a pause or a flinch. These things didn’t care about the dead or about dying themselves, it seemed. The recoil on the M4 was next to nothing, and the gun stayed remarkably level as I sighted in and turned the unsightly creature’s head into so much pink mist.

On my left Winona battled like a professional MMA fighter, throwing blazing round houses and brutal kicks that sent the creature’s scattering like bowling pins. In my experience, she wasn’t pound for pound as strong as Levi, but she was damned close, and she was about a hundred times faster. Her arms and legs were a blur and anything unlikely enough to get inside her range paid for it. Levi, off to my right, was dishing out his fair share of punishment, though his strategy was less knock them away and more pulverize them into veggie spread. He’d grown rocky quartz armor pockmarked with black obsidian spikes and was straight up smiting monsters with a combination of sledgehammer and meat clever.

And when I say smiting, I mean laying down an ass whopping of epic, biblical proportions.

He was splattered in green plant gore and inky blue blood and somehow, he looked completely content. Like there was nowhere and nothing else he’d rather be doing.

Chris occasionally poked the muzzle of his rifle through our ranks, plugging holes where he could, and calling out commands. “Lazarus, incoming on the left… Winona, watch your right… Everyone, move toward Sullivan on three! One… Two… Three…” We moved in a herky jerk fashion at his command, and whenever the swarm got a little too thick, he would hurl out frag grenades, opening pockets of space across the chamber floor. For being a Rube cop from Missoula, the kid had a remarkably good head on his shoulders.

Slowly we worked out way back along the narrow tunnel I’d crafted, Sullivan clearing the way like a snowplow through fresh powder. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I sure as hell could feel it like jaggs of static electrity rubbing against my nerves. Guy was slinging around some serious power. Weaves of air and fire as thick as a telephone pole. Bands of rotating magnetic energy, no doubt designed to short-circuit the vulnerable electronics festooned all over the goons. Enough ball lightning to power a small Wisconsin town for a year.

I stuck to the M4 for the most part, only tapping into minimal flows of Vis and Nox when I needed to buy a handful of extra seconds to reload. Moving about twenty tons of earth had taken a toll and I wanted to save a little juice for our showdown with Wayland. It wouldn’t do much good to survive his inhuman army, only to be wrung out like a dish rag when it came time to kick Wayland’s teeth in. Besides, the M4 was doing just fine by me. The only problem was that I’d eventually run out. Hot brass rained down in a steady flow and empty mags slowly built up inside my drop pouch, while my supply of fresh rounds slowly dwindled to zero.

“What the hell is taking so friggin’ long?” I called over one shoulder as my rifle finally ran dry with a dull click. Such a small, innocuous sound in its way, but one that sent chills racing along my spine.

“We’re almost into control room,” Chris screamed, poking the muzzle of his rifle out beside my shoulder and blasting an approaching vine-covered halfie.

There was a thunderous rattling shake as one of the mech spires toppled followed by a wall of conjured earth folding like a bad hand of cards.

Well shit, I thought, as the mother of all these freakshows burst into the open.

Easily twenty-five feet tall, this thing was the ultimate display of Wayland’s madness. Instead of the scuttling of an oversized spider, this thing slithered forward like a giant centipede, propelled not by eight legs, but hundreds of them, all working in tandem. Its body swayed in the air as it moved, its mishappen arms—cobbled together piecemeal from vines, flesh, and hydraulic cables—trailed almost to the floor. Its torso was likewise a tattered patchwork canvas of body parts. At least a dozen halfies, all stitched together, and kept alive through mechanical magic of the most twisted variety.

Of course it was a Frankenstein centipede. Because the universe hates me and likes to see me suffer at every possible opportunity.

“We’d better hurry it along, because we’re running out of time here!” I yelled back, taking a quick look. “Sullivan, I could use a hand up here!”

“On it,” he shot back, fishing the Hand of Glory from a pouch at his side and tossing it to Chris. “Get that door open! We’ll hold the line.” He posted up beside me, his face a grim mask of determination. Levi and Winona took positions right in front of us, forming a shield wall, ready to absorb the brunt of the assault.

More of the smaller creatures were surging around the centipede behemoth like the waters of a raging river, and they were gaining on us with a quickness. I pulled the rifle off and tossed it to the side. As much as it pained me to do it, the M4 was just extra dead weight at this point. I opened myself up once more to the delicious power of creation and noxious power of death, and formed the weaves for potent hellfire.

James dropped a hand on my arm and shook his head. “Save it for that thing, let me have a shot first. Might just be able to clear a bit of the rabble.” He offered me a lopsided, cocksure grin and gestured toward his tactical vest, strewn with pouches. “I brought a few little surprises, and now seems as opportune a moment as ever to use them, eh old boy.” He pulled free a pair of glass orbs. “These should buy us a little time, I imagine.” With a flick of his wrist, he sent the green-filled vial spinning through the air. With a simple flow of force, he shattered the glass high above the onrushing mass of creatures.

There couldn’t be more than a few ounces of liquid inside, but suddenly the substance expanded, transforming into a roiling neon cloud, which quickly shed fat green rain drops on everything below. The creatures faltered and howled as sizzling drops of acid landed on exposed skin and plant matter, eating through everything it touched with vicious, preternatural hunger. Puddles of the green water formed along the pathway and dissolved feet and ankles as the creatures continued to push forward. Those unfortunate few directly beneath the cloud, stumbled and dropped, spasming as their bodies melted from the caustic substance.

“Corrosive Alkahest?” Levi murmured, sounding rather impressed.

I’d literally summon a city burying sandstorm hurricane while in hell, and he’d barely noticed. But some stupid goop in a glass jar got his attention. Go figure.

“You aren’t the only one who knows his way an Alchemy set,” Sullivan replied. “And you haven’t seen anything yet. He grabbed the red vile and tossed it high, breaking it with another minute effort of will. The red mist within dissipated in seconds, swept into the air, but the effect was instant. The sludgy green acidic goop erupted in crimson flames, forming an inferno wall hot enough to scorch my face even from twenty feet away.

“Phoenix ash, mixed in a tincture of Solaris Flammans,” Levi said, this time in clear approval. I was pretty sure he was just making up words at this point, but Sullivan nodded in agreement. Alchemy was never really my bag, but apparently I should’ve done a little more studying because screw me sideways, but that was an impressive bit of destruction. Flashbangs and grenades are great, sure, but I wouldn’t mind a few more acid rain bombs.

The fire burned hot and heavy but didn’t seem to be slowing down the ponderous and enormous nightmare centipede. The creature trundled onward, pushing through the flames, its hide immune to the heat and the acid alike. I thrust my hand out and unleashed a sloid beam of purple flame, nearly pure Nox, but the tongues of death rolled off its skin like water off a duck’s back.

“How the hell is it doing that?” I yelled over the din of battle and the screams of the dying.

“No idea!” Sullivan yelled, hurling ball lighting of his own which the creature deflected with a slap of an oversized arm.

“Probably internal sigil wards,” Levi said. “I’ve seen this kind of work before. Arcane protection sigils carved onto the reverse side of the skin. Profane, but effective. Now get that door open! I’ll hold it off.”

He stole a sidelong glance at Winona and then the two of them were surging forward with some sort of unspoken command, throwing themselves headlong at the towering creature. Levi hit first and hammered away with blocky fists while Winona quickly went to work ripping off wriggling vine limbs. I wasn’t about to let them do all the heavy lifting. If Levi’s hunch was right, and this thing was protected by runes carved beneath its skin, then it meant this asshole was only magic proof on the outside. I just needed to make an opening.

Knowing I was going to regret this badly, I sprinted forward anyway. “Winona, give me a boost!”

She spun, crouched, and turned her hands into a cup. I planted my foot and pushed up at the same moment she heaved. Suddenly I was sailing, wind rushing past my face, legs kicking, arms flapping like a moron peguin trying to take to the air against all the laws of nature. My stomach fluttered as I crested and began the descent, landing on the backside of the Franken-pede. I pulled my K-Bar from the sheath at my belt, flipped the blade over and slammed it down into oddly spongy skin and muscle. Several eyeballs in a variety of hues blinked lazily at me, which was disturbing for a thousand different reasons—though mostly because those eyes were on this thing’s back.

Why did supernatural things need to be so gross?

Ignoring the army of accusing eyeballs, I grunted and cranked down, opening a nasty gash. The creature bucked and squealed beneath me, trying to shake me free, but I wasn’t having that shit. With a shout, I conjured my ethereal azure sword and jammed that puppy down all the way to the hilt, hanging on for dear life. Clinging from the sword with my left hand like an ice pick, I continued to use the K-bar with my right, carving a patch of skin away until gleaming pink muscle showed through. As much as it sickened me, I stole a looksee beneath the skin flap and sure enough, there were silvery tattoos worked over every inch.

This thing had suffered more than I could imagine and the best thing I could do was put it out of its misery.

I pressed my palm down against the open wound and unleashed a javelin of hellfire—bright gold dancing with strands of purple. This time the fire didn’t harmless bounce off, but punched a hole clean through the monster’s body. When I finally cut the flows for my construct, there was a basketball-sized hole that I could see through. But somehow, this thing was still standing. Hell, more than that, it was still fighting. I grit my teeth and prepared to pump some more arcane energy into this thing, when a leafy tentacle wrapped around my calf and hoisted me up into the air like a pinata.

Shit.

One of the smaller plant freaks—and by smaller, I mean still larger than me—had climbed up here, and now we were playing king of the hill. It also looked like it was going to win, since the damned thing was built like a gorilla, had the face of an orc, and hands like a pair of ham hocks. I thrust my conjured sword forward, driving the blade into its pale throat. It barely so much as flinched then laid into my stomach like Mike Tyson working over a heavy bag. At least one rib cracked from the impact and stars exploded across my vision.

Screw this, I thought fighting through the bright flare of pain.

I dismissed the sword and sandblasted the dickhead in the face with a barrage of raw force.

My magically conjured sucker punch hit did the trick, caving in jagged black teeth and pulping a bulbous pale nose. It also convinced the asshole to put me down. Unfortunately, it decided to put me down about thirty feet away by flicking me through the air with its tentacled limb. I flipped and careened, catching odd glimpses of the ceiling and floor in turns. I prepared flows of air to cushion my fall, but didn’t need them. Winona—reliable, trustworthy, and faster than Usain Bolt—plucked me from the air with impossible grace and ease before I broke my stupid neck.

She zipped me back toward the control room, cradling me like a baby, before ever so gently setting me on my feet. Not very dignified, but in life and death battles dignity is way less important than survival. As I waited patiently for the world to stop reeling all around me, I surveyed the situation. Honestly, things were looking bad for us. Goliath centipede was less than ten feet away, and it didn’t seem much worse for the wear. I couldn’t say the same for our team. Winona was littered with scraps, cuts, and bruises—looked like she’d just pulled herself out of a ten-car pileup. And Levi? The poor son of a bitch was missing an arm. An entire arm. Gone.

Golden gore just streamed down his side.

“Everyone behind me!” Sullivan roared as he frantically scratched out what looked like a rudimentary summoning circle with the tip of his sword cane. “I was hoping to save this for Wayland, but now seems like just as good a time as any.” He dropped to a knee and carved a barrier ward in front of us. Levi was studying his handiwork with great care, but it all looked like advanced calculous to me. My strong suits lay in raw Vis and in metaphysical strength. This stuff here was old power, stepped in ancient tradition and folklore, spanning back a thousand years or more.

I understood some of the theory behind it, but it wasn’t hoodoo I ever wanted to truck with.

Finishing his work, Sullivan drew his last magical Ace in the hole: A reddish-brown ceramic figure of hound that fit inside the palm of his hand.

“I’d back up a step or two, if I were you” he said, placing the hound in the center of the arcane glyphs, muttering some ancient incantation under his breath.

As he finished the quick and dirty ritual, he drew his silver sword can along his forearm. A bright line of crimson welled along the gash and dribbled over the stone figurine. Power built in the air, rippling through the ethereal plane like some sort of unseen tsunami. Dark energy filled the hasty summoning circle, and I could sense an invisible presence seeping up from deep in the earth, called forth from its slumber by thick cables of earth and air, tied and bound with pillars of will. All reinforced with the Vim—the life force—which came from Sullivan’s shed blood.

The summoning circle erupted in violet light and a network of spidery hair-fine cracks spread across the figurine. A second later the hound statue exploded, and a forest of flailing black tentacles emerged from a hole in the fabric of reality like a Lovecraftian horror. More tentacles followed, pulling something impossibly large through that impossibly small hole. I had to look away, my mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. When I finally glanced back, a raven-black hound, bigger than a Semi, stood facing the encroaching creature.

An army of slick purple tentacles flailed and crawled at the air, each one covered in hundreds of suction pads and serrated hooks.

“An eldritch luison,” James said, sounding as tired as I felt. “From South America. Notoriously dangerous. I captured that one after a killing spree in the tiny village of Caapucú. Paraguay, back in ’51, this was.”

The creature lifted a sleek muzzle to the air, took one long whiff, then launched itself forward, looping along on oversized legs. It barreled through what remained of the smoldering fires and slammed into the centipede. Yellowed teeth clamped down on a forearm, while its tentacles whipped and slashed. Carving away vines and pieces of skin and muscle with sickening ease. The centipede wasn’t giving up easy, though. It moaned and fought, barb-covered vines wrapping the wolf up while spear-tipped legs punched through fur, drawing inky blood.

“Door’s open!” Chris called from behind. Bout friggin’ time.

Reluctantly, I pulled my eye away from the epic kaiju battle.

Chris waited with the door propped up, clutching the withered Hand of Glory close to his chest. Ahead was a winding set of stone steps, drilling down into the earth like a corkscrew. We hustled through without missing a beat. Once I was sure everyone was safe, present, and accounted for, I pulled the heavy metal door shut—its locks reengaging with a whirl and a click. There was a small glass window that peered back out into the hive cavern and I couldn’t help but take one last look back.

Tentacles flayed skin. Vines broke bone. Fangs flashed, and talons shredded.

Better them than me. I turned away, more than content to let those monsters murder the ever-living-crap out of each other while we tracked down the real monster behind this whole shitshow. It was high past time we found Wayland and got our answers.