Desert Angels (20 page)

It had yet to be explained by the Growler why such an expedition was required.

Vomiting suddenly, Mathias prayed to whatever gods or demons still existed in the world, that he could hang on just a little longer. At least until the end of the week.

Because that is when the Growler would attack Eden. Again.

Maybe this time, they would win. Kick some Jack-ass, to coin a popular Growler slogan. He abruptly giggled and sobbed as he clutched himself in a renewed paroxysm of anguish.

His body on fire, Mathias no longer cherished the notion of keeping Jack Calisto alive and "useful." Retching again, blood flooding his mouth, Mathias began to sob hysterically; puke and sobs took turns alternately in making his day just a little more memorable. His mind suddenly turned red.

Fuck Jack and his miracle secrets of survival. And fuck the Growler, too, Mathias thought suddenly, feverishly, the hazy memories of being recently pummeled by his leader feeding traitorous notions. And fuck all these sniveling, stupid, cock-sucking, scum-sacks he lived without here; they deserved to rot and die as well. Like him. Fuck them all . . . but most of all, fuck Jack, for looking and feeling so great, for getting off scot-free, for being just plain Big Jack!

In Mathias' degenerating brain, Jack had become the human encapsulation of Everything Fucked Up In The World Today. That Jack had remained untouched by the myriad of horrors Mathias was presently so enjoying, only supported this deranged notion more substantially.

Like a rabid animal, Mathias was quickly approaching the leg-chewing stage of madness; hot, hysterical images of small beasts floundering in traps, devouring portions of their anatomy in order to escape, rushed through his broiling mind. He could actually feel the traps, the dull teeth of steel claws rending his pulsating flesh.

Because that's what he was now, he thought desperately; a hot little, leg-eating varmint feeling like pummeled bat shit, about to go sublimely nuts.

Because of that fucking, god-awful pain.

Because of that fucking Jack.

As if in validation of these hunches more vomit was produced, as timely as a game show bell, ringing out in victory.

BZZZZ – yes, doc, you've hit that one right on the head. Because of that fucking-godawful-fucking-BigJack-fuck-who-looks-and-feels-so-great! You win a life-time supply of green stuff! And from Spidel we have –

The vomit came in buckets; from some rapidly disintegrating part of a rational mind, Mathias marveled at the amount of puke stored within him. His guts, he concluded matter-of-factly, must be simply melting. Why, if the music lasted and the mood stayed fine, he could barf his way to madness indefinitely.

Yessireee, dying's a bitch.

At some point, he lost consciousness. This was good, because when he awoke, some of the pain had diminished (though never enough to give him hope that it might one day just disappear completely); certainly, all of the nausea had vanished. He was lying in his own filth, a mixture of feces, barf, blood and urine, but this was not offensive to Mathias' course sensibilities; he knew that with the company he was keeping of late, his wardrobe would not be too harshly criticized. In fact, he distinctly recalled that within the higher social circles he frequented, Essence of Barf'n'Blood was really quite the scent these days; Eau de smell-like-shit.

Everyone but everyone was wearing it.

Except Jack, of course.

Mathias monitored his pain level. It seemed to be at an all time low (a temporary reprieve, he knew); but at least it wasn't driving him loony-tunes.

After all, he had to keep his sanity – if nothing else.

He had to think. And thinking was important.

For it allowed him to dream.

Dream of the day Big Jack would drink beer no more.

Kick ass.

The Maddog camp was pitched and scattered across the sands; the spot of ground Mathias was occupying was furthest out from the camp center, on its periphery. Beyond that point, lay open desert. Yet somewhere nearby, Mathias savored knowingly, was a wonderland of opportunity. A place of dreams. Filled with goodies to play with; party favorites that could spell doom and damnation for Big Jack. With the lessening of pain, visions of Jack being vivisected danced through his brain like mutated sugarplums.

Somewhere on the dead wind that always seemed to smell of something charred or rotting, (though these days, Mathias could never tell if it was simply himself that wreaked) – a sound formed. Mathias listened, his face in the sand, his body curled into a ball.

An irregular clanging noise chimed metallically, like some eerie bell forever tolling out of tune; maybe, he imagined, it was a forgotten sentinel; a lighthouse for the damned to steer surely and safely across hell.

Maybe.

Mathias continued listening.

A sign, perhaps, blown by the wind off a gate. A sign that read STANNON AIR FORCE BASE - RESTRICTED AREA. Mathias closed his eyes and imagined. Yes, that was more like it. Not so farfetched. There were no such things as ghosts, anyway. The peaceful dead, remember, doc? His fever was rising again, and he could detect his limitless supply of barf-fuel churning promisingly in his stomach.

The military outpost he had known of for years, the armory that once belonged to the Stannon Air Force Facility, was out there, buried in sand and concrete, waiting to be used, to be reactivated by those who knew how to do so. Tanks, rockets, grenades, all the toys of war that the Maddogs needed to crush Jack Calisto were only a few thousand feet away. Tomorrow, all of it would belong to the Growler's dwindling army.

And that would even the odds quite nicely with regard to Big Jack. The promise of things to be, made Mathias feel a little better.

Mathias turned around suddenly, hearing the sand around him sift with the approach of some unseen entity. There was no moon left, nor starlight (he remembered suddenly that the moon and stars had disappeared on War Day two years earlier and had never returned) and only the distant glow of dying campfires from the Maddog entourage flickered dimly through the thick sludge-like darkness.

"Who's there?" Mathias tried to sound his most unfriendly, though what came out of his mouth was garbled and filled with sand, barf and congealed blood.

The sand continued to slide and crack as something drew nearer. Mathias first thought of Stiffers; if this was the case then he knew he could kiss it good bye now. By the time anyone heard him screaming, he would be half eaten; by the time anyone (had they cared to do so) actually come to rescue him, the vampire that had been dining so pleasurably on him would be miles away. But the movement ahead of him was rhythmical, steady, patient; qualities which didn't quite fit into characteristic Stiffer behavior. In any case, whatever was approaching, did not feel especially compelled to respond to Mathias' question, unintelligible as it may have been. A fact that was not lost on Mathias for a moment.

He stood up, wincing, holding his stomach. Weaponless, he figured with some amusement that if push came to shove he would simply throw up on any adversary that cared to tangle with him.

The sand quieted.

And Mathias could see the giant figure before him.

His eyes closed in resigned misery.

It was the Growler.

Time to kick the good doctor yet again; Mathias felt somehow positive that this was why the Maddog leader was here. Certainly not to pay him a friendly, bedside visit. Or to
apologize
for roughing him up earlier. He couldn't quite crystallize that kind of image in his head.

Sorry I had to pound you shitless earlier, doc; just one of those things. Don't know what came over me. Can't say I won't do it again, but right now, you're safe. Hope there's no hard feelings. Let's do lunch
.
Sure. Let's do
.

Mathias watched the Growler grow larger – and blacker.

For just a moment, the air turned frigid; Mathias shuddered. There was something wrong with the Growler –

The Growler's eyes, glowing now, red and hot, bore into Mathias with an intelligence and malevolence that had otherwise been almost comfortably lacking in the Growler before. These eyes, on
this
Growler, were cruel and merciless and knowing. And somehow irresistible. Mathias had a sudden instinct to run and cry and call for momma. But again, good intents and purposes were obstructed by puke and spit and general malaise. Mathias reluctantly held his ground. Only a choked groan escaped his bloodstained lips, as vomit bubbled and dripped out; something about the way the Growler was
looking
at him now prevented him from blowing chow happily into the air.

When the Growler spoke, it was with a voice both articulate and attractive – two oxymoronic descriptions that could never apply, in any sense, to the Growler Mathias had known just a few hours earlier.

"Excellent decision, doctor," the Growler said smoothly, making Mathias feel like he was being massaged. Or stroked. "I congratulate you. The airbase will be useful."

Mathias just stared, his mind a registered blank.

"But you're going to need help," the Growler said quietly. Comfortingly.

Mathias noticed in that instance that all pain had vanished. It was an alien sensation, one that was almost disconcerting at first. A long time ago, when he had been a doctor, he was accustomed to reading medical journals. He distantly recalled cases of limbs being removed surgically and their owners' occasional complaints that, notwithstanding their absence, the leg or arm now detached still itched or ached. When these patients had tried to rub or scratch the afflicted area, they were suddenly reminded of the parting of ways some time earlier. It was not so much that they
needed
to scratch the arm or leg in question; it was that they
expected
to find these appendages still attached, still alive and well; in short, still
there
. It was, Mathias realized, what he was waiting for; the
expected
return of pain. He waited a few seconds, knowing that the rush of familiar agony would slam into him anytime now. Perhaps that was the way pain liked to work, he thought suspiciously; let you feel good for a minute then sneak up on you and – pow.

Thought I was gone, eh, big boy? Well, guess again. Dying's a bitch, remember
?

Kick ass.

But no pain returned.

Mathias looked at the renovated Growler. With love.

The Growler had stopped the pain. Mathias knew it, as surely as he knew that innumerable cancers were happily metastasizing throughout his body, killing him slowly. Except now, he didn't care; as successful as that microscopic invasion may inevitably be, at least for now, it was being conducted sans the fusion of agony and fury.

He almost wet himself in happiness.

He did not even notice that he had begun masturbating. The Growler did, though, and smiled some more.

Then, the sand behind Mathias began to move. He turned, unsure of whether it was entirely right to give his back to his new god or not, but intensely curious nevertheless. His hand remained clutched and committed to his hard-on, though to what eventual purpose was beyond Mathias' immediate comprehension.

The sand began to roll like waves on a sea; gently, as if a twilight breeze was just passing over it. A hand surfaced from the ground, a silhouette of twitching energy that gave Mathias another wave of nausea. Other hands reached upward out of the sand, clawing in desperation for freedom.

Numerous body functions failed him simultaneously – including his unfamiliar and new-found erection. Shaking, smelling and wet, Mathias suddenly prayed for the return of pain, prayed for the familiar demons of his protracted demise, prayed for the end to come swiftly and mercifully; prayed for this nightmare that somehow felt so good to be over.

Because, you see, the dead were dead and were supposed to stay dead.

Knees that were pain-free collapsed beneath him. Yet his eyes remained transfixed, rooted to the churning, restless sands before him. Watching. Without pain. In disbelief.

Kick ass
.

As the dead began to rise.

* * *

The corpses pulled themselves out of the sand, slowly, unsurely, with a kind of stilted, childish awkwardness. The decomposed bodies of the soldiers were silent, except for the tattered, fetid rustle of their torn uniforms, rotting from exposure and age. Long ago, these individuals could have conceivably considered themselves among the lucky few; the nearby blast, while being just distant enough to spare them instant vaporization, had nevertheless roasted their lungs, killing them immediately where they stood. Time and nature had long ago buried the bodies, leaving nothing topside as evidence of their existence save the crumbling, dilapidated ruins of the airbase just a few thousand yards away. Those ruins alone would serve as nameless tombstones to the hundreds of bodies buried around them. On this night, however, the disentombed soldiers were, as they say, plumb out of luck; their purpose for being awakened presumably to pursue some unholy crusade, the outcome of which they would have no control in either preventing or promoting. Mathias could count ten of them within a few yards of where he was kneeling. Paying homage, it seemed.

And then the eyes of the dead turned toward him, staring and vacant yet horribly alert; tortured, Mathias thought surely, blackmailed into a kind of half-life by the Growler. Mathias felt sure that he could see pain in each face; how could he not? Being torn from the peaceful bliss of an unending sleep, he thought, was probably not the grooviest feeling in the world.

Mathias almost felt pity for them all. But only almost.

Until he remembered what they were – and who controlled them.

"Your army, baby," the Growler spoke silkily, now suddenly behind Mathias with a hand on his shoulder.

"Mine?" Mathias replied limply, the hand feeling warm and friendly and promising.

Baby
? He suddenly felt small and ant-like.

"To command," the Growler responded, almost laughing. "With my help, of course."