Matt Archer: Legend (12 page)

Evening fell before we finished the last of the interviews.
No one had gotten a glimpse of whatever was hunting the villagers, but we
learned enough about the injuries to know they weren’t being attacked by a
rabid cheetah. The claw marks were spaced too wide for a big cat, and the
puncture wounds, probably from teeth, didn’t match up to natural wildlife,
either.

“The San, they are the best hunters and trackers,” Twi said
as we walked to the Humvees. “They have not seen these kinds of marks from any
animal and they could not follow the tracks. It’s ghosts, they say.” He shuddered.
“Ghosts from the caves.”

I knew the part about the San being excellent hunters—Mamie
had sent me a bunch of articles about the clans living in the Kalahari. Twi was
right; these people spent their lives learning to track prey. They knew the
difference between a wounded wildebeest and a healthy one based simply on the
way the footprints looked in the sand. One of the people we interviewed had
even told us he knew how old an antelope was based on the composition of its
scat.

Seriously, if these people were telling us whatever killed
their kin wasn’t an animal, I was willing to believe it.

We drove back to camp mostly in silence. I was tired and
ready for bed, but I had a date with Ulysses S. Grant, some nice Algebra II
quiz problems, and an essay on
Tom Sawyer
for English. If I was going
home to visit in a few weeks, I had to stay caught up or there’d be hell to pay
with Mom and Mrs. Stevens both.

 When we rolled into camp, we found that Brandt’s team had
returned ahead of us. From the way they gathered around the fire, chatting, it
looked like they’d been back for a while. Brandt was telling some story,
sitting on an overturned box, and had everyone cracking up.

“Didn’t they have farther to go than we did?” I asked
Johnson.

He shot a look at Uncle Mike. “Yes, yes they did.”

Uncle Mike climbed out of the vehicle and strode over to
Brandt, standing there glowering until the team noticed him. Everyone hopped to
their feet and saluted.

“At ease,” Uncle Mike said in a tone that suggested anything
but. Most of Brandt’s guys beat a quick path to their tents as soon as he
uttered the words. Tyson, Lanningham and Dorland did too, seeming to realize
they’d be safer inside even though they weren’t in trouble.

Brandt watched all the activity with a nonplussed
expression. “Find anything new out there, sir? ‘Cause we didn’t.”

I didn’t think Uncle Mike could look more frustrated if he
tried. He opened his mouth, like he was about to give Brandt the dressing-down
of the century, and I scooted to one side so I could watch it happen.

Instead, Mike let out a long, angry breath. “Hit your rack.
We’re going out again tomorrow. And I expect a more thorough report tomorrow.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Brandt said quietly. He headed toward his
tent, but paused and turned back. “I
am
trying, sir. We all are.”

After he disappeared into the gloom, Mike gave himself a
shake, like he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Okay…well, Matt, you go to bed,
too.”

Tired, dirty and sore, I gave him a quick salute and almost
ran for my tent. I’d hardly kicked my boots off and rolled onto my bunk before
I was asleep.

I don’t know how long I was out, but it was pitch black
outside when a scream jolted me into consciousness. I was shoving my feet into
my boots and had my knife drawn before I even rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.
When I came out of my tent, Johnson was ordering Lanningham to turn on the
floodlights, and Dorland jogged past. His camo jacket was open and his boots
were unlaced like mine, but he’d already snagged a grenade launcher. Ordinance
staff, armed and ready.

Uncle Mike found me amidst all the activity. “Matt! Over
here.”

I followed him to the edge of camp by the casino tent. The
canvas had been clawed through in a jagged slit. An overturned bunk lay on its
side in the middle of the space. The guys who slept here were gone.

“Peters was on watch,” Mike said. “Only sign of him is his
rifle. We found it in the grass, fully loaded.”

So Peters hadn’t had time to get a shot off. “The thing
grabbed him fast, then.”

Mike nodded. “Azara was sleeping here. I think that’s who
screamed.”

I fished inside my jacket pocket for my lucky flashlight. My
fingers brushed against the St. Christopher medal nestled beside it. Somehow, I
always seemed to find it when I needed protecting.

Uneasy, I said, “Show me where you found the rifle.”

As Mike led me across camp, I murmured. “Tink, anything?”

Shhh. I’m listening.

I rolled my eyes and followed Mike to a clump of brush not
far from the latrine. I turned on the flashlight and checked out the area. The
grass was flattened in a few spots just outside the razor wire, but not enough
to leave tracks. My light caught a discolored patch off to one side; a closer
look proved it was blood—a lot of it. The trail stretched out into the
darkness.

Uncle Mike swore. “He’s probably bled out by now.”

Johnson came to join us. When he caught sight of the gore
staining the grass, he swore too. “Peters?”

“Probably,” Mike said. “Anybody see anything, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.” Johnson looked back at the men setting up more
lights in the center of camp. “Nothing.”

I walked right up to the barrier, sweeping the flashlight
beam across the ground. “Just like the villages. We wouldn’t have even missed
them until morning if Azara hadn’t screamed.”

“But what are they?” Uncle Mike asked, sounding pissed. We
all took it personally when we lost men on our watch, but this
thing
had
walked into our camp and I knew that bothered him more than anything. How could
you defend against something you couldn’t see?

“No sign of breach on the far side, Major,” Brandt said,
appearing at Mike’s side. He was grey-faced in the weird fluorescent glare of
the floodlights. “They got away clean.”

Of course they did. We were hunting ghosts.

* * *

I stayed up the rest of the night, on watch, to let Brandt
sleep. I didn’t know when I developed a nice-streak, but Brandt looked beaten
down in a way I’d never seen. No cockiness, no witty comebacks, just one
exhausted dude looking for a place to crash. Having lost guys in an ambush
before, I empathized with him and volunteered to be wielder-on-duty. Besides, I
could sleep in the morning, while Mike and Johnson planned our next step.

Sitting on the hood of one of the Humvees, watching the
perimeter, I took out my knife and set it down next to me. It hummed, buzzing
against the metal vehicle.

“Done ‘listening’ yet?” I asked Tink.

Really? I mean, seriously, give me two minutes.

It gave me the creeps when she tried to sound like me.
“You’ve had two
hours
. And what’s up with the trash talk?”

I’m busy.
Then Tink shut me out, like she’d slammed a
spectral door in the back of my head.

“Well, excuse me,” I muttered. Then I laughed; I was
grumping because my imaginary friend wouldn’t talk to me, while sitting on a
Humvee in the middle of southern Africa with monsters prowling in the dark
somewhere. How much more screwed up could a situation get?

Come to think of it, I’d been through worse, and I didn’t
need to invite trouble by asking too many questions.

The rest of the night passed quietly and at dawn, Brandt
came out to relieve me. “Thanks, Archer. I was dead on my feet.”

“No problem, Captain,” I said, stunned that he actually
thanked me. “Think I’ll go sleep for a while.”

I went to my tent and stretched out on my cot, groaning
because my back was stiff, and closed my eyes. I had almost drifted off when
Tink crashed my nap party.

I hear them.

“The monsters?” I asked, not opening my eyes.

Yes. I don’t know what they are, though. My brother says
they are not the same as last time.

Her brother? “You mean Brandt’s knife-spirit?”

You say that like we belong to you,
Tink said
stiffly.
We don’t. If anything, you belong to us.

I was too tired to touch that comment, no matter how much it
disturbed me. “So these are new monsters?”

Yes. We get impressions—imprints—and he insists the
imprint is different.

“Good to know,” I said. “Can I sleep now?”

Of course, you need rest. Here, let me help.

“I don’t need…”

I fell asleep before the last word came.

* * *

I woke up around dinner time, feeling like my BDUs had been
glued to my body with sweat. If I could’ve traded my laptop for a five minute
shower, I would have. Which was stupid, since I’d start sweating again the
second I finished.

When I ran to the chow locker for my MRE, Mike, Johnson and
Brandt were sitting in the shade of the command tent, deep in discussion about
where to go next.

“Lanningham, Dorland and Tyson followed the blood trail for
a quarter-mile. Then it just stopped. Vanished without a trace,” Johnson was
saying.

“Ghosts in the desert,” Mike said. “Brandt, any ideas?”

Brandt looked up and saw me eavesdropping. “No. Archer?”

Surprised he asked me, I shook my head. “Nothing. Tink’s
being pretty tight-lipped.”

Brandt laughed, which surprised me even more. “You call her
Tink?”

“Yeah.” Grudgingly, my mouth turned up on a half-smile.
“She’s not the nicest girl.”

“Considering she tried to choke the life out of me for
dissing you, I gathered that,” Brandt said. “Well, we all know my knife’s not
talking.”

The way he said it made me think he was kind of sorry he
couldn’t hear anything. “So now what?” I asked. Then I had a horrible thought.
“Should we go see if Zenka’s okay?”

“I sent a crew out right after you turned in this morning.
They came back and said everything was fine.” Uncle Mike frowned. “Do you think
the attack was to warn us off?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere. What
matters is making sure we’re ready if they show up again.”

“True,” Johnson said. “I’ve got Dorland rigging up some
tripwires. He’s armed to the teeth with grenades and he’s handing out
flamethrowers like they’re candy.”

“Just don’t give Tyson one,” I muttered at my feet. Mr.
Monster-Fest had been running around like a lunatic since he saw the hole
clawed in the casino tent, wound up because he was certain he’d see his first
“real live monster” soon.

Johnson heard my comment. “Tyson’s been assigned to the
lights.”

Relieved, I finished my dinner as fast as I could. I had
plans for the evening. “I’m going to go check the trail myself, if it’s okay.”

Uncle Mike frowned. “You need to take back up. I’m not
sending anyone out alone.”

I glanced at Brandt. “You want to come?”

“No,” Mike answered for him. “We need a wielder here as
cover. Take Johnson and Lanningham.”

Johnson stood and stretched, blocking out the sun with his
ginormous back. “I’ll go get my rifle.”

I shook my head as he strode away, calling for Lanningham.
“When will these guys stop carrying rifles into the field? Bullets have
never
worked.”

“Force of habit, Chief,” Uncle Mike said. “There are still
some dangers out there a rifle will stop. I don’t want to lose a wielder
because a pack of hyenas dragged you off for dinner.”

Good point. “We’ll be back before sunset. I don’t want to be
caught out after dark.”

I took off for the spot at the edge of camp where we lost
Peters. Lanningham and Johnson met me there. Johnson had his rifle; Lanningham
did, too. Once we were outside the razor coil, I knelt down where the blood
trail started. It had congealed in a thick puddle that pulled out to the west
as Peters had been dragged away. I followed it, the sound of the wind and the
crunch of boots on grass and sand the only sounds in my world. As Johnson had
reported, the trail went a quarter-mile, then vanished next to a large rock.

I unsheathed my knife, then motioned to Lanningham. We bent
and rolled the rock over a few paces. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see
underneath it, but I was kind of hoping for something to explain how an injured
man just disappeared. I thought maybe these monsters had a tunnel, like the
Gators had used in Peru.

What we found under the rock was weirder than that.

A pentagram—burned into the dirt.

“What the hell?” I murmured, reaching out to touch it.

NO!
Tink shouted.

I snatched my hand back. “What is it?”

Our enemy has been here.
Tink sounded outraged…and a
little frightened.

“Should I put the rock back?” I asked, wondering if monsters
were about to start pouring out of the ground.

Yes…but it’s too late. They’ve already been called. I
wondered why they arrived before the blood-red moon. Now I understand. Someone
was here before us and called the darkness.

I closed my eyes a moment. It was like all the rules were
changing yet again. Every time I thought we had a handle on things, the war
took a flying leap forward. The first eclipse opened the door to these
creatures. No, the eclipse and the
knives
had opened the door—Jorge had
allowed more than just the knife-spirits into our world when he made the blades.
And the dark creatures kept flooding in, no matter what we did. I shuddered,
wondering what the second set of lunar eclipses would bring.

No time to waste, Matt,
Tink insisted.
We must
prepare. They will come tonight.

Of course they would.

“Lanningham, we need to put the rock back,” I said. “Then we
need to return to camp. We’ve got incoming.”