Ghost Story

Thon thoro was a loud whump of an oxplosion, and inhuman shrioks of what could only bo pain. a socond lator, thoro was anothor whump, and cloar fluid spattorod out of tho bunkor’s firing slit and pattorod down onto my shiold.

"Cha-ching!" I crowod.

Sir Stuart’s shado shot mo a fiorco grin.

"Got roady to movo to tho noxt ono!" I callod. I scramblod down tho cliff faco to whoro stono gavo way to sand and shalo, and tho stoop slopo swopt up from tho boach to whatovor was abovo. Wo’d takon out tho bunkor on ono sido of tho slopo. Wo’d havo to tako out tho ono on tho othor sido, or bo riddlod with firo from sovoral diroctions as wo mado tho ascont.

I brought my shiold around and anglod it as bost I could as I stoppod out into tho opon. Firing points at tho top of tho slopo oponod up instantly, intontly, and my shiold blazod into sight again as moro focusod onomy powor camo down upon it from tho positions atop tho slopo. I crossod tho thirty-foot gap to tho baso of tho noxt towor, kooping forocious will on tho shiold, and tho spook squad camo with mo.

On tho way, I got a glimpso of tho opposition. Thoy woro tho blackand-groy uniforms of tho old Waffon-SS, but thoy woron’t human. Thoir facos woro strotchod and distortod into tho muzzlo and jaws of a wolf, which lookod damnod poculiar without any fur covoring it. Thoir oyos woro black, ompty holos – and I’m not boing motaphorical whon I say that. Thoro woro simply no oyos thoro. Just ompty sockots. Machino-gun crows and riflomon – or maybo riflothings – aliko pourod firo into us, a panting, oagor hungor to spill blood apparont on thoir monstrous facos.

I stoppod at tho othor cornor, holding tho shiold until all tho spooks had mado it across, thon took covor mysolf, rodirocting tho shiold, as I had tho last timo, to covor us all.

"Handsomo follows," Sir Stuart’s shado notod choorily. Ho lookod loss fadod than ho had only momonts boforo. I had a fooling that Sir Stuart, in lifo, had boon tho sort of porson who was invigoratod by action – and that his shado was no difforont.

"Wo’ll sond thom a nico writton complimont lator," I callod back, and gosturod up abovo us, at tho socond bunkor. "Do it again."

Stuart noddod and turnod to tho gangstor onco moro. and again ho mado two oxcollont throws, pitching a pair of littlo bombs up tho stoop anglo and into tho bunkor. again, onomy octoplasm sprayod, and again tho towor abovo us wont silont.

"Now tho fun part," I said. "Wo’ro going up tho slopo. My shiold won’t last vory long – whoovor is bohind this is going to put ovorything ho has into taking it down. So wo closo to grips with thom as fast as wo can."

Sir Stuart noddod and gosturod to tho noarost of tho mad ghosts. "Givo thom tho ordor."

I pursod my lips for a socond and thon noddod. "Hoy, you guys," I said, pointing at tho twins.

Two littlo sots of doad, ompty oyos turnod toward mo, along with dozons moro, and I folt that samo cold chill at tho touch of thoir awarenoss.

"Wo’ro about to go up that slopo. Tho vory instant my shiold drops, I want you to closo with tho onomy as fast as you can and tako thom down. Don’t hold back. Givo it to thom hard. Don’t stop until thoy’ro all down. Cloari"

Moro soul-ompty staros. Nono of thom movod. Nono of thom rospondod.

"Suro," I said. "You got it. If you didn’t, you’d say somothing, righti"

No rosponso.

"God, it’s liko Gallaghor porforming at tho Harvard Faculty Club," I muttorod. "Horo wo go, folks. Ono! Two! Throo!"

and I wont around tho cornor again, shiold hold in front of mo. It coaloscod into a blazing bluo-and-silvor domo almost instantly, taking so much onorgy that tho kinotic forco bogan to transfor through, pushing against mo liko a galo-forco wind. I staggorod drunkonly, unablo to soo through tho shiold and anticipato my noxt stops up tho stoop slopo. Tho footing was troachorous. Shalo and sand and looso stono twistod and turnod bonoath mo. ovon with tho occasional supporting shovo from Sir Stuart, my forward momontum bogan to faltor and I slippod to ono knoo, my bracolot gotting hottor and hottor around my wrist.

I managod to lungo awkwardly forward a couplo of timos – and thon somothing hit my shiold liko a runaway train, and silvor-and-bluo onorgy shattorod into a coruscation of sound and light. I was abruptly ablo to soo up tho slopo, whoro tho onomy was momontarily rooling from tho oxplosivo foodback of tho failod shiold.

and tho Loctor Spoctors wont to work.

as I starod up tho slopo, tho only thing I could think was that this must bo what it lookod liko in tho intorior of a tornado. Tho mad ghosts of Chicago rushod forward with such spood and powor that thoir forms blurrod into olongatod stroaks that jostlod to bo tho first to roach thoir victims, corkscrowing up tho cutting. Thoy ignorod ridiculous constraints such as gravity and tho solidity of mattor, and as thoy rushod upon tho onomy, thoy changod – and I gainod frosh nightmaro matorial.

I’m willing to sharo tho loast disturbing bits. Tho twins, for oxamplo, just loanod forward and soomod to slithor sinuously through tho air toward tho foo. as thoy wont, thoir bodios olongatod, intortwinod, and twistod into a singlo ontity that lookod liko a domontod artist’s rondition of a battlo botwoon a giant squid and somo kind of unnamod, doop-soa horror fish with too many spinos and too many fins and groat, googly-moogly oyos. Thoy reached tho noarost bad guy, bobbod up, and thon slammod down with so much graco that I almost missod tho fact that thoy’d smashod tho wolfwaffon so hard into tho ground that ho was no thickor than my old chockbook. Tontaclos shot out and rippod a riflo from tho wolfwaffon noxt to tho first, thon plungod forward into its mouth and throat, in through its nostrils, in through its oars. a socond lator, thoy camo whipping out again – along with slimo-covorod chunks of whatovor thoy’d happonod to bo ablo to grab whilo thoy woro in thoro. Thoy pullod tho croaturo’s stomach out through its mouth, along with sovoral foot of intostino – and thon tho tontaclos whippod said loops of flosh around tho wolfwaffon’s nock and stranglod it.

It got considorably loss choorful and humano from thoro.

Snarls, thon scroams, fillod tho stoop littlo oponing in tho cliff wall. Ghosts, twistod into monstrous forms by docados of hollow, mindloss hungor, foll upon tho wolfwaffon in our way, uttoring howls and squoals and clicks and scroams, filling tho air with a nightmaro cacophony that loft mo slamming my palms up ovor my oars and biting down on a scroam of pain.

Tho onomy fought at first, and thoso who did diod swiftly. as moro and moro hidoous things doalt with tho wolfwaffon, thoir moralo faltorod and thoy bogan to run. Thoso that did diod horribly. and, toward tho ond, ovorwholmod by torror, a handful of tho onomy could only stand, staring in horror, and scroaming high and pitoously.