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  REQUIEM FOR THE BURNING GOD

  Shane Jiraiya Cummings

  Praise for Requiem for the Burning God:

  "Requiem for the Burning God is a fantastic blend of pulp adventure and Lovecraftian horror. Once again, Shane Jiraiya Cummings delivers a cracking tale, and proves he is still one of Australia's leading voices in dark fantasy fiction."

  — David Conyers, author of The Spiraling Worm

  "Like the stories of Robert E. Howard and L. Ron Hubbard before it, Requiem for the Burning God reminds us great pulp fiction isn't dead but very much alive and waiting to thrill us all over again. Mr. Cummings' action sequences and dialog are as lively as the New World Industries' plot for mankind is sinister. Don't miss this one!"

  — Benjamin Kane Ethridge, author of Black & Orange

  "This is a story of epic scope and grand pulp-style adventure, with everything from flesh-eating ooze to biplanes dogfighting zeppelins over the Pacific Ocean, that comes across almost like Bulldog Drummond vs The Great Old Ones. Not only a fun and exciting read, Requiem for the Burning God is the sort of story that I wish my role-playing sessions ran like!"

  — Andrew J. McKiernan, HorrorScope

  #

  Copyright © Shane Jiraiya Cummings 2011.

  ISBN: 9780987076809

  A print version appears in the anthology Cthulhu's Dark Cults, ed. David Conyers (Chaosium, 2010, ISBN 9781568822358).

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Except in the case of short-term lending, if you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  No reference to any living person is intended.

  #

  Books by Shane Jiraiya Cummings:

  The Ravenous Gods cycle:

  Requiem for the Burning God.

  Dreams of Destruction (an Australian Shadows Award winner!)

  "Graveyard Orbit" in Cthulhu Mythos Writers Sampler 2013.

  Collections:

  The Abandonment of Grace and Everything After (Brimstone Press)

  Shards

  Print version illustrated by Andrew J. McKiernan (Brimstone Press)

  Apocrypha Sequence: Deviance

  Apocrypha Sequence: Divinity

  Apocrypha Sequence: Inferno

  Apocrypha Sequence: Insanity

  Novellas:

  The Mist Ninja

  The Smoke Dragon

  Chapbooks:

  The Song of Prague

  Shards: Damned and Burning, illustrated by Andrew J. McKiernan (Brimstone Press)

  Edited Anthologies:

  Rage Against the Night (Brimstone Press) – an Amazon bestseller!

  Black Box (Brimstone Press)

  Shadow Box (Brimstone Press)

  Australian Dark Fantasy & Horror Volume One (Brimstone Press)

  Robots and Time (Altair Australia Books)

  #

  Chapter 1

  October 1932. Lima, Peru.

  A week at sea was one thing; a Pacific storm adding a day to the voyage and wobbling Max’s sea legs was something else altogether. Used to the constant downpour, the gloom, and the isolation for seven very long days, he was caught off guard by the glare of the dawn sun and the noise as he disembarked the gangplank onto the Callao docks.

  A man with ferret features pushed through a knot of wiry, brown-skinned dock workers. "You Calder?"

  "Who's asking?"

  "The name's Neville." He extended a hand, which Max shook with the curtness of a professional. "C'mon. The others are in the truck." Neville thumbed at an open-backed truck parked on the dock. The paint job looked fresh, with a prominent New World Incorporated logo emblazoned in red on the door.

  The four men sitting in the back, all white, wore uniforms that matched the newness of the truck. Three clutched rifles. The Peruvian dock workers circled wide of the truck. For their part, the NWI men watched everyone with suspicion.

  "Those are German rifles, right? Mauser Karbines?" Calder asked.

  "Very good, Mr Calder." Neville stroked his chin. "You know your guns."

  "That's what I told your man in San Francisco. That's why I'm here, I guess."

  "Yes, yes. Tell me, Mr Calder, are you a Max or a Maximillian?"

  "I'm a Maximillian but Max will do."

  "Very well then, Max. I can't place your accent. South African?"

  "Displaced British, actually."

  "Displaced?"

  "Yeah." Calder kept his eyes ahead, studying the NWI recruits who, in turn, studied him as he approached.

  Neville waved a hand at the truck. "Up you go, Mr Calder. Make yourself as comfortable as possible. The trip to the mountains is long and arduous to say the least."

  As Max tossed his backpack up into the truck, Neville opened the passenger door and stepped up. "A word of advice, Mr Calder." Neville paused on the threshold of the cabin. "Keep your eyes open for trouble. President Cerro's government may welcome New World Incorporated but some of the locals are less enthusiastic about our presence. These are difficult times, and you know why you're here." As if to emphasise the point, Neville pivoted to reveal the handle of a Colt 45 auto jutting from his belt.

  Max nodded. Both men climbed into the truck: Neville into the cabin, Max into the back with the four NWI mercenaries.

  The truck rumbled into life and manoeuvred between stacks of crates and dock workers.

  "Maximillian Calder." Max extended his hand to his fellow passengers. "But Max will do."

  They each shook his hand in turn: Pendle, a moon-faced Kentucky lad, broad and muscled but still settling into a man's frame; a lean older man named Smith who clutched too tightly to his rifle; MacKenzie, a stout, bearded man a few years older than Calder, with a trace of a Scottish brogue; and Dirke, whose eyes were calculating like he'd been at this business too long.

  "Welcome to Peru, Max." Pendle said after introductions had been made. The tightly-packed buildings of Lima passed them by, a jumble of modern brick and glass wedged between white-washed Spanish arches and more primitive mud-built dwellings. The air was crisp and cool but carried the smells of livestock, faeces, and diesel fuel.

  "Where are we headed?" Max asked of no one in particular.

  "A speck on the map called Huancucho, up in the mountains." MacKenzie pointed to the mountain range that dominated the eastern horizon. "The job's an old mine site up the mountain from Huancucho a ways. Didn't they tell you what's what, lad?"

  Max shook his head. "Wasn't curious then. Just needed a reason to get away for a while. The pay was all the information I needed."

  "Know how to handle a gun, Calder?" Dirke pulled a Mauser automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Max's chest.

  "Steady on," MacKenzie grumbled.

  "I know enough not to point my gun at people unless I'm intending to do something about it, Mr Dirke," Max said.

  Dirke searched the faces of his colleagues, hoping to find support in their eyes. When he didn't, he muttered and holstered his weapon, eyeing off Calder all the while.

  Unbeknownst to Dirke and the others, Max relaxed his grip on his revolver, which was tucked under the flap of his shirt. The Webley was warm in his grip and buzzed with static electricity as he pried his fingers away, almost reluctantly, one at a time.

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the men as the truck continued its bumpy course through the streets of Lima. Cald
er tuned out the sights and sounds of the city, choosing to concentrate on the job ahead and his next move. Only the off-key tune of a flute pierced his thoughts, coming from some far-off corner of Lima and carried over the ebb and flow bustle of the streets.

  The tune tickled Max's ear in a most peculiar way, the notes rising when he expected them to fall, lingering when they should have been cut short, as though the flautist was an idiot-savant, a maestro without rhythm or a feel for the instrument. The tune lingered in Max's mind well beyond Lima's limits as the truck climbed onwards and upwards into the Peruvian Andes.

  #

  "Where'd all the people go?" Pendle asked.

  "Aye," MacKenzie said. "You'd think after that ride, there'd be someone here to greet us."

  The journey through the mountains had been slow and treacherous, with the road, at times, dwindling to barely wider than a goat track. Only the last few hundred yards of road leading into Huancucho outpost were straight, with a sizable chunk of the mountainside hewn away to broaden the path for trucks to pass side-by-side. At the end of their journey, Smith was even more ashen-faced than he appeared at the docks, clutching his rifle tighter. The others remained tense.

  Huancucho looked to be a shanty town of a few dozens dwellings with only two or three substantial buildings at the centre of the sprawl. Except for a group of llamas tethered to the side of the largest building, which Max took to be a cantina or trading post, not a soul stirred.

  The truck rumbled up the last portion of road and came to a halt next to the trading post. The building looked in good condition; its timber struts and white-washed walls appeared sound. Waist-high spatterings of mud were the only signs of neglect. A few of the llamas grunted as the truck pulled in close. The herd struggled against their ropes.

  The truck idled for a full minute before the engine was finally turned off. As the others disembarked on shaky legs, Max glimpsed what he guessed were half a dozen large trucks parked on the far side of the building. A tarpaulin had been draped over them, ensuring the exact number was a mystery without closer inspection. A portion of an NWI logo on the nearest truck peeked out from beneath the tarp.

  Neville slammed the passenger door shut as he exited the truck's cab, snatching his attention. Max sensed more than saw Pendle start at the noise.

  "How long has this place been deserted, Mr Neville?" Max asked.

  Neville turned and regarded Max for a moment, just long enough for his attention to become uncomfortable. "Since the NWI mine was abandoned."

  "And how long ago was that?"

  "You're full of questions, aren't you?" Neville tugged on his khaki shirt and straightened his back.

  "Six months?" Max probed.

  "Three or four years ago, if you must know." Neville turned and moved toward the llamas, gesturing at the Peruvian driver to untether the animals.

  "Chatty fellow," Pendle whispered to Max.

  Smith went over to help the driver with the llamas. Dirke followed but tardily, glancing back at Pendle and MacKenzie, who had edged in close to Max.

  "Careful, lad," MacKenzie muttered to Max. "You'd best not get on the wrong side of him if you're wanting to get paid."

  Max ignored the warning but kept his voice low. "This village hasn't been deserted for long. No more than a few weeks. Look there." Max pointed to one of the shanties. "People this poor don't abandon steel pots."

  Inside the open doorway, light glinted off a large metal stew pot sitting on a table.

  "Aye," MacKenzie said. He stood there a moment, nodded, and then went to help the others with the llamas.

  Max followed, leaving Pendle mesmerised by the dented old pot.

  "Get those packs on," Neville said. "We got that ahead of us." He pointed to a path that wound upward out of the village through spiny bushes and rocks. The trail meandered hundreds of feet up the slope before it disappeared from view.

  After strapping their equipment and supplies to the llamas, Max and the others walked their animals over to the trail. With Neville's Peruvian manservant in the lead, followed by Neville, they began the long, steep climb.

  As they gained elevation over Huancucho and the surrounding valley, Max studied the layout of the town. Although partially obscured by the trading post and a few smaller buildings, the covered trucks he'd spied earlier were clear to his trained eye.

  Directly below his current position on the trail, Max noted the entrance to a ground-level mine shaft that bordered Huancucho. The shaft probably tunnelled right beneath their feet and into the depths of the mountain, but even with the occasional board rotted away, the roofed enclosure at the shaft's mouth prevented anything more than speculation.

  "Mr Neville," Max called to the man ahead of him.

  "What?"

  "I thought you said the NWI mine site was high above Huancucho." Max pointed to the shaft enclosure below.

  MacKenzie scowled at him and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Max waved the Scotsman down in a short, sharp motion, hiding the action from Neville behind the flank of his llama.

  "It is, Mr Calder," Neville said. "That old thing down there was boarded up long before New World Incorporated ever got here."

  "Tin mine?"

  "How the hell would I know?" Neville scratched his nose. "Probably gold."

  Max nodded.

  The others held to silence as the air began to thin and their lungs and limbs burned from the climb. Max, too, settled into the silence, copying the others as they kept themselves alert for signs of danger.

  Somewhere above, the NWI mining camp and their job waited.

  #

  The mining camp was strewn with debris. Much of it was rusted drilling and crushing machine parts from the years New World Incorporated had been mining the higher reaches of the mountain for tin.

  The air was thinner and cool, robbing the afternoon sun of its warmth.

  "It's a sight, isn't it?" MacKenzie pointed to the horizon behind them. Other mountains loomed nearby, their presence clear and uninterrupted. The valleys below were obscured by the shadows of a premature evening. Although the view was panoramic, the crispness tricked the eye into seeing the other mountains as crowding in. To men addled by the sparse air and jostle of llamas, the nearby mountains took on a claustrophobic closeness.

  Pendle drew in a deep breath and nodded.

  They had lost sight of Huancucho at the mountain's base more than an hour before as their trek took them ever higher and further towards the eastern slope, passing into shadow. Other trails had criss-crossed the main path to the mining camp. Most had been distinguished only by the lack of shrubs and bulges of rock. Some seemingly ended at broad, impassable rockfaces.

  Neville had appeared especially nervous and watchful when approaching these goat tracks, as he called them. His llama had bucked and grunted almost every time they crossed one.

  The NWI camp was on a plateau about halfway up the eastern slope. Most of the buildings appeared long-disused; the timber walls were caked knee-high with mud from recent rains. Spiny shrubs that were sparse further down the mountain had taken hold inside the perimeter, some intruding on the commons in isolated patches, others pressed against the wire fence.

  Several buildings were still in good condition. Two were large enough to be a barracks or recreation hall but most were hut-sized or slightly larger. Like the abandoned buildings, they were all constructed of timber with the exception of one of the larger ones, which was built of stone and had white-washed walls similar in style to Huancucho's trading post. Max took it to be the camp commander's. The strangest building, and probably the newest addition, was a flimsy-looking steel scaffold tower adjacent to one of the barracks. The tower was easily twice the height of the next tallest building and housed a staircase that led to nowhere. A ladder was bolted to either side of the staircase scaffold.

  There was little to distinguish the mountainside around the camp from the earlier terrain they had seen. The higher they had travelled, the more gnarled the outcroppi
ngs had become. As Max and the others dismounted from their llamas and began unhooking their packs and equipment, he studied the terrain above the camp. From what little he could see, the shrubbery so prevalent on the camp's plateau gave way to increasingly rugged patches of dark rock. Three or four prominent ledges and boulder clusters immediately above the camp offered good vantage points. Max noted them and the path that meandered from the camp past two of them, before he returned to unsaddling his pack.

  The wind was constant, amplified, at times, by the hollows of the machinery. Although the wind outshrieked the chirping of a few meagre insects hidden in the shrubs and surrounding rocks, Max was aware of their presence nonetheless. After unhitching his pack, he closed his eyes and allowed the interplay of sounds and the smell of mud and rocks to wash over him.

  "Where do we bunk?" Pendle asked.

  Neville pointed towards the centre of the camp. A cluster of a half dozen timber buildings were linked by electricity cables attached to their eaves. A generator was nestled next to what appeared to be a shuttered-up recreation hall, connected to the cables like a bloated spider at the centre of a web.

  "The old guest quarters, when visiting scientists used to stay onsite," Neville said. "You get to share the small one on the end. Gives you a chance to acquaint yourselves." His front teeth stuck out in an unpleasant smile. "There's a shower out back, but we're on tank water so take it easy."

  "You shower much in Kentucky, Pendle?" Dirke's voice was devoid of humour.

  Pendle reddened and glanced at his boots.

  "I'll wager a good meal that the lad bathes more than you." MacKenzie clapped Pendle on the shoulder. The younger man hesitated and then smiled.

  Dirke scowled, hefted his bag, and made for the guest quarters. Max and the others exchanged glances and soon followed, except Smith, who continued to study the camp. The walk across the open ground was made treacherous by recent rains. Mud clung as lubricant to the soles of their boots.

  Neville's manservant gathered the reins of the llamas and led them to a large, half-covered pen near the camp gates.