Requiem for the Burning God Read online

  Before the Germans could move in on Dirke, he dashed behind the still-stunned Pendle and subdued him with a choke hold, holding his automatic pistol to the side of his head.

  It took Max a moment to realise what was happening. "Dirke, what in Hell's name are you doing?"

  "Fixing your mistake, Calder." Dirke spat a bloodied tooth from his mouth.

  The Germans were hesitant. Some kept watch on the labourers while others aimed their weapons in Dirke's direction or at Max's position. The Peruvian slaves cowered where they stood, too brow-beaten to flee or fight back using the distraction.

  "Very good, Herr Dirke. You show character in a hopeless situation." Lehmann clapped his hands with deliberate slowness three times.

  "I have nothing to do with Calder, Mr Lehmann. I just want to do my job and get paid. You and Commander Harris are my bosses. I don't care what all this is." Dirke waved the gun to indicate the cavern. "Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it. I'm your man."

  "We'll see about that, Herr Dirke," Lehmann said.

  "Max," Pendle squeaked, realising his position. "Help me, Max." Pendle's eyes darted back and forth from Max hiding behind the column to the unconscious MacKenzie several feet away.

  "Come out, Calder," Dirke said. "Forget the hero act."

  "Let the kid go, Dirke." Max said.

  "Herr Dirke," Lehmann motioned with his machine gun. "Move the young man to the pool."

  At first, Dirke didn't understand the instruction, but when Lehmann repeated the gesture with his machine gun, the notion fell into place.

  "Dirke, no!" Max shouted.

  "Max!" Pendle struggled but was too stunned to make any headway against Dirke's chokehold. Dirke jerked the younger man's head in the lock, nearly throwing him to the ground, and tightened the hold until Pendle gasped for air and stopped struggling. The patch of blood on Pendle's shirt expanded with the effort.

  Dirke positioned Pendle immediately next to one of the larger pools of the grey-black ooze.

  "Come out, Herr Captain." Lehmann goaded. "And I'll not have your young friend shot."

  A moment passed and then Max stepped from his hiding spot, both hands in the air. "Let him go, Lehmann."

  "Very well. Herr Dirke, release our young friend. I'm a sporting man, Herr Calder. If he can swim across the pool, I shall spare both of your lives. You have my word."

  Pendle hesitated.

  Dirke backed away, his pistol held defensively forward.

  "Don't do it, Pendle. Not on your life or mine," Max said.

  "It's only ten yards at most. I can do it, Max."

  "No kid, don't!"

  But Pendle ignored Max's advice, stepping knee high into the pool of ooze. He didn't get any further.

  On contact, the skin on his leg cracked open and wept red and black fluid. Pendle screamed such a raw, hysterical scream that Max covered his ears—the first time he'd ever denied a dying man his last words. Most of the slaves, too, covered their ears and averted their eyes. Thankfully, Pendle's shriek was cut short almost instantly but its echo lingered throughout the cavern and for much longer in Max's mind.

  The ragged wounds on Pendle's leg consumed the rest of his body in a moment. At the same time, he shrivelled inwards as though he were hollowed out and deflated. His eyes rolled back into his head and vanished. His arms and legs jellied to bonelessness, followed by his head, which sagged and lolled backwards like a hood on a skin-suit coat. In little more than a heartbeat, Pendle's husk slumped forward into the ooze, which swelled upwards to swallow him. In another heartbeat, his corpse was consumed; any sign that Pendle had ever existed had vanished into the ooze.

  Max was ashen and steadfastly refused to look at the pool that claimed Pendle's life. Dirke, too, was drained of all colour. His eyes were almost comically wide, his rictus grin a cross between a snarl and a scream. He backed away from the ooze until he reached one of the cavern walls and could go no further. He held his pistol arm arrow-straight, fending off any and all comers. A few of the closer NWI men eyed him warily and backed away.

  Again, the sound of Lehmann's laugh focussed Max's attention.

  "Good sport, your young friend." Lehmann said. "But I'm afraid he did not make it to the other side. I will have to kill you now."

  Max didn't allow Lehmann's final words to leave his mouth. He bolted. The first bullets whizzed by as he made a headlong dash for one of the adjoining caves he'd spied earlier.

  The cave led onto a long, deep passageway. He was almost immediately plunged into darkness. More bullets whirred past him, the sound of the shots like a chain of fireworks going off in the main cavern. His footing became progressively worse and progressively wetter with each step. Behind him, two, three, perhaps four sets of boots thumped in pursuit. The gunfire had ceased.

  Every step, ragged breath, and brush of stone against skin stretched into one endless black moment. With every noise amplified, the Germans sounded as though they were right on his heels. Blood hammered through his ears.

  He slammed his shoulder into something rough and unyielding, which brought him to a jarring halt and knocked the wind out of him. Agony burned its way through his shoulder. His fingers throbbed with the pain every heartbeat. He willed himself onwards even as he fought for each breath. The darkness was absolute, but he pressed ahead at a reckless jog, trusting in his hands—one out in front of him, the other in contact with the cave wall.

  A thump and a cry of pain, followed by a frenetic exchange in German, echoed its way to him. Despite the numbness of his fingers as they scrapped across rocks, the cold spreading through his legs, and the fire in his shoulder and neck flaring with every shock to his body, he allowed himself a smile at the enemies' misfortune. One of them had no doubt come to grief on the same rock formation that knocked the wind from him. Far behind him, a glimmer of yellow light emerged from the darkness.

  The NWI men had lit one of their lamps, confining themselves into a small sphere of light.

  He continued jogging onwards and downwards, stumbling more and more in the ankle-deep water but trying his best not to make much noise. Sparing backwards glances every few moments, the lamp of his enemies steadily dwindled until it was all but a memory. The darkness claimed him once more.

  The further he went, the louder the trickling water became, dampening his own splashing steps. The approaching trickle grew into the sound of an underground stream, perhaps even rapids or a waterfall. The Germans behind him had fallen silent. He pressed ahead.

  A sudden breath of cold air from his left halted him. He groped in search of the wall but found nothing but air. Allowing himself a minute to feel around for the rocks, he came upon a crack in the wall. Squeezing into it was an incredibly tight fit and cold to the point of numbing. He gritted his teeth against the pain when his shoulder pressed into the rock, but he managed to climb through without making much noise.

  Max groped around the crack, finding it extended into a labyrinthine network of similar fissures, many too small to accommodate his frame. He penetrated deeper into the network of passageways, levering himself through crevices, fighting with pain and numbness, until at last, he found a pocket where he could stand without hitting his head and turn around without too much inconvenience. There, in a deeper and darker form of trench warfare, he waited for the Germans. But this was no Great War, he reminded himself, this was something much worse.

  He waited that way for his own private eternity. His Webley was a warm counterpoint to the cave and the anchor against darker thoughts and even darker realities.

  At one indeterminable point, he heard the very faint echo of footfalls in some far flung cavern connected to his labyrinth of crevices, but that was as close as the NWI men came to discovering him.

  Nestled womb-deep into a darkness never to be touched by the light of day, Max succumbed to fatigue. His breathing grew shallow and his fingers twitched. The taste of blood was rich and salty on his tongue. When he was too numbed to care whether he was discovered
or not, horror overcame him. The last noises that intruded on his thoughts were a constant dripping in a nearby fissure, the process of a new stalagmite being born, and a faint but almost welcome tune, wordless and without reason but existing nonetheless. A tune played by a flautist, perhaps a mind like his, trapped in a dark place and suddenly bereft of cosmic order.

  There, deep in the darkness, Max Calder allowed himself to dream of many things: of dark, soulless entities that ooze and devour, of the sacrifices needed to do what is right, of the revolver, tingling, still heavy in his grasp, and of the cleansing fire that would mark his revenge.

  #

  Chapter 4

  Light speared between the boards from the world outside, criss-crossing the enclosed end of the mine shaft. The slivers of sunlight were painful in their brightness, deepening the shadows with the contrast. It could have been morning or afternoon for all Max knew, but he had little time to worry about the hour. Lehmann had completed his mission. The cavern had been stripped of its malevolent ooze, the native slaves and his injured friend MacKenzie had been cleared out along with it.

  After what could have been a lifetime of dreams from his dark self-imposed tomb, surrendering to and then subduing the pains that plagued his body and mind, he had emerged, bent on revenge and stopping whatever New World Incorporated had planned.

  He had found the NWI excavation cavern empty and descending into shadows as the few remaining torches sputtered on their dregs. At the centre of what had been the largest of the ooze pools, a huge glyph of arcane design had been chiselled inches deep into the bedrock. The symbol was dizzying to look at, which made holding the image in his mind difficult. He rationalised it as like a flower comprised of short, scratchy lines but bent in the middle as though about to be snapped by an invisible hand. The design was reminiscent of the symbol etched into the handle of his Webley. The revolver tingled in its holster the moment he made the connection.

  Although wary, Max had forced himself to stand over the giant glyph. There, he found the tiniest portion of ooze deep within one of the chiselled lines. Against his better judgement, and with a churning stomach, he had scraped the handful of ooze into his empty water canteen with the aid of a nearby flat rock. With Pendle's bizarre and ghastly demise uppermost in his thoughts, he had been careful not to touch the stuff. He had then picked his way clear of the network of empty rock beds to follow the a-frame pulley system, but his eyes stubbornly refused to look at the pool where Pendle had died. He'd needed to look, to somehow mark the young man's passing, but something deeper within him denied it.

  He had suffered the meandering, poorly lit trek up the gently-inclined mine shaft with a heavy heart.

  Pushing the dark thoughts aside, Max heaved his weight into the timber gate that sealed the mine shut. It shuddered and the three shiny new chains stretched taut. He pushed with all his weight, straining his shoulder in the attempt, but the chains held. The best he achieved was a fist-width sliver of daylight. Escape appeared impossible. Three heavy duty padlocks secured the chains and the links were each the thickness of his thumb. He glanced at his revolver but only half-heartedly, deciding almost immediately against wasting bullets. He was saving those for Lehmann and as many NWI lackeys as he could find.

  He moved to the side of the enclosure, squinting as a particularly bright shaft of light fell across his face. He grabbed at one of the damaged wall planks and pulled a large splinter free with little effort. A few kicks later, he crashed through a sizable hole in the wall, emerging into the day in a hail of rotting timber shards. The exertion throbbed his injured shoulder, but he was free!

  From his vantage point on the low rise, the township of Huancucho was spread before him only a hundred yards away. In a few short days, Huancucho had lost its ghost town charm and looked truly dead. A section of shanties closest to the Lima road had been burnt to the ground. Their ruins still smouldered; fragile plumes of smoke twisted at the mercy of the breeze. In the open area next to the trading post, the huge tarpaulin that once covered several NWI trucks had been discarded without ceremony and tossed to the mud. Three or four lumps pushed up from beneath the tarp. He didn't need to guess what they were. It was more a matter of who.

  As his gaze swept across the town, a repeated mechanical tick, followed by an engine roaring into life, drew his attention to a section of the Lima road on the edge of town partially obscured by a ramshackle house. At first Max wasn't sure what the fin-like protrusions were on the side of the house, but within moments, he recognised the configuration: the tip of a biplane wing. It was not jutting from the house, although his angle made it appear so. The biplane was on the road just beyond the house. The straight, wide section of the Lima road must have doubled as a makeshift aeroplane landing strip in the glory days of the NWI mine.

  Max unholstered his revolver and went in search of the pilot.

  He crept through the deserted town, dashing from building to building in an attempt to remain hidden. His advance through Huancucho brought him to the edge of the tarpaulin and the lumps beneath. His heart hammered as he approached. He held his breath as he lifted the tarp.

  The stench of decay hit him in the face with its force. Four Huari men lay face down in the mud, arms and legs akimbo. All but the nearest man was emaciated and covered in whiplash scars. The closest Huari was wiry but well-muscled. His death was most obvious: he had three bullet wounds, one near the shoulder and two in the centre of his back, either side of his spine. The wounds were dark like the ooze found in the mountain. More blood had crusted in a complex weave along the hollows of the man's back.

  Max closed his eyes, shook his head, and then lowered the tarp when he noticed the side of the man's face. It was bruised—this man had been Dirke's prisoner on the mountainside before Harris and Lehmann had their way.

  Max clenched his jaw tight, balled his free fist, and continued on his way.

  Soon, with few dwellings to shield him from the open stretch to the biplane, Max caught sight of the enemy.

  That murderous German son-of-a-bitch. Lehmann.

  The German slouched across one of the plane's wings, enjoying a cigarette and seemingly engrossed in his own thoughts.

  The bastard was caught unawares, off guard, out in the open. The shot was Max's for the taking.

  He aimed his revolver, wavering between taking the fatal shot or winging Lehmann so he could suffer as Pendle and the Huari had. Before he resolved his course, a rustle of cloth alerted him to something inside the open doorway of a shanty house to his left. Max caught sight of two bright muzzle flashes as he dived for cover behind a low stone wall. The sound of the gunshots and their impact just inches from his face followed him as he thudded to the ground. Max ignored the mud staining his shirt and trousers, and the flare of pain from throwing himself flat. He returned fire on instinct, barely pausing to aim. Two shots. They were followed by a grunt and a soft thud.

  "Sehr gut!" Lehmann called over the noise of his plane's engine. "You do not disappoint, Herr Calder!"

  Max raised his gun over the low wall and fired on the German, scoring a hole in the wing inches from Lehmann. The German flinched before he caught himself.

  Seconds later, Lehmann had his MP28 in hand and fired on Max with abandon. Bullets zipped through the air. Still more slammed into the stone wall, shaking loose stones free and puncturing sizable gouges in Max's cover. Lehmann's snarl as he sprayed the area with his sub-machinegun was part mania and part joy.

  The instant the hail of rounds abated, Max jammed his Webley through a hole in the wall and blasted once, twice, willing the rounds to hit home. The second one did, spraying a mist of blood from the German's thigh. The leg buckled, toppling Lehmann. He fell with that lunatic grin still plastered on his face. His weapon tumbled free.

  Before Lehmann had hit the ground, Max vaulted the wall and charged in. He made it about halfway, clearing the side of the trading post, when a glimpse of grey to his right forced him into a defensive roll toward one of the burnt-ou
t shanties.

  The rest came to him as a jumble. He landed in a crouch, smeared with mud, but with only the charcoal skeleton of a doorframe, he was exposed. The NWI man he'd spied had advanced and levelled his Karbine, with Max dead in his sights. A glimpse of movement on the mountainside trail a hundred yards away. The shot came: distant, resounding, like a peal of thunder from afar. His NWI assailant's side bloomed in a sudden crimson flower beneath his shirt. The man buckled to his knees, dropped his rifle, and dabbed at the blood on his shirt. Horror dawned on his face.

  A heartbeat passed. Maybe two.

  Max sprang at the rifleman, hauling him to his feet. The wounded man was barely conscious by the time Max had rounded on Lehmann, using the German's underling as a human shield. Sparing a glance at the mountainside, he spotted Neville, his manservant, and three llamas descending the last portion of the trail. Both men had weapons drawn; the manservant's rifle was smoking from the muzzle.

  "Herr Calder," Lehmann's voice was momentarily shaky. He had retrieved his MP28. "A captain of the British Army, you say? I knew you would be a loose end to be tied. I have just the knot in mind for you."

  "Drop the weapon, Boche! I'll kill this man."

  "Yes, but Herr Captain, you do not have it in you." The snarl had returned to Lehmann's face.

  A moment passed between the trapped NWI rifleman and his superior, with perhaps a nod of acknowledgement from Lehmann but little more. The rifleman trembled an instant before Lehmann opened fire. The spray cut into the man's body in a dozen places. He danced an involuntary jig as more rounds slammed into him.

  Stray bullets gouged into Max's good arm, just above the elbow, and into his calf muscle. His Webley was thrown from his grasp by a spasm when the first bullet bit home. It landed under one of the biplane's wings a few yards away. Max fell under the assault. The dead weight of the twitching corpse crushed his injured shoulder and pinning him to the ground. Max grimaced with the pain as he struggled to free himself and blink grit from his eyes.