Demon (6 page)

Such a waste of energy and matter,
he thought. But unavoidable to rid the flesh of the soul. And this particular man's soul had fought hard.

Upon entering the body, Semyaza had not known what to expect. He had never invaded a human before, and his first encounter with a soul had been both educational and violent. The desperation of the soul to hold on to the flesh had been phenomenal, and the battle had left him not only exhausted but scarred in many places. Yet Semyaza had won and cast the soul out of its host. Now he had a vessel to move about in.

“Uriel,” Semyaza said with his new mouth in the Ancient Tongue. “Your prison could not hold me forever.”

Semyaza lifted up his new hands and flexed the fingers, making fists. The fact that he had to reside in a human repulsed him. Yet it was the price of freedom.

“Such a crude and worthless design.”

A chunk of skin fell off the palm. Semyaza didn't think anything of it at first until another piece of skin dropped on his leg. He stopped flexing and instead rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Little pieces of flesh rained down onto his lap.

So there is a higher price to freedom,
Semyaza thought and wondered how long the vessel would last before falling apart completely.

“The flesh will not survive such corruption,” a voice said in the Ancient Tongue. “It will dissolve and you will find yourself once again bound in darkness.”

Semyaza knew the voice well. He pivoted his head, looking for the seraph, but did not see him.

“Why do you not show yourself, Uriel?”

White mist materialized around Semyaza. It twisted and swirled around him.

“You can hold the flesh for only a short time.” Uriel's voice rang out from the mist. “Your prison will hold you for eternity.”

“I am free of your prison and will not return.” The mist burned as it passed over his vessel's skin. Semyaza tried to ignore the pain and refused to cry out.

“Yes—you will. Cling to that body as desperately as you desire, Semyaza, but know it will not last without the soul. Your grasp will fail, and your prison will pull you back as quickly as you fled it.”

“Then I will find another body.”

Uriel said nothing more, and the mist disappeared, along with the burning from its presence.

Semyaza wasted no more time, searching for memories and information from the body's former owner. Images of people, men and women and children of various ages, passed in quick flashes. Then he found words, odd characters, and different pronunciations from the Ancient Tongue. He located the man's language center and rapidly assimilated his knowledge. Semyaza learned a tongue named “English.” He discovered the capsule he sat in was called a “truck.” The vessel's name had been “Hank.”

The memories of what had happened after Semyaza escaped and invaded the body were fragmented. Humans all around savagely screaming and killing each other with whatever instrument they could set their hands upon. No order to it, just chaos.

Will it be like that when I find more humans?
Semyaza thought. He had no answer.

He located one of Hank's last memories, of him driving the truck down a road toward a center of great populace. Semyaza needed to find that road. He needed to go to the place where he could obtain another vessel. This one would not last much longer. If Uriel spoke the truth, he would find himself yanked back to his prison once the body failed completely. He could not take the risk and test the seraph's word.

A prison for a prison with nothing in between,
he thought.

Now Semyaza delved into the memories involving the truck, teaching himself through observation how to use it. After a few minutes, he let the memory go and decided to attempt driving.

He gripped the key in the ignition and turned it, as Hank had done, feeling the engine turn over and kick and then power up. In the memory, Hank had pushed his foot down on the pedal on the floor to the left, grabbed a stick on the column, and moved it to the letter
D
. Semyaza did the same thing, pushing down on what he now learned was called a “brake” and shifted to drive. Then he eased off and felt the truck start to roll.

The road is behind you,
Semyaza thought. He grabbed the wheel and turned it toward his left. The truck swung in that direction. Semyaza straightened the wheel back out as he faced the truck the opposite way. Then he pushed down on the right pedal, just as Hank had done, and the truck accelerated.

The wind whipped through the window as Semyaza pressed the pedal all the way down. The truck bounced and skidded through the sand, but he managed to maintain control. He had to reach the road. He had to find people.

Semyaza looked in the rearview and saw his reflection for the first time. Besides the dried blood and spit, he noticed flaps of skin peeling away and flying off, taken by the wind.

Not much time,
he thought and rolled up the window.

He dived into Hank's memory again, looking for the name of the center of populace. Then he found it. A newly prospering city in a land named “Iraq.”

“Basra,” Semyaza said in English. “I must reach Basra.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
ike sucked down another bottle of water, trying to pump fluid in as fast as he sweated it out. The temperature had crested the century mark—plus ten—and it didn't seem to be stopping.

Major Greengrass had asked him to stay, at least until they tracked down the missing worker, Henry Prince. Mike didn't object. He wanted to stay close and observe and learn as much as he could. If he had information to feed to Glenn, he might be allowed to work the case longer. The longer he stayed here, the longer he went without having to kill someone.

In the command tent, Mike fanned himself with a magazine and watched Major Greengrass on the other side of site R91. The Marine stomped around, barking orders. His temper had shot up considerably since getting the word about Mr. Prince, and it hadn't subsided since.

Wish I could help,
Mike thought and tossed back more water. There was nothing for him to contribute right now, other than keeping out of the way.

He glanced at his watch. Need to call Glenn. He'd tried earlier but no one answered. Might as well try again. Mike pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed his boss.

“Deputy Cheatum.”

“It's me,” Mike said.

“What have you got?”

“You're not going to believe this shit.”

Mike relayed everything he'd seen and thought about the massacre. Glenn didn't interrupt him once. No grunts or laughs. After Mike finished, it was almost a full minute before Glenn said anything.

“And there are no signs of further contamination now?”

“No,” Mike said. “They've got a quarantine team on-site, and readings are negative. There have been no further outbreaks, if you can call it that. No one's shown any symptoms of nerve agent exposure. It's like whatever got out has faded away.”

“No sign of the missing worker yet?”

“No.”

Glenn was silent again for a few moments. “What do you think?”

“I think they got lucky. Whatever happened here seems to be an isolated event. They should bag the bodies, fill in the hole, and pray Henry Prince is drunk in a bar somewhere.”

“Okay. Appreciate you running this to ground. The initial reports were all over the place. One gave the impression a nerve agent had been used. Another made it sound like an insurgent or Revolutionary Guard chemical attack. This allays my fears somewhat even though it bothers the shit out of me no one can figure out what happened.”

Mike's grip on the cell phone tightened. “You thought the RG might have sprung some kind of chemical attack and ordered me up here without giving me a heads-up?”

“I said the reports were all over the place. I doubted the nerve agent and saw no reason to worry about sending you in. The RG concerned me more. If the Iranians had penetrated that deep in-country and attacked Americans with chemicals, I would have needed firm intel as soon as possible. Do you know what the president would have done if that had been the case? Before I let my commander in chief make any such call, I'm going to ensure he's got reliable intel. You were the closest and most reliable asset I had in the area.”

“You still could have shared the reports with me.”

“Get over it, Mike. It goes with the territory. I told you the reports were interesting and that there had been an attack. As far as this goes now, keep your ears open and stay close to those Marines.”

“Already am.” Mike hung up. “Asshole.”

Glenn's actions didn't surprise him, but he hated the fact his boss had still sent him in under such conditions. All to get real-time intel.

Well, I guess you know what's more important now
.

And he did deep down. After all, that's why he'd signed the contract and taken the oath. He had to be willing to die for information. But if he was going to die, he wanted a knock-down drag-out fight or to get picked off by a sniper and not see it coming. Dying like the poor bastards surrounding him was no way for someone to go. Shit, thinking about going crazy and losing control gave him the shakes. No way to go at all.

Mike let his anger at Glenn fade as Greengrass marched toward the tent. In the long run, he couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same thing. There were plenty of reasons to hate Glenn, but this wasn't one of them.

The tall major ducked as he entered and removed his helmet. “Still no sign of this guy Prince.” Greengrass wiped sweat off his face with a brown rag. “Anything on your end?”

“Nothing,” Mike said. “I thought your boss was coming.”

“Yeah, his helo has been delayed due to some mechanical foul-up. He's en route now. Can't wait to explain the missing man to the good general.”

Mike shook his head. “Wish I had something more for you.”

“Me too.”

“Major Greengrass!”

Both Mike and Greengrass turned to see Gunny Lowe march into the tent.

“What is it, Gunny?” Greengrass said. “Tell me you found Prince.”

“No, sir.”

Mike watched the hope drain from Greengrass's cheeks.

“We have another problem, sir.”

“Jesus, what now, Gunny?”

“The convoy on the road to Basra, sir.”

“The one that was raided earlier this morning. What about it?”

Mike remembered passing it on the way to R91 and seeing the bodies. Covered and aligned perfectly.

“It wasn't raided, sir.”

Greengrass was silent for a few seconds. Mike stared at the gunnery sergeant, hoping he wouldn't say what he thought he was going to say. Lowe's jaw twitched. Shit, he was going to say it.

“What was it, Gunny?”

“They killed each other, sir. Just like here.”

Greengrass walked over to a table and placed both hands on its surface, fingers spread wide, and leaned heavily on them.

“Why are we just now hearing about this?”

“The investigating unit thought they were attacked based on the amount of rounds expended by the contractors. But they haven't been able to find any shell casings other than what the contractors shot. Bullets removed from some of the victims confirm they were shooting at their own people. There were a few, too, who beat each other to death.”

“And a suicide?” Mike said.

“Affirmative. One shot through the mouth and out the back.”

Mike closed his eyes. It had spread. One big major fucking problem.

“Farther up the Basra highway, north of the contractor massacre, a couple of dead Bedouin and camels were found on the side of the highway,” Gunny said. “One cut the other to pieces before doing himself.”

Greengrass moaned.

“It gets better, sir. At the contractor massacre, another Bedouin killed his camel before slicing his own throat.”

“Well, we know it's not a vapor cloud spreading it, or we'd all be fucking dead.” Greengrass pushed off from the table and turned back around. “It's this Prince guy. Can't be anyone else. He was here and hauled ass when the shit hit the fan. Where he goes, they all die.”

Mike nodded. “It's the only thing that makes sense.”

He walked around to the table and saw a map of southeastern Iraq. Mike located site R91. Then he estimated where on the Basra highway he'd driven past the decimated convoy. The first two Bedouin had been found north of it. The next Bedouin found nearby. But nothing else beyond that. The drive from Basra had been peaceful, albeit hot, until he'd reached the highway massacre site.

“Major,” Mike said, “take a look at this.”

Greengrass and Gunny moved to either side of Mike and looked down at the map.

Mike pointed at R91. “We're here.” He moved his finger to outside An Nasiriyah. “The Bedouin were found somewhere around here.” Then he traced his finger a little more down the Basra highway. “I passed the convoy around here on my way in.” Then Mike slid his finger down to Basra. “If I had to take a guess, I think Henry Prince is on his way here. There's not much in between but if he gets to Basra . . .”

“There should have been more outbreaks,” Greengrass said. “There's traffic all over that road by midmorning, including you. Plus, he'd have been to Basra by now. We should be hearing something if he made it there.”

Mike shrugged. “True. Maybe he took a different route. But so far, we're hearing everything on a delay. What people think is a normal day in Iraq with a few insurgent strikes and some random violence is showing a pattern. Do you want to assume he isn't going to Basra?”

“Jesus,” Greengrass said. “What's Basra's population?”

“Over two million now.” Mike took his finger off the map. “Now imagine what happened here on that scale.”

Greengrass turned to Gunny. “Spread the word to Camp Bucca and Basra what we're dealing with. They need to secure all routes into Basra. Give them Prince's name and description. Fax it to them as well.”