Wickerman Cove

Part 42: Consequences

Mak was hit.

The bullet had glanced off his vest, but it was difficult to breathe. It hadn't gone through, but that wouldn't count for much if he passed out in the middle of a fire-fight. He thought the cultists he'd been fighting were dead, but the lack of oxygen made his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton wool. He'd broken those ribs enough times to have things to worry about – it didn't hurt enough for the bullet to have shoved one of them through his lung, but he was high on adrenaline. For all he knew, once this was over, he was going to drop dead.

The goth woman's dog came over. Mak had grown up with dogs – his papa had kept three to guard his store. He'd never seen one as smart as this, though – its orange eyes were almost human in the way they looked at him.

"Broken ribs or am I drowning in my own blood?" Mak said, laughing, then instantly regretting it. "Who knows until it happens."

Mak peered over the catwalk to where the Marine was talking to the crazy sheriff. He'd been briefed on engaging with the Guide – in the Urkramar, Idaho, incident it was found to have possessed thirty-four confirmed bodies at once. Not to mention its paradoxical movement. His Personal Protective Seal would have driven it back, but it seemed to have an effect on Penny and the dog—

On Entity P and its symbiont.

That was the important thing to remember: he wasn't looking at a smart dog, it was a normal member of whatever species it came from. Entity P had a history of interfering with operations, although she seemed quite happy to go along with whatever Zoubareya wanted. It was worth investigating, if he survived any of this. She'd stonewalled all attempts at human self-regulation before now.

The dog nudged him. He gave it a rough but affectionate head scratch and tried to listen for what Steph and the sheriff were saying. His English was pretty good, but the older woman's accent mangled the language, plus neither of them were speaking loudly enough to penetrate the hearing damage of twenty years being shot at. The Guide's bodies were directly behind and below him, protected by the two layers of catwalks which separated them. Almost all he could do was keep his weapon trained on Stephanie and be ready in case the Guide stepped out behind her.

The sheriff (Martine? Marylin? It was in the file) coughed. From the microexpression of anger and disgust that crossed Steph's face, it wasn't just asthma. Penny – Entity P – rushed towards her, signing, and Steph responded by speaking so low that only bats could hear. It was fine, it wasn't like they were all part of a team trying to save the world or anything.

Mak made a quick mental catalogue of the weapons at his disposal – his protective seal, his Makarov, the PYa and his AK-103. He had one more dose of the stuff that let him Astral Project, but what use that would be, he couldn't imagine. Two grenades. Not the worst. Hopefully, the American was going to think of a plan. That, or Penny was going to pull something out of her flowing skirts.

He was dimly aware of the Singer, too, flowing across the factory floor, crapping all over the laws of physics. From the tests he'd run, it burned and bled as much as anything else, which made it the least of his problems at the moment.

The dog nudged him again.

Mak considered moving closer to the action. The kids who'd been shooting at him were either injured or dead, which was sad. The oldest couldn't have been thirty. Nobody knew who to trust at that age. If David Gabriel and his wife weren't both dead, he would have considered making a special effort to shoot them both for preying on vulnerable college students. Christ, who didn't feel lost and adrift in the world the way it was at the moment—

The dog nudged him. This time he shoved it away a little harder. He looked it dead in those oddly intelligent amber eyes.

"No," he said, quietly, but firmly. "I am working. We must keep Stephanie and your mistress alive."

He turned back in time to see the crazy Marine do a backflip straight into the body of the gigantic, shapeless slug monster. Mak got his AK to his shoulder in time to see Penny turn and wave.

The dog's cold nose somehow got under his trouser leg and touched him on the calf.

The world exploded into whirling shadows.

* * *

For a while, the world stayed crazy. Shadows circled around him like a tornado, lifting him bodily off the ground. He could see shapes through the darkness, but not well enough to make out what was going on.

The sense of movement ended with a lurch and the shadows gave way to a much more normal form of darkness. The dark of the deep woods at night was empty and peaceful compared to the atmosphere at the factory. The air was chilled and damp, with a whiff of petrichor that made it almost feel like he was just out for a walk on a cool summer's night. If not for the fact that he knew potentially world-ending events were unfolding, it would have been tempting to forget the whole thing and look for a beer.

Mak muttered a string of words he'd been taught in his training, and his eyes adjusted enough to the darkness that he recognised the shapes of the gnarled, mossy trees around the area where he'd left the Jetstream.

He almost shot at the thing that moved next to him. Renard. The dog emerged from the dark, the white patches on his reddish coat almost glowing.

"I could have shot you," he said. "Why are we here?"

The dog – well, technically he knew it only looked like a dog – didn't answer. His phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number:

Stephanie has a plan that might not work. I have one that might not work either. Prepare the bomb. If we live, go to hospital. P.

Mak took a painful breath and checked the phone a second time before dismissing the message. He'd lived the best life he could – nobody could be proud of everything they'd done, although he felt he could be proud of more things than most. There were people in the world who could sleep at night because of things he'd done. Assholes who were dead or in prison for the same reason.

Dying hadn't been the plan for this trip, but to hell with it. He swiped through his address book until he got to a number labelled 'Washington Traffic Switchboard.'

Bodard picked up immediately. Her accent was a rich and well-educated Francophone African. Mak wasn't sure exactly which country she was from. He'd met her once, a 68 year old Major with one eye and two prosthetic legs. According to the newspapers, terrorists had tried – and failed – to kill her by bombing a Paris conference centre. Who better to coordinate the world's last efforts to survive the 21st century?

"Switchboard," she said, her crisp, clear English a tonic after spending five weeks in rural New England.

"Things have progressed," he said. There was no need for pleasantries with Bodard. "I'm going to open the trailer."

The hint of a pause. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

"I'd make a full report, but we don't have time," Mak said, striding through the woods back towards the Jetstream. "We might have been able to take the idol back by force, but Entity P seems prepared for its own destruction."

A quiet outward breath, but he knew she wouldn't argue. Another good thing about Bodard – she had faith in her people. "Unfortunate, but make it so. If you survive, I'd like to secure a meeting with Entity P. Godspeed, Lt. Volpin."

"Godspeed to us all."

He hung up and turned towards the Jetstream. For someone about to arm a nuclear device, his post-mission address book was getting full.