by MetroMole (Orpheus | Fiction)
The sergeant shouted into his microphone over the roar of the helicopter blades. “Alright! We got reports of anomalies on the ground. Definitely Shadow-class bastards. We got a civilian medium going in with you. She’s one of you guys, so don’t worry ‘bout that. Miss Menez has been equipped with a G-material Kevlar vest and G-material gloves. We’ve got ghost-shot rifles for all of you this time around. Make sure that you keep Nieto alive and neutralize the threat.”“Hoo-rah!” was the reply of the squad.
Six lines dropped from the helicopter. The metal clips whirred against the ropes as the projectors descended. They were a part of Project Black Mercury, the US Army’s endeavor into Post-Life Entities and the war on this side of the Shroud. Black Mercury’s Southern USA squad had just arrived. Sonja Templeton, the Poltergeist, was one of the weapons specialists in the squad, excelling in assault tactics and using her abilities to mimic psychokinetic effects. Red Grahm, the Banshee, had a Steyr Aug rifle on his back and carried a sniper rifle in his hands, using his abilities to know where his targets were going to be ahead of time. Thomas Carlisle, the Will o’ Wisp, was the public relations expert, handling interrogations and diplomatic interactions with ease with his own abilities. John Faff, the Skinrider, led the squad, his mindset perfect for leadership and his temperament fitting his abilities. Maria Menez was a local medium who was brought in for cultural references. In this field of work, you wanted a cultural expert. The dead are not universally equal.
A few bewildered children stood a ways from the squad in a storefront. Their skin color was an olive, Mayan. In comparison to these kids, the squad members all stood out like sore thumbs. “The festivities have not started yet, quite odd,” commented Ms. Menez as the chopper flew off into the distance.
“What’s so special about today?” Faff demanded swiftly.
“It is the Day of the Dead festival.”
“Shit. Eh, figures.”
“Sir, we should move out and take cover. I already see some bogeys coming a quarter mile away,” Agent Grahm stated.
“Fine. Take the rooftop. I want to see them clearly and I want to know just why this place is so special.”
The team of Black Mercury agents advanced on the building in front of them. It was a Catholic church, possibly out of place amid the Mayan culture that still lay beneath the hustle and bustle of the city. They had all been briefed on the satellite photos and knew there were foundations deeper than those of the church.
Having climbed the steep, sloped, spiral staircase, Grahm radioed in, “We got four confirmed bogeys.” Holding the specially designed scope to his eye, he was able to use his ability of foresight to pinpoint the motion of the enemy. “Fetches, sir.”
“Easy. Take them out at will, Red.”
“Will do, sir,” Grahm’s icy voice replied. The sight narrowed in on one of the ghostly dogs. Fetches looked like pit bulls from a distance, but up close they were abominations of anything that could ever have been man’s best friend. Rotted skin, menacing razor teeth, and hideously red, glowing eyes were all features of these spite twisted fiends. But they were ghosts, dead. In their life they had been abused and severely mistreated and all of that anger manifested itself in death, turning the dogs into spite fueled Spectres.
Four gunshots rang out. Grahm watched as gaping holes appeared in each Fetch’s gauze, the ghostly skin invisible to the naked eye. Templeton and Carlisle smiled at each other, knowing that Grahm was the best damn sniper they had ever seen, but Menez flinched. The medium had lived through her fair share of street battles in the Mexican cities but the four shots shattered the eerie silence.
“Can I get a visual confirmation on the Fetches?” demanded Faff.
“Roger that sir. All four have been sent to their Maker,” came Grahm’s reply via radio.
“Is there anything else out there?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Good. Then we’ll move in further. Stay on guard and radio in everything, standard procedure.”
“Yes sir.”
Templeton started for the stairs in the antechamber of the church. She opened the door and gave an all-clear signal. Faff turned to Menez and said, “I want you nearby at all times. I don’t know how much of a stomach you have, but you do not freak out and you do not get in our way, understand?” Menez nodded and followed Faff as he went down then stairs after Templeton with Carlisle in the rear.
There was a stench. Dried blood and burning wood. It assaulted the nostrils of the squad. Faff knew that there was probably human sacrifice involved. And pigment. Pigment, or black heroin, was a drug that had only recently started rising from the Drug Lords of South America. Reports from users of pigment consistently pointed towards visions of the dead and out-of-body experiences. Faff’s squad had seen first-hand the projecting souls of pigment users. The Fed was having an incredibly hard time keeping it off of the streets so it was probably widespread down here.
As they descended the stairs it became dark. The team turned on their flashlights and noticed peculiar drawings on the walls. “Yum Cimil, the Mayan death god,” Menez gasped.
“Figures,” Red spat out.
“There are ancient rituals regarding Yum Cimil, most involving implanting the soul back into the body. Others involved extracting the soul,” Menez continued.
“So we have someone who either wants to kill a bunch of people or create a hoard of followers.”
“It would seem so, Mr. Carlisle. But I fail to see why a group would spawn in this city.”
“Miss Menez,” interrupted Faff, “I don’t want any of my team dying down here. I suggest you leave the decisions on the validity of data to us.”
Menez fell silent immediately. They continued their descent for what seemed like hours. “Grahm, can you read me?” radioed Faff.
“Loud and clear sir.”
“Status report?”
“Clear and healthy.”
“Good. I’m not sure how much longer this will take. Maintain radio silence from this point on, but if you hear anything at all from our end, do not abandon your post. If you see something, take it down.”
“Crystal clear, sir.”
“Faff out.” As he clipped the radio on his belt, he turned it on to the “Listen” setting, transmitting what was going on to Grahm. If things went crazy at least one person would be able to report back to headquarters.
Further and further downwards, spiraling into the black abyss of the earth. Then light began to peek slowly up the stairs, reflecting off the stones. Red stopped and bent closely to the stone walls. There was something on them. Laying a finger slowly on the walls, she did a little swab with her gloved finger and sniffed. Blood. Fresh blood. Her eyes traced the cracks in the wall as she glanced upwards. The damn walls were bleeding. “Not to ruin the party,” she said quietly, “but I think our death cult has been practicing.”
“Keep moving then. We need to finish this off as soon as possible and I’m getting tired of this staircase,” replied the squad leader. They stepped down, just a bit further, until Templeton, began crawling down the stairs on her stomach, seeing into their final destination.
The chamber was a marvel of ancient construction. It must have been three stories tall, at least. There was a central platform that was raised above a stream of flowing black ichor. The platform was suspended by huge flying buttresses, each decorated with the face of Yum Cimil. Filling the chamber were hundreds of spirits, all with their heads lazily lolling around. On the platform stood the only living person, a man in the traditional headdress of a high priest with indigo dye tattoos on his face and arms.
Faff’s team plastered themselves against the walls as they quickly entered the chamber, hoping to go unnoticed by the spirits. Templeton and Carlisle watched Faff’s hand signals, plotting out their next moves. On command, Templeton loosed a ghostly silver strand at the priest. It wrapped itself around the upraised ritual dagger and yanked. Stunned, the priest looked up in time to both hear and see the gunshots. Templeton, Carlisle, and Faff all opened fire with their M4A1 assault carbines. Ghost shot rounds went flying through the air, penetrating nothing living. Instead, the mindless souls were ripped to shreds.
“You sneaky Americans think you can stop the almighty Yum Cimil with your silly weapons?” the priest shouted. “You are mistaken! Yum Cimil, send forth you servants!”
The paintings on the walls shimmered a second or two, then began peeling off the walls. Horrors literally stepped out of the battle scenes they had been immortalized in and took full form.
“El chupacabra…” gasped Menez.
“I don’t care what the fuck it is, lady. I know it dies,” retorted Carlisle. Faff smiled approving and opened fire.
If this were some happy and quick tale of good versus evil, then the bullets would have hit. The monstrosities would have fallen dead and there would have been a single bullet hole between the priest’s dead eyes. The team would have been happily flying away via helicopter. But this is not the ideal world. This is the world of darkness. Here the darkness holds secrets that all normal mortals are ignorant of. A series of systems have been put into place to allow the fiends of the night to carry out their business without mortal interference. The world is corrupt and roots for evil every time.
Underneath the sickly dark green feet of the chupacabras, a wave of tarantulas and emperor scorpions came skittering outwards in all directions. All over that walls and the entire floor the creatures spread. Menez gave a yelp of surprise and raced for the stairs. The insects dropped on top of her from the walls, biting and stinging all over her head. More attacked her arms, legs, torso. Her body swelled like a red balloon as the poisons built up inside of her. Menez’s eyeballs pressed outwards dramatically from their sockets, like some sick cartoon, one of them popping with a gory mess spraying over the floor.
Carlisle fought back the urge to vomit and focused himself on the trigger of his rifle and the lumbering dark green beasts from the walls, the chupacabra. Their gaping maws dripped with ichor identical to that flowing by in the room. The priest laughed victoriously. “Sir!” came the cry from Faff’s radio. “I’ve got bogeys swarming in by the millions! This place was a damn hive! They led us into a fucking trap, those bastards. They led us into a fucking Spectre hive…” there was no more from the radio except for a blood curdling scream and this insidious clicking sound.
Faff dropped his gun and reached for his belt. Grabbing his grenades, he popped the pins and threw them at the staircase, saying calmly, “Cyanide pills.” Templeton and Carlisle nodded quickly while grabbing their own pills and shoving them in their mouths. Within moments the rest of the squad was dead.
Turning to the figure behind him, the priest said, “Your greatness. For Yum Cimil and the Grandmother I am prepared to take this city.” A wispy black cloak heralded one of the Reapers. A bony hand held one of the well-known scythes. A hiss was the only reply the priest received, before he too joined the Black Mercury squad.
Spectres of all shapes and sizes emerged from the walls, circling around the Reaper in the center. With a gesture, they began working on spreading the hive, taking control of the city, building by building, block by block.
