The Damn Disciples Read online

  “Don’t worry about it, boy,” Stone said, reaching down and scratching the blood-soaked canine behind the ears. “We’ve all been doing some things we didn’t like lately. And anyway, you didn’t attack me, right?” For which fact Stone would be forever grateful. And from the looks of the puddle that seeped out from beneath the quivering elephant, it didn’t look as if the Guru was going to be giving any more commands—on this earth anyway.

  But the two traveling companions had hardly caught their breaths when they both heard the noise at the same instant. The sounds of dozens of men coming from the village. Sticks and blades can around in the dawn light as they ran down the road toward the burning drug factory. Stone hefted both pistols in his hands and rose as the dog turned, snorted a few times to get its macho going—since it knew they weren’t coming out of what was going to happen next. The dog was no fool. There were too many.

  “Shit,” Stone muttered through still-chattering teeth. He didn’t feel like dying today. He at least would have liked to have been completely off the damn drugs. Then he could head into the next world with full consciousness. There was something about dying with a stinking headache and pains in every joint in your body, that just wasn’t how he wanted to go. Not that he had particularly wanted to go any fucking way. But then, death didn’t give a shit about his likes or dislikes.

  The thirty or so upper echelon of the Perfect Aura cult grew ashen-faced as they drew closer. The elephant that had carried the Guru was down. And the huge puddle of blood oozing out from its body with a few of the Guru’s rings and jewelry mixed in with it didn’t look too promising.

  “You killed him,” one of them with dark gray robe and various insignia on him indicating a top commander said incredulously. “You killed the Guru.”

  “Correction,” Stone said, wanting to give credit where credit was due. “The elephant killed the Guru.”

  “But—you—you killed the elephant,” the cult officer said, his face turning redder by the second.

  “Correction,” Stone said, wanting to give credit where credit was due, “the dog killed the elephant.” Excaliber glanced up at Stone and stepped a foot or two away, wondering momentarily just who the traitor was. “Of course he’s my dog. So if you want to mess with him, you’ll have to deal with me first.”

  “Oh, we will deal with both of you,” the Guru’s Chief of Arms said as he motioned with his hands for the robed attackers to spread out. And they did so fast, before Stone had a chance to fire. Suddenly they were rushing off in every direction, trying to outflank him from 360 degrees. Stone opened up with the 9mm, spraying a group that was coming in fast at three o’clock. Three of them fell as the slugs crisscrossed over their chests. But they were coming in from everywhere. Excaliber leaped up at one who charged in with some kind of long machete. He thought he had the dog clear in his reach and swung the blade down. But suddenly the animal was right up over it and soaring into his head. The pit bull chomped down hard right on the center of the man’s face. Nose, lips, eyes, everything—all sort of mushed up and squirted out between the dog’s jaws. Then the fighting canine spat it all out and turned ready to take on the next bastard dumb enough to die.

  Two of them leapt up at Stone from behind him, just suddenly there. He got one with the 9, sending him flying backward with his whole front opened up as if he was on medical display. But the second one was able to swing down the infernal staff that the bastards carried and caught Stone a good one right on the side of the head. He felt himself going down—but not out. And even as he hit the ground he man-aged to bring up the Ruger .44 in a slow arc. The robed attacker dropped to one knee and was bringing the end of his stick down toward Stone’s nose ready to crush everything there into paste. But at the last possible instant Stone man-aged to throw a little extra zing into his arm and the pistol suddenly flew up and found the target. He squeezed hard, and the Perfect Aura of the attacker wasn’t so perfect any-more, what with a hole the size of a saucer suddenly appearing where his nose had been. Blood exploded out over Stone as the force of the blast threw the screaming man backward, where he flopped around like a chicken with its head lopped off.

  Stone rolled over just as an ax descended, and he was able to take the attacker down with a leg grab, twisting him to the ground. As the brown-robed man hit the dirt, Stone slammed the butt end of the .44 right into the fat gut and pulled twice. The whole backbone exploded out, followed by much of the digestive system and that day’s food as well. Stone kicked himself free even as the dying eyes spun around in the white face like cherries in a slot machine. He jumped to his feet and nearly went over instantly, as he was still only at about forty percent of fighting ability—which was not exactly the state to be in in the middle of a full-scale fucking war.

  Stone glanced over to the right about ten yards off, where three man lay writhing in crazy patterns on the dirt, blood coming from faces, stomachs, throats. And even as he watched, another attacker came in. The dog feinted to the right and then flew in from the left, slamming his jaws around the wrist of the hand that was carrying a macelike object. Again the animal’s razor-sharp jaws did their thing. The hand, holding the club and all, was torn free from the arm that had carved it around for about thirty-six years. The man ran off, blood spurting from his severed wrist, as Excaliber stood there, panting heavily, holding the hand, club and all, in his jaws as he waited for the next asshole.

  Stone knew they were both putting up a valiant, incredible fight, considering their states. But it was all going to be in vain. That he had no illusions about. For there were more of the bastards coming all the time. For every one they took out, two more appeared. He’d run out of bullets and the dog would run out of fucking teeth before they took out half of these. Still they fought on. They had no choice. They pulled in closer together, protecting their backs until they were just inches apart, facing off the advancing cultees with murder in their eyes. Stone turned to the mutt, keeping one eye cocked on the attackers.

  “Sorry, boy, you don’t deserve to go out like this. But”you done good, dog, real fucking good.” The pit bull barked twice as if to say ditto. And a twisted smile crossed Stone’s face even as he saw that he was down to his last few rounds. Between the two of them they’d already destroyed the fucking place. Taken out its drug supply—and its Guru. All things considered, Stone could almost die happy. Almost. The cultees closed in.

  Suddenly there was a strange noise like singing or chanting, and they all seemed to freeze in their tracks. Every face turned to see what the hell the commotion was all about. And coming over the hill Stone saw what was just about the best fucking thing he had ever laid eyes on in his life. The Broken Ones—and they were armed and singing.

  “God bless America, land of the free/ Stand beside her and Guide her/ With the light from night from above.”

  “From the mountains …”

  Stone joined in under his breath as a real smile crossed his face. He hadn’t sung it in a long time. And maybe there was no more America…but these bastards were singing it—and they were coming to save his damn ass, so Stone sang along, louder and then louder. And in his heart he almost felt that there was a country again, a nation where the little guy was protected instead of squashed and broken by every two-bit hoodlum, warlord, or guru who deigned to take over a chunk of the of U.S. of A.

  Riding in the front of the two dozen or so Broken Ones, who hobbled along with broken bodies but unbroken spirit in their hearts, was Smythe on Stone’s Harley. He had a wide grin on his half-toothed mouth. And though the Harley was wobbling from side to side, he was keeping the damn thing up. He looked proud as a man can be, both for himself and for the fact that they had all come. And he and Stone caught each other’s glances even from the hundred feet or so that parted them and they both knew that it was a feat of mythical proportions. That these battered and torn men, with half their brains gone, should somehow find it in their souls to rise and fight back. That was what it was all about. And it made Stone sudden
ly feel filled with an invincible strength. And he knew that somehow they were going to make it.

  The cult officers, who had been enjoying some pretty good odds against Stone and the dog, suddenly seemed a lot less sure about the mini-army of the brain-broken men. They knew who they were. They had seen them all be broken—too far—and sent out into the wilds to die. It was all too much for them. The Guru dead…And now these ex-pods who should be dead returning with weapons in their hands. Their entire universe was turning upside down.

  Suddenly, with croaking but spirited rebel yells the Broken Ones charged in, or charged as fast as men with not everything all there can charge. Still, it was the thought that counted. They tore into the confused cultees with their homemade weapons—branches with nails driven through them, clubs with hand-sharpened rocks lashed down to their tops, spears made from rusted kitchen knives. But lots of things will kill. Human flesh is terribly penetrable. Death doesn’t care how tacky is the implement used to bring it new souls.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Stone fired his last few rounds and then used the pistols as clubs, smashing his way toward the fighting Broken Ones. With the pit bull covering his flank, they reached them within a few seconds. Stone put his arm on Smythe’s shoulder.

  “You just saved my fucking ass, pal,” Stone said through a grimacing mouth. One of the robed attackers had gotten a good slice on his shoulder and he was just starting to feel it.

  “You saved our asses, Stone,” Smythe said, beaming like a kid with a new toy at the fact that he’d been able to lead this squad of dead men into battle. To be a man is the hardest thing to attain.

  “You think you can handle these bastards?” Stone asked as Smythe got up from the seat so Stone could get on.

  “No trouble, mister,” Smythe said with a firm look. “The hard part was getting ourselves human again. The rest is easy.”

  “Thanks. I gotta check out something right away. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Smythe turned and ran across the street, where fierce hand-to-hand was going on everywhere. Men were collapsed in struggling heaps, and bodies covered with red lay all around. It was a nasty fight. Stone whistled and the dog flew up onto the back seat, its tail wagging for the first time since it had been in the damn place. The seat was its security blanket, and it pressed down flat against it, clamping all four legs around it like a bank robber around money. It was never letting go. Stone twisted the accelerator and the Harley screamed out its power, rolling over two dead cultees that squished like blood-filled waterbeds beneath his wheels.

  He tore ass down the road toward town as the fire from the Nectar factory spat out an acrid smoke that was al-ready filling the air for hundreds of yards and heading rapidly toward the main part of town. There was pandemonium everywhere, with robed figures running up and down the streets, voices shouting. But no one seemed to know quite what to do. The whole scene was unorganized, already disintegrating into anarchy. Stone had nothing against most of the cultees—he had just been one himself. But he wasn’t letting anyone try to kill him, either. So, when a few overaggressive robed figures came tearing to-ward the be from the side of the street, Stone sprayed them with a burst from the .50-caliber on the front of the bike. Three robes spouted blood and they spun back like tops.

  The bike shot down the main street, accelerating every yard. Figures dove out of the way as the roaring cycle rocketed like a black panther through the center of town. It took Stone only a minute to reach the palace. He remembered how it had seemed like the very house of God to his moronic brain just a day or so before. How he had been in awe of the palace and couldn’t even look at it when he drew near. That wasn’t quite the case now.

  The four guards at the front door weren’t ready for what came at them out of the dawn—a cruiserweight Harley pouring smoke from its pipes at the superacceleration Stone was pushing it to. They barely had time to get their weapons to half-staff before the blurred vehicle opened up with a hailstorm of slugs. Four bodies went dancing around in a ballroom of blood before they slipped right into the grave Stone didn’t wait around for any parting words. Holding his head down, he screamed.

  “Duck, dog, duck ”!Which was simple but clear advice. The bike slammed right into the thick wooden doors. And tore them off their rusting hinges. The Harley came barreling into the main lobby of the late Guru’s palatial retreat. There was wealth everywhere—carpets, tapestries, huge oil paintings—all stolen from nearby museums, taken from the possessions of those whose brains had been taken over. But Stone wasn’t on the museum tour. For another bunch of Elite Guards opened up from various hiding places around the big marble-pillared lobby. Stone was sure April was on the second floor; that was where the harem was rumored to be.

  He saw wide, curving stairs to the left and wheeled the bike around, slowing to about thirty miles per hour. He was barely in control, so tight was the turn. It skimmed and shimmied all around the marble floor and went right over the back of a man who had been hiding behind a chair. His spine cracked like a chicken bone at Sunday dinner. Slugs poured out from everywhere, like murderous hands trying to squeeze his skull. But Stone reached the bottom of the wide stone staircase and wheeled the bike around again. The moment the front wheel hit the bottom step he turned the throttle to full and bent all the way forward. The motorcycle shot up the stairs as if there was gold at the top as slugs whizzed all around it, unable to get a bead on the two riders.

  The ride was like going through rapids, and both Stone and the pit bull were bounced around as though they were in an earthquake. But somehow they hung on, and within two seconds were at the second-floor landing. More guards awaited them at the far end of the floor, and Stone headed straight toward them, figuring where there were guards there was something to guard. It was hardly fair—to them. As they kneeled down and lifted their Nato 7.2mm assault rifles, Stone merely moved his thumb a half an inch to the left and pressed hard. And fifteen slugs shot out of the smoking barrel mounted on the front wheel. About half of them seemed to take a liking to the one on the left, the other the guy on the right. In any case, it hardly mattered. For when they had finished tearing through pounds of flesh, both men were not much more than yesterday’s leftovers which any self-respecting alleycat wouldn’t touch. They slid along the marble floor like hockey pucks and hit the back wall, where they spattered blood all over the golden floor-to-ceiling curtains.

  Stone slowed the be to a near stop at the end of the hall, turned it with one leg down, and then accelerated again, slamming right into two oak doors, which flew back against the inside wall like drums crashing at the end of a Wagner symphony. The bike flew inside, knocking over tables, chairs, all kinds of stuff, finally slamming into a wall, where Stone and traveling dog went flying off the vehicle and right into the plaster surface in a most painful manner.

  The smoke and dust and plaster dust had hardly cleared when Stone heard a dry high-pitched cackling sound coming from the far side of the room. He wiped his eyes free of the dust that was floating around them and, coughing a few times, ripped his Ruger .44 from its holster and turned to see what God had wrought.

  And he could hardly believe his eyes. For just twenty feet away from him, in between the Transformer on his left and April on the right, was the Dwarf, the hideous armless and legless criminal monstrosity who traveled in a machine-gun-equipped mobile wheelchair. Stone had killed the wretched little egg man months before. He had thrown the bastard from a twelve-story building. It was impossible. Stone’s face must have showed his confusion. For the Dwarf laughed louder and shook its head from side to side like a basketball trying to come free and find a basket.

  “What are the thoughts of the mindless?” he asked in his inevitable Zen Koan of death.

  “Blackness,” Stone answered, slowly raising his hand in the shadows and smoke. “I should know. I’ve just been there.”

  “Oh, Stone, it’s all just too funny,” the Dwarf shrieked in that high-pitched voice that Stone couldn’t stand, like a pup-pet that ha
d gone psycho. But it didn’t look too funny to Stone—not with his sister standing there with a look as dead as rock on her face. And on the other side of the war wheelchair—the Transformer, with his leathery dead face and glowing red eyes burning from within the black hood. It was quite a crew. Although Stone supposed that with the blood-coated dog by his side, the two of them didn’t look a hell of a lot better.

  “What do you want?” Stone asked, holding his gun at a slight tilt, ready to take out either of them at any moment. But there was something up—it wasn’t as simple as it appeared. No way. Stone knew the Dwarf. He had already escaped certain death several times. Stone’s senses, even in the midst of his drug withdrawal, were on full alert as he scanned around wildly looking for the trap.

  “You’re wondering how I survived the fall,” the Dwarf said, pushing a button with one of his stumps. The Dwarf, who resembled nothing so much as a huge pasty-white egg with cancerous growths coming out a few inches where arms and legs should be, had a little bit of mobility with the pointed stumps of red flesh that protruded from the shoulders. And with these it could poke at a whole array of buttons and dials all around the side of its high-tech motorized wheelchair. “I fell into water. A swimming pool, Stone. You should have looked.”

  “Yeah, I sure should have,” Stone whispered bitterly. “What do you want, Dwarf?” he asked, wondering if he and April had just run out of time.

  “What does a man with everything want?” The Dwarf laughed in his high voice, with such shrieking tonalities that it hurt Stone’s ears. Even the dog let out a little howl, as it heard the higher frequencies with even greater acuity—and it didn’t like what it heard one bit.