Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (21 page)

The splotch was a hole. Keeping well clear of the opening, we gathered around the breach in the concrete. The passage was roughly six feet in diameter, neat and round as if done by a shoemaker's awl. It was a disquieting, if picturesque, visual.

Keeping close to the concrete, I turned my head slowly so as not to experience vertigo. “Raul, stay here on rear guard."

Raul nodded. “Natch."

"And if the worst happens, can you do a prismatic shield over the whole plant?"

"To hold in a nuclear steam cloud?” The wizard made a face as if digesting a brick. “Ah ... yeah. Maybe. If I paint runes."

Always ready, Jessica handed him a crayon. “Then start drawing. If we fail, you erect a shield."

"With you guys trapped inside?” he blinked, pocketing the marker.

Snapping the huge clip loose, I checked the load on the Barret. “Please do as requested, Marnix."

The use of his real name shocked the Belgium mage. After a moment, he glumly nodded. Real aristocracy always knew when to shut up.

As we started inside, I saw Raul using the crayon to hastily write mystic symbols on the smooth concrete, take a sidestep, do another, and step again. Smoke poured from his shoes and the crew was rowing frantically. However, if the wizard had a whole plant to surround with those things he'd better hurry. But then, we had better, too.

The inside of the tubular hole was silky smooth and dotted with the ends of flexible black iron bars, gray lead plates and bright white cadmium sheeting. Our watches were still silent. Or maybe the thumping of my heart covered its telltale warning.

Stepping free, we were a meter above a metal lattice catwalk that encircled the dome at several levels. Probably for inspections. There was a low humming noise that permeated the air and vibrated softly in the walls and floor.

Below, was an impossible maze of pipes, conduits, ducts, T-joins, condensers and just assorted stuff. Occasionally a hiss sounded, or a dull cluck of an automatic value closing. The place resembled a car engine from an ant's perspective.

Marring the angular perfection of the technological jungle gym was a pattern of pipes bent or crushed aside to accommodate something much greater than human. Yep that was our boys. If it ain't ours, break it.

"Katrina, stay here and try to repair the hole in the concrete,” I ordered brusquely.

She nodded and went to work. Good woman.

Sword in hand, Mindy took the point and dropped silent to the catwalk. The rest of the team followed as best we could. Our first indication that we were getting close was a dead technician, impaled on a manual release wheel. Not the shaft, but the wheel itself. Mindy scrutinized the disgusting corpse for a whole second.

"Ogre,” she declared and we moved on.

Soon, a grinding sound started to make itself heard above the balanced hum of the reactor and turbines. In the distance, partially obscured by pipes and mist, was a bullet-shaped metal construct with thick conduits connected to every side. The pressure chamber of the nuclear reactor. The grinding noise was coming from a shuddering machine held in the hairy paws of a gang of creatures. Supported by a sling, a roaring diesel engine was pouring out black smoke as it powered a whirling cone covered with concentric teeth.

The ancient DeTalion drill bucked and shuddered as the monsters forcibly held the reluctant tool against the heat-slick covering of the core. Already, the outer wall of the chamber had been segmented and pried out of the way. Chunks of thermal insulation and interlocking slabs of graphite lay discarded on the lattice flooring. And like a chainsaw doing wood, this mining machine was chewing a path into the final wall. Beyond which was only superheated steam, hard radiation and certain death.

"Can't risk using the flamethrower in here,” Donaher said, tucking the steaming hot, vented barrel into his insulated belt, and stroking the pump action on a Remington shotgun. “Might finish the job for the Scion."

"No time for finesse,” George said grimly, checking the feeder mechanism of the Masterson. “Let's just kill them."

Sheathing her sword, Mindy pulled out her bow and notched an arrow. “At last, a battle plan I like."

"Routine one,” I agreed, leveling the mighty Barret on a frosty horizontal pipe. “On my mark."

In the Starlite scope, I got a clear view of a werewolf directing the drill; then I relocated the crosshairs onto the drill itself and squeezed the trigger. Torn from its grip, the ruptured diesel spun away, spewing oil as it clanged off the reactor and plummeted downward.

With slack jaws, the Scion turned and we cut loose. The deer slugs from Father Donaher's shotgun punched a hole in one monster big enough for Mindy to feather the ogre behind him with a silver-tipped arrow. Both monsters seemed incredibly surprised. Jessica hosed them with a stream of 9mm Parabellums from her Uzi, and I blew a fourth to pieces. Body armor didn't mean crap to the Barret and our new plasma rounds. Why hadn't I gotten one of these sooner? Would have made a splendid birthday gift.

To difficult to wrap. Shaddup
.

Although rattled by our appearance, the remaining fur-faces rallied to the fight. Two flank wolves trained their MAC-10 machine pistols at us, sending a hail of .22 bullets zipping our way. Meanwhile, the rest of the beasts insanely started stuffing blocks of a sticky clay-like material into the nearly finished breach. It was C4, a high explosive plastique.

I held my breath to facilitate aiming. Thunder sounded. A headless werewolf jerked backwards, the fistful of detonators in her paw falling among the complex piping.

"Here!” Jessica ordered, handing a copper bracelet to Mindy.

Fast as unchained lightning, the martial artist tied the metallic band to an arrow with a strip of cloth, pulled, aimed, released.

Streaking past me, pipes, fifty feet and the Scion, the arrow jammed itself into the thin strip of exposed insulation edging the puncture in the reactor casing. Grabbing her necklace, Jess stared. With a flash, the gash was gone. The outer shell smooth and perfect as the day it was forged.

Gleefully and braced for the recoil, George triggered the Masterson. In short controlled bursts, he sprayed the support legs of the platform the Scion agents stood on. And with a screech of stretching metal, the flooring tore free from its moorings and the werewolves tumbled downward, bouncing and slamming off the maze of pipes like hairy pinballs.

"After them,” I commanded, shouldering the Barret. “We want a captive!"

Angling off to the side, the team headed for the walkway and stairs. There was a convenient airshaft close by, but we ignored that. I'd fought my share of monsters in cramped air vents and didn't care for the experience. They had the advantage that I was trapped, but I had the advantage that they couldn't dodge my bullets. So it equaled out. I hated that. Nothing worse than a fair fight with monsters. Because neither of us really fights fair.

"Didn't know you could trigger a spell from a distance."

If nobody is wearing the bracelet, of course
.

Interesting.

Just then, an explosion sounded from below and a siren began howling. Incensed, I smacked my forehead with a palm. Idiot! The Scion, detonators and the C3 had each dropped to the ground floor. Re-united, they were back in business. Chicago wasn't safe yet.

Options came and went like cars on the freeway. Then a beauty screeched to a halt. Frantically, I looked around. Where the hell was it? Ah ha!

Behind an incredibly thick window of bulletproof Luxen plastic was the reactor control room. Terrified technicians stared at us. Every inch of every wall was jammed with meters, dials, knobs and switches. A circular bank of control consoles fronted the Status Board showing every conceivable nuance of condition inside the core. How could anybody learn to operate this thing? It made my DRD seem simple.

"Jess, tell them to do a shutdown!” I ordered.

They can't. The main computer is crashed, and the auxiliary doesn't respond and they aren't leaving the control room to operate the manual overrides with those monsters running amuck.

"Then tell them to get clear!"

That she relayed, and the men and women dropped out of sight.

Leveling the Barret, I aimed at the distant cluster of control panels and fired. The muzzle blast was deafening reflected by the metal pipes, and my eyes stung from the glare of the yard-long lance of flame stabbing from the barrel. But in response, the shatterproof window shattered into a zillion pieces.

Riding the recoil, I worked the bolt and fired once more. Pieces of electrical console sprayed into the air like technological trash, throwing off showers of sparks while crackling short-circuits crawled everywhere. A third round from the Barrett and in a ragged series of powerful hums, the muted rumble in the floor died away.

Satisfied, we moved on. It was an obscure piece of information I had once read in a scientific journal, that if the control room of a nuclear reactor received significant damage, an independent sub-system seized control of the core and did a priority shut down. In normal talk, shoot it and it breaks. Advanced technology is so primitive.

Scampering down the stairs, I kicked open a locked wire mesh door and ducked as a ricochet went past my head. Shotgun in one hand, flamethrower in the other, Father Donaher gave suppressing cover as the team regrouped on the ground floor. We took cover behind a stack of steel drums used for who-knows-what in this place. Maybe clam dip for the boss.

Ten meters across what resembled a loading bay, the werewolves had established a workable redoubt by ramming a forklift into a pile of pallets. Having found their MAC 10 machine pistols along with the plastique, two wolves were wildly spraying us with small caliber bullets, firing non-stop, without any consideration for ammo reserves. A good tactic that just might work. We were at a serious disadvantage since we still didn't want to hurt the reactor behind them. Melt-down had been made impossible, but if breached, the boiling radioactive water inside the core would kill everybody here. Then again, maybe that was their new plan, to take us with them. Okay, time to get clever.

Getting her attention, I displayed three fingers to my wife and waved them around. Jess nodded and sent the message to the team.

Clutching his throat, Donaher gurgled in pain and dropped behind the barrels.

"Damn!” I cried real loud. “My gun is jammed!"

"I'm out of bullets!” Mindy added, tucking away the bow and drawing her sword.

"My leg!” Jessica gasped, kneeling expectantly.

Grinning like fiends, the werewolves charged. What shmucks. Still somewhere in the rafters above, George cut loose with the Masterson Assault Cannon, angling his shots to make damn sure he did not hit the reactor shell.

Their bodies jerking wildly, the Scion agents did a little dance of death as the caseless, armor piercing, high explosive and now silver tipped mini-shells blew them to hell in nine pieces. Jessica did mop-up with the Uzi, Donaher set them on fire, Mindy cut off everybody's head with her sword and my Magnums blasted anything that seemed healthy or hairy. No sense wasting the Barret on dead fish in a barrel.

"Die!” Jessica throated holding her glowing necklace, and empty air filled with a dead werewolf turning visible.

Amazing. How had she found him?

Bad breath.

Lack of flossing saves America. Film at eleven.

Black blood dripping off a flaming paw, the largest werewolf pulled a small velvet bag from his tattered flak jacket and tossed it at us. We braced for an explosion, but nothing happened. The team pointed an arsenal his way.

"Alive for questioning!” I cried.

Reluctantly, they dropped the weapons.

"Si ... c ‘em....” he commanded and then died.

Sic ‘em? Expanding, the velvet bag tore apart as out stepped one mother-ugly monster: fifteen feet tall, with four skinny legs, six muscular arms, and a bulbous head made entirely of tentacles lined with suckers filled with teeth, and tipped with long claws. A weresquid? Would silver kill a weresquid?

Shoot it and see.

Fair enough. I placed my last four shots from the Barret into the pulsating chest of this thing and I'm not sure it noticed. Okay, silver meant doo-doo to the Wiggling Wonder.

Stepping in close, Father Mike butt-stroked the beast in the face with the wooden stock of his shotgun. Wood affected a lot of supernaturals. A whipping tentacle slammed the big priest aside to crash into a tool locker. Donaher went limp on the floor, blood flowing from his face. A no-go on the wood, then.

Her wrist jerked and Mindy buried a knife into its body. Then added a couple of throwing stars.
Nada
. Jessica peppered it with assorted 9mm rounds, but lead, steel, wood, silver and phosphorus had no noticeable effect. Except maybe slow it down a bit with all that weighty metal tucked inside.

"Cadillac Seville!” George announced, flipping the Masterson to full auto. But the fiery stream shells merely vanished into the body of the weird aquatic beast.

Scrambling to the moaning priest, I pulled open his cassock. Strapped around his chest was a bulky vest made completely of pockets, each numbered and containing a shotgun shell. Since we were fighting were-creatures Donaher had requisitioned a full bane collection. Good move.

These shells did not contain lead pellets or steel shot, but every known type of natural substance which had a negative effect on evil supernaturals: wolfbane leaves, dragonbane bark, salt, silver filings, garlic powder, thorns from a wild white rose, sawdust, mandrake root, minced bat wing, dried dodo droppings, essence of newt, powdered thulium, shredded income tax forms and instant coffee. The real stuff. No decaf. That didn't do anything to anybody.

Mindy cut off a tentacle. The bodiless limb wrapped itself around her torso and started to squeeze.

In a flat pocket was a tiny booklet and I fast read the enclosed bane chart: shrew, skunk, Shriner, oh hell, octopus was the closet we had to a squid. Was an octopus a relative of a squid? What was a squid anyway? A mollusk? Isn't that in the clam family? Only one way to find out.