Ghouls

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I must become a borrower of the night for a dark hour…

The line made him smile.

Backed by light, he was a weirdly slatted shape behind the door’s half-opened louvers. He seemed to be waiting for something. In his head droned a very distant but mechanical screeching that reminded him of the nitrogen-recharge units found in most General Motors tank turrets. What an odd thing to fill his head now. He could imagine the same sound filling the heads of madmen everywhere.

He was waiting for his cover, his equalizer. The dark.

Only half of the sun was visible now, its fading furnace-red glow drawing thin along the horizon. Above him came a slow, silent explosion of stillness and peace as the sky gave away its radiance. There was something reminiscent, almost excitingly so, about the coming night. It sparked a barrage of quiet Bavarian memories. The 0300-hour road marches in blackout drive along the Ludwig Canal. Radio silence during Czech border reconnaissance. Waiting for the commencement flare at the night-fire range in Grafenwöhr, and the way the world looked through a passive sight and SABOT reticle. He’d taken speed once, to stay awake all night and watch the moon creep across the bulk shapes of munition igloos at Area November, the brigade ordnance depot. These memories pleased him very much.

No stars yet, he thought and held his smile as he faced the dying sun. There’s husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out. Don’t die under Daddy’s cap, Fleance, you young cocker, you.

He cranked the louvers closed and stepped away.

Earlier he’d set everything out on the bed, a queer schematic diagram of objects whose sole purpose was to end life. Each of the three thirty-round clips for the M16 had been deliberately loaded with twenty-eight rounds, to reduce the statistical likelihood of a misfeed. There would be no taping one magazine under the other; the time saved by this method of rapid reloading did not justify the disadvantages. This particular ploy exposed the upside-down magazine’s lip to dirt and possible damage, made it easier to load a clip backward and to forget when a clip was empty, and altered the weapon’s balance by an overall increase in weight. He hadn’t done it in combat, and he wouldn’t do it now. The clips would be carried in a general-issue three-capacity magazine holder worn on his left side.

Jeans and jeans jacket won out over cammies—a million street thieves couldn’t be wrong; denim proved very functional as camouflage without being conspicuous. He’d purchased the jeans jacket purposely oversized, to be worn over the Bristol protective vest. Boots were too noisy; therefore, black lightweight running shoes would be worn, “felony specials,” as the police liked to say, and not without good reason. No keys, no coins, no wallet. Matches in a waterproof container in top right jacket pocket, his set of picks and a sleeved penlight in top left. Brown jersey gloves and a mouthless navy blue ski mask to diffuse his breath in case the temperature dropped. Standard field flashlight with an additional screw-on red lens to help preserve his night vision. He chose HALT! brand dog repellent since its active ingredient, capsaicin, a red pepper extract, worked well on humans as well as animals, unlike the more popular GOEC chemical mace. The canister had been painted flat black, as had his garrison belt buckle and the brass buttons of the jeans jacket.

Now, he removed the Gerber MK I fighting knife from its modified sheath, satisfied that he’d bought it instead of a flashier knife. The Gerber was less prone to breakage at the tip and the tang, possessed a stronger, more robust blade, better design and inherently better balance which provided an improved thrust capacity. The aluminum sandblast-finished handle felt alien but somehow agreeable to him. Plus there was the extra advantage of the protruding pommel at the end (known to gun-shop geeks as a “skull-crusher”) that doubled as an excellent judo stick for vital nerve centers. He would hang the knife upside down over his left pectoral from a quick-release scabbard corded to the jacket.

He put the grenades and a field kit in an OD string bag.

Within thirty minutes his gear was donned and checked and rechecked. His stomach growled and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten today. Only fools were shot on full stomachs. Peritonitis was a hell of a way to go.

Time ticked on. He grew uneasy with a familiar static edge. He went to the door again, reeled open the louvers, and glanced intently out.

The sun had sunk further. Another hour, and it would be dark.

It was more than Willard and his nightmares that awaited beyond the door. It was his past that waited as well, like a cheated reaper, waiting no less intently than Sanders himself had waited for this day.

And it would be waiting, he knew, with open arms.

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