whatever they were at the top of the mound moved up and down and around faster and faster. The steady drone grew louder and louder sending a tremble through the walls.
JB lay on the table secured by tentacles with smaller tendrils stuck to his head. His face seemed frozen with his eyes closed and his lips tightly sealed as if chomping a bit.
The Missionary loomed over the child with fiery wide eyes. One of his arms remained attached to the roaring contraption.
'OPEN YOUR MIND! OPEN IT TO ME!'
Two zombie-like monks stood silently by with no reaction to the Missionary's struggle but Gannon instinctively stepped back, ready to retreat. His finely honed sense of self-preservation suggested that things neared a breaking point; a breaking point not for the boy but for The Order's monstrous machine.
'YOU INSOLENT CHILD! STOP…FIGHTING…DO NOT RESIST!'
The ribs supporting the fleshy walls of the vile mechanism bulged then retreated then bulged again as if a great force pushed out from within. Gannon retreated another step.
The Missionary's glare changed. The fury on his face-pure rage-slipped away. His eyes stayed wide not in anger but in…but in fear.
'No! NO!'
His attention shifted from the boy on the table to his arm attached to the raging machine. He tried to yank it free but could not. 'Let go!' The boy's eyes snapped open. The machine churned harder and faster and louder. 'Let GO OF ME!'
A horrible sickening crunch sounded beneath the scream of The Order's machine. The Missionary gasped and collapsed to his knees. As he did, what remained of his arm finally snapped away from the hideous contraption revealing a bloody stump.
Voggoth's Missionary man screamed. The stone-faced Monks wavered but for lack of orders did not move.
The tendrils on JB's head drew back as if shocked by electricity. The slimy bonds around his wrists and ankles warped from green to gray then fell to the floor and squirmed like wounded snakes.
The Missionary stumbled to his feet staring at his stump as JB sat up.
'Like, what the shit is going on?' Gannon gaped at the young boy. For the first time since he watched Tokyo die, Brad Gannon wondered if he had chosen the wrong side.
'Your machine is empty!' The boy shouted. 'I am filling it! It belongs to me now.'
The Missionary scrambled to escape and ordered, 'Purify him! Purify him with your blades!'
Both monks unsheathed their swords and descended on the young boy who greeted their approach with a devilish smile. As they raised their weapons for the kill, a pair of thin black poles, or maybe they were legs, unstuck from the top of the machine and seemingly stepped down, skewering the monks.
The Missionary placed his remaining hand against his temple and cried, 'I am infected! Get out of my mind! Get your poison out of my mind!' Gannon saw a patch of the Missionary's head turn gray as he hurried toward a side hall shouting 'Defenses!'
Those defenses came to life. A woeful alarm that sounded similar to a dentist's patient howling through a mouth of cotton reverberated through the base but it could not match the shaking and roaring machine in volume. High up a section of wall bulged and then stretched into the form of a barrel. JB glanced toward the weapon. A rash of gray patches grew on the barrel. JB looked to Gannon as the human turncoat staggered side to side like a mouse caught in an open field below the shadow of a hawk.
The gun barrel curled and straightened, literally spitting bullets. The rounds slammed into Gannon one after another, tearing apart his body into chunks of flesh. The one-time actor turned quisling disintegrated into a pile of steaming garbage.
More monks tried to enter the chamber from side corridors. The gun swiveled and fired, killing several and forcing others to retreat.
JB jumped from the platform and approached his father. As he did, the fibrous bands over Trevor's eyes withered and withdrew as did his bonds.
'Father! Father! Can you hear me?'
No response.
The machine grew unstable. Something popped; another something hissed. What remained of the working appendages at its top snapped apart spewing debris.
'Father! Wake up! I can't control it much longer! It's going to come apart!'
He grabbed Trevor's head with both of his tiny hands and shook. Gray splotches popped up on the machine walls as if a disease like chicken pox infected Voggoth's contraption.
Trevor's eyes opened then shut.
'It's me, Jorge! Your son! We have to go!'
The gun fired again, blasting to pieces a spider sentry as it marched into the room. Gooey alien innards mixed with the remains of Brad Gannon.
Trevor tried to open his eyes again; then again. His hands flexed then fidgeted as unused nerves and muscles struggled to reactivate.
'Please, father! Please…'
Finally his eyes stayed open, but they were not the eyes of JB's father. They were not the eyes of the Emperor. They were the eyes of a madman, driven beyond the edge of sanity by the machine that had amplified all his guilt and fear and shame and turned hours of torment into weeks; days into years.
The body of Trevor Stone rolled off the platform as some combination of mental impulses caused a physical reaction. He fell to the ground with a heavy thump. A forlorn groan-a beast's groan-slipped from his lips.
As small as he was in comparison to his dad, the determined son grabbed his father's arm with both hands and tried to drag him.
'We have to go! We have to get out of here! Please, oh please…'
The splotches covering the great machine spread as the infection multiplied and advanced. Patches of gray formed on the walls of the chamber which splintered like drying skin creating lacerations spilling vile liquids and jells.
The basic instincts that remained in Trevor Stone allowed him to blindly react to the boy’s shouts. He tried to stand but fell, and then crawled on all fours like a wild animal; then he stood again but took only two steps before stumbling once more.
Jorge pulled and tugged, willing his dad from the room in steps, crawls, and staggers. As they moved, the walls of the complex cracked and trembled as the contamination spread.
Others came to stop the father and son, but the defenses of the base belonged to the boy. Gun emplacements, binding tentacles, and all the machines inside Voggoth's lair turned against The Order, controlled by a child.
25. Lines of Battle
After several days of cloud cover, the sun finally broke through to kick off a hot and humid North Carolina Saturday. As the temperatures rose and the air turned sticky, Nina walked on wet ground through a small patch of woods to the north of Causeway Drive. There she came upon the damaged Eagle transport hidden among the overgrowth and drooping branches. Hauser-after regaining his senses-had done an excellent job in wedging the ship into cover.
They had been living at Jim Brock's since Thursday and Nina felt pinned down. She worried about moving in fear of exposing themselves, but also feared that one of Brock’s friends would eventually turn them in.
'What's our status?'
Hauser knelt just inside the open door of the transport, Nina stood on the ground below.
'We're good,' the pilot with the burn mark on his forehead answered. 'There are a couple of accessory systems that are still out but nothing important. The rest is just cosmetic. We can get going any time we want.'
