The effort of getting past the fear eased once he found the parts of the men that wanted to believe in something greater than themselves. Men, especially fearful men, always needed something stronger and larger and outside themselves to believe in.
“Those,” Warren said with conviction, “are our enemies. They are who you should be afraid of. Not me.”
“He’s right,” someone said.
“I can help you,” Warren told them, and he pushed with all his strength. The imps came closer. Some of the eel-things among them took flight. “I will help you if you let me.”
“He has powers,” someone said. “There aren’t enough of us to stand against those demons.”
“Let me help you,” Warren said.
The man with the shotgun lowered his weapon. “Let them in.”
“Bixby!” another man shouted in consternation. “What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bixby turned to face his men. “We don’t stand a chance of stopping those demons by ourselves. And if we don’t stop them, they’ll slaughter our wives and children next. Do any of you want that?”
No one answered.
Turning back to Warren, Bixby said, “Come ahead.”
Trying to appear fearless, Warren strode forward.
Naomi knew the men hated having to trust them. She felt their fear and anger all around her as she took her place among them. The men hated the zombies even more, though, and she held them blameless for that.
She hated the zombies, too. She suspected that her innate revulsion of them resulted, at least in part, in why she failed to raise them. Some Cabalists specialized in raising newly dead. They called forth bodies of comrades who’d fought at their sides only moments previously. Others only raised those who’d been interred in graveyards and sat patiently by while the resurrected zombies clawed from their caskets and from the ground.
Warren easily did both. She’d seen him do it.
She took cover behind a thick oak tree. The broad old trunk hid her and a young man in his late teens. She felt his gaze upon her and knew that he feared her as well as felt sexually aroused by her proximity and strangeness.
“Do you have a name?” the young man asked.
“I am Naomi.”
“I’m Desmond.”
Naomi looked at him briefly. Before the invasion, the world had seemed filled with such gaunt young men trying to find some way to assert themselves. At one time, she knew Warren Schimmer had been one himself.
The young man’s coat and hat looked too big for him. He held a single-shot shotgun.
Since the invasion, Naomi had learned about weapons as well. Her knowledge base had grown in areas she’d never thought about.
“It’s not just a shotgun,” Desmond said defensively. He gripped the weapon as if embarrassed. “We modified the ammunition. Regular bullets don’t do much to demons.”
“No,” Naomi agreed. “They don’t.”
“So we changed what we use.” Desmond plucked at the bandolier of shotgun shells spread over his chest. “These are explosive rounds. Designed to penetrate demon hide and deliver a load of poison. It’s a nerve toxin we got from some of the demon fish that’s swum up from the River Thames.” He swallowed. “They got all kinds of evil things living in that water these days.”
“I know,” Naomi said. “I’ve seen them.” For a time, when she’d been with the Cabalist sept led by Hedgar Tulane, they’d studied the various demonic creatures that had crossed through the Hellgate. Not all of them had been warriors and savage animals. The Burn had brought a plethora of plant and animal life with it.
“The fish aren’t any good to eat,” Desmond explained, “but we found out the poison they carry is harmful to the demons.”
“That’s good,” Naomi said. Man’s ability to find destructive things in nature—any nature—seemed to be one of the constants in the universe. That affinity for self-destruction had been one of the things that had first drawn Naomi to Cabalist beliefs. She’d wanted a peaceful way to live, one more along the lines she thought that nature and God had intended.
For a time, the Cabalist research had focused on improving personal health and well-being, using energy like the Reiki healing processes. Even then, though, some Cabalists had worked to master the more destructive arcane powers.
“Just hope it’s enough.” Desmond gripped his weapon and glanced fearfully at the approaching demons.
The imps spread out across the marshland. Although they came from a hothouse world, which was what the Burn was converting London into, they didn’t show any real discomfort with the cold wind and snow flurries.
Without making a sound, the imps suddenly charged. They brought their weapons to bear and lit up the darkness with bright blazes and beams.
The ragtag group held their ground and returned fire. Naomi knew that bravery didn’t make the villagers stand and fight. It was fear. They’d obviously learned over the years that if they broke ranks before the demons, they would only be hunted down separately and killed.
The explosive rounds used by the villagers did surprising damage. The demons obviously hadn’t expected the attack. They dropped when they were hit by what would have normally been only a flesh wound. The poison in the rounds acted swiftly. Even in the blunted moonlight, Naomi saw the demons’ skins become mottled, then turn a bilious yellow-green as festering sores erupted in seconds.
Urged by their commander, a wide-bodied imp carrying two pistols, the wounded demons tried to get up. Most of them failed and fell back onto the snow. The ones that did manage to get to their feet didn’t stay there long before they succumbed to the poison’s effects again. Those stricken quivered and foamed at the mouth for a short time, then went still.
Summoning her power, Naomi focused it and stepped forward. She spread her hands and unleashed a blast of energy. Immediately
