Demon Hunter

Step back from me, Satan.

Frank dug his heels hard into the dirt and propelled himself forward. For a split second, he was like a hardened bull - firm, solid, resolute, impenetrable. All the minions of hell's creation couldn't have stopped that charge. And then the beast in the darkness took hold. It cracked the illusion. It met him, pound for pound, force for force, and reached into his heavy frame and ripped the big man apart at the seams. The cruelty of Frank's death was as remote and removed from me as the inescapable, and out of reach, open aperture, some twenty feet above our heads. I could hear him gutted. The sinew of his limbs, unable to withstand the tension, were twisted and torn. His bones shattered. His muscles only meat. Innards and blood and agonized cries of pain flushed the walls of the cavern. As he went silent, body molested, it tossed what was left of him harshly to the ground.

No more "Dirty" Harry Callahan. No more Dr. Henry Walton Jones. No more Mr. Majestyk.

The impressive man that had been Frank Wallace was gone.

I had almost followed him in. Frank and I often moved as one, in symphony, and without hesitation in these situations. I cocked the lever action of my carbine, gave him a nod, and took a sure-footed step forward. We had intended to kill the damn thing - at least, give it a fight it would remember. But it had come too fast, blinding in its speed. It snagged hold of Frank's extended, machete invested arm and unweighted his balance, spinning him about, putting his back to it and his face toward me and the light. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Frank's visage before he went. His eyes had been downcast before it engulfed him. It was something I had never witnessed before in the man. It was something I would rather never have seen. He was powerless. I stopped myself and angled my way back and well into the light then, thoroughly stunned. If it could take Frank like this, sap him of his strength and resolve so quickly, I didn't stand a chance. I could have easily emptied the barrel of my Marlin into the blackness, cartridge after cartridge, blast after blast, but it wouldn't have made a difference. It couldn't be harmed by any such means. It wasn't human. Frank knew this as well as I did. Ignorant sons-of-bitches that we were. Our fate had been sealed the second we had set foot into this wretched crevasse, so far away from the civilized ways of men and heaven.

"That was a bad idea, Frank. Worst one yet."

I stood staring dolefully forward. I was spent. The shaft of light, receding quickly, shined down upon me. Faint though it was, it was the only protection I had against this unclean and godless creature. My only hope for survival. It would not enter the light. But I knew Ka-kut was waiting. Ka-kut was patient. Night would come. If I did not willingly sacrifice myself to it now, as Frank had done, it would come for me then. Frank had known this, also. Perhaps he thought it would be better to go out fighting, than on our cowed backs, pleading and kicking in the dark. Perhaps I did, too, until I watched it shake Frank's 250 pound, well-muscled frame about like a leaf.

"What now, Frank?" I asked aloud, breathing stagnant, cavern air into my lungs. "Think I should just call it a day? End this? I'm awfully tired."

No response.

Frank no longer had a mouth or tongue or lungs to answer with. Ka-kut had taken good and proper care of that. Frank's silence would continue on through eternity.

What emanated from the blackness before me was suffocating, nauseating. It pinched at the nerves. I could feel it pulling me, tempting me in, even though it was feet away. It didn't move. It didn't speak. It simply radiated an aura of ill will and appetite. There are entities not of this earth, ancient and wicked. Diabolic things not to be tampered or meddled with, even on our best and brightest days. Frank and I had tracked the beast to these caverns, off the southern coast and on a small island in the Indian Ocean. Unknown to any map, the coastal natives referred to the island as ka-kut-mon-gora - simply translated, the isle of the dreaming demon.

Frank's response to that was, "Hell, if it's dreaming, it will be easier to kill."

He wasn't impressed. Dreaming or not, we would find it.

We had to pay a small ransom for passage to the island. Frank, in his guffaw humor and wit, had offered to forfeit me off to one of the native virgins. Thankfully, her uncle declined. A dark-skinned seaman, with hair the color of white sand and eyes of the deepest sapphire, happily settled for a handful of American dollars and a satchel of dried, goat meat - leaving our stomachs empty, our passage home spent.

"No matter," Frank had said. "There is always more where that came from. Tighten up your belt and mind your P's and Q's, lad! We're sailors now..."

The trip was uneventful.

Frank had inherited a sizeable sum from his grandfather who, himself, had been an archaeologist of sorts. Along with that had come a library filled with knowledge of every sort, including the arcane and ancient knowledge of demons. Ka-kut was no ordinary fiend of hell, not your usual Pazuzu, however. We realized this the second we slung the ropes between our legs and across our chests and backs and rappelled into the cavern. About three quarters down, some thirty feet below the surface, I became nauseated and lightheaded and faint. Frank stated he felt no such effect, but it wasn't difficult to detect that he was unduly perspiring.

"We have done this a hundred times," he reminded me. "This isn't any different than the others."

We made our way forward, into the blackness.

The first thing to go was the light. The weapon-mountable streamlight of my Marlin began to flicker and dim, and, eventually, it puttered out. Frank's halogen suffered the same fate. Our handhelds didn't fare any better. As the darkness engulfed us, we lost our sense of direction. I think it was then that I realized our predicament. We needed light to read and utter the killing incantations. We needed direction to know how to find our way back, to get the hell out. This is one of the problems with killing demons. They never die right off. After the incantations are spoken, the best option is to run.

"Frank, let's try to make our way back," I said. "We'll have another day at this."

"Hold on. See that? There is light up ahead."

That was when I felt it behind me. I was standing there, in the dark, attempting to sense from which direction the cavern winds were hitting my face, and without warning, and of unseen origin, a wake of foulness and filth brushed against me. I nearly retched what little I had left in my stomach. The stench of it was overwhelming. Then, with what must have been but an innocuous slap to the fiend, I heard an inhuman snarl and suffered a vile shove.

"Shit, it's here now, Frank!" I shouted out, coming to and adjusting the weight of the carbine in my hands.

With an intake of breath and hardly a moment's pause, "Move your ass! Make for the light!"

We tumbled forward in a frantic rush of limbs and agony, cracking our heads into every piece of jutting rock, scraping our backs on every corner. I stumbled, and it fell upon me again, knocking me off my feet, and as I lie there with the dreadful weight of it upon my back, it tore the leather straps from my shoulders and violently yanked the pack containing our precious incantations from me. Somehow, grasping tight to my Marlin, I was able to get to my feet and continue after Frank. I fell upon my knees in the light of the cavern, seconds later, Frank standing there, safe as a lamb, and smiling a grin from ear to ear above me.

"Aren't you a bloody mess."

"We lost the incantations, Frank." I said it wide-eyed and between breaths, my chest heaving, attempting to withhold the terror that surely must have shown through in my voice. I was certain one of my ribs had been broken.

Frank's eyes dimmed, and his smile slowly subsided. He eyed me intently, seeming not to see me at first, only the words I had spoken, and then turned to gaze up at the open aperture, at the source of the light, some twenty feet above our heads.

"How long do you think that sun will last?" he asked calmly. "Three, maybe four hours, at best?"

We were unprepared for this. Even if we could scale the walls of the cavern, we would be in the dark. The hot breath of the beast would be at our necks long before we reached the opening and managed an escape. I could already hear it approaching. It made no effort to hide its movement. It was coming quickly now and with purpose. My head was down, taking air into my lungs, and staring at the carbine that rested on my knees. It was a classic, lever action, repeating rifle. It had a black walnut stock, a 20" barrel, and I could fire it with the ease and grace of an expert marksman. I had a greater love for it than I ever had for any woman. Master Samurai Kyūzō. Lucas McCain. It was useless.

"Not long, Frank," I said. "Not long."

In the shadows, Ka-kut, beast of beasts, terror of mortal men, feaster of flesh and all that is unholy, the dreaming demon, rested its attentive gaze upon us...