Reign of Evil

Ian and Walker looked at each other. If they had some Semtex they could have blown their way in. As it stood, they didn’t even have grenades. They both came to the same conclusion and, with a running start, slammed their shoulders into the doors. They gave an inch or two as the glass cracked and the plywood buckled. The men backed up and tried again; this time the glass shattered and the wood cracked. Three more times and they were able to break through. But now any chance of surprise had been destroyed. Plus, the pain in Walker’s right shoulder was quickly spinning from an ache to something worse.

The interior of the bowling alley was lit with seven glass chandeliers, which by their placement had to have been installed when the warlock took residence. They cast electric light and hung lower than head height in line across the twenty lanes of the bowling alley. Directly in front of them was the reception desk, complete with bowling shoes still resting in wooden slots. The area to the left had been an arcade, but it had been cleared and was now a sitting area. The area to the right had been a concession but was now a library, books and manuscripts on bookshelves placed where the stoves and fryers had probably once been.

What they didn’t see was the warlock or any homunculi. Nothing stirred.

Walker kept his feet moving and his weapon at low ready as he scanned the immense space. “Ian?”

“Yeah, Walker?”

“Where are the bad guys?”

“Not sure.”

Suddenly Jerry and Trev burst into the room from the staff access door on the far left. They had their weapons at low ready as well and mimicked Walker’s perplexed response. Where the hell was everyone?

Then Walker felt it. It was subtle, but it was there, a minute buzzing just below the surface of his skin.

“Careful,” he said. “Something’s going on.”

“Do you feel something?” Ian asked. “What is it?”

Walker shook his head. “I don’t know.” He moved left, then right, then forward to the reception desk. The feeling didn’t increase or decrease. The magic seemed to be everywhere. Then he had an idea. He raised his weapon to ready carry and aimed at a point below one of the chandeliers. He moved his finger over the fire selector lever and switched from single to automatic. He fired three controlled bursts, raking his weapon from left to right.

“What the hell?” Ian moved next to him. “Did you see something?”

Walker stared at the area he’d fired in. It was as if he could almost see shapes, but it could just as easily have been a trick of the mind.

Sassy Moore swept in behind them. “You had the right idea, Walker, but it’ll take more than that to dispel the illusion.” She waved her hand and spoke something in harsh, guttural German and the chandeliers sang as they jingled, one reality snapping into place over the fake reality. Where there had been nothing, there was now everything: homunculi lying dead below the spots where Walker had fired, others standing and glaring, others hanging from the chandeliers, others holding bowling balls as if they were giant hand grenades, and of course the warlock, standing about forty-five degrees off to Walker’s right in the middle of lane five, a look of pure rage reshaping the doughy features of his middle-aged face into those of a wild animal.

It was like a switch snapped on and everything came to life. Walker opened fire even as the homunculi surged toward him, some swinging from the chandeliers, others running like Chucky Doll–sized linebackers. They were like the ones he’d met before in San Diego, San Fran, and Mexico. Just shy of three feet tall, they had arms long enough that they almost dragged on the ground. Bulging with muscles, their skin was a jolting orange as if their makers were trying to create monstrous versions of Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas. But what got Walker every time was their sublime expressions that telegraphed such disinterest, it was as if they knew more than him, that they knew when they were eventually going to kill him and that it was already a fait accompli…. But even that sublime look disappeared once they opened their piranha-fanged mouths.

Walker took down some of them but missed as many as he hit. He’d forgotten his selector was on automatic and switched it to single shot for more control. Then he leaped on top of the counter in front of him to put some vertical distance between him and the ground.

He gestured for Ian to follow. After a moment’s hesitation he did. Good thing too, because the little creatures were already up to the counter and trying to climb. So it was with some well-placed kicks and quick-fired shots that Ian and Walker were holding their own. Enough dead homunculi littered the ground that the others had to walk on them.