Chapter 12- Exogenesis

Chapter 12

Exogenesis

Villa Cyranno, Venezuela

To Major Peter Dalton, it felt like he’d been moving towards the church in the little town forever.  The building was unimpressive and yet Dalton felt greatly intimidated by it, like it was some dread specter rising above the town.

Dalton remembered back in Afghanistan, a different kind of mountain, he remembered a tall spire rising from a small village, equally small and equally insignificant.  Dalton remembered the sort of trouble that had begun in this small town, at this small spire.  Of course there had been a crescent rather than a cross atop this spire but the similarities were telling.

Back then and back there, Major Dalton had been sent to observe another air force operation, another crash investigation.  It had proven to be straightforward, pilot error had seen a chopper crash into the village and lose a crew of four.  They had also killed another fifteen people in the crash.

“Of course, it doesn’t need to be this way does it?” he had said to Dalton.

Dalton remembered the look he had given, the way he had turned his head.

“There’s no way we can rule out ground fire at this time is there?”

“There was no sign of an external explosion on the chopper.  This is a crash, pilot error,” Dalton had said slowly and clearly.

“But it could have been ground fire, conceivably he could have been reacting to ground fire when he crashed,” the other man had said.  He had already clinched his star, already made General, the promotion was a formality.  Dalton, despite his years of service was still awaiting confirmation of his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel.

“I’m not sure what you’re driving at sir,” He had said carefully.

“I’m sure that you do Peter,” The newly promoted General had said to him.

Peter Dalton had never been very good at reading the politics, he’d come up from the ranks by dint of his own intelligence and skill, by his own work rate and it had taken him a little longer than his friend who had a “rabbi” in the senior brass.

“Play the game Peter,” Michael Pays had once said to him, back before he had a star on his uniform.

“This isn’t a game,” He had replied back then, back when he was still a naïve Captain.

In that dusty village in Afghanistan, a crescent was framed against a dark night and Dalton failed to see what he was being asked, failed to understand the situation.

“Peter, this is an important decision you’re making here,” Said General Pays.

“This chopper came down due to pilot error,” He stated, he restated.

“Don’t rock the boat Peter, no one will thank you for it.  Least of all the Hajji’s in this town,” General Pays had told him.

Peter had rocked the boat anyway, out of his own sense of duty, out of his own sense of stubbornness.  What was right was right; the pilot had erred and killed more than a dozen people with his recklessness.  The problem was that he had been the nephew of an important Senator back home.  The scandal was bad for the air force and bad for the whole shop.  Dalton hadn’t been blamed, how could he?  But he was passed up for his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel all the same.

Since then, assignment after assignment had followed and Dalton had refused to change his style.  But he was holding himself back whilst people like General Pays went on to greater success.  And he wasn’t just holding himself back; he was holding Roman Dietz back too.  So he would “play the game”.

He’d been playing the game, step by step, mission by mission and the exhaustion had been gradually welling up inside of him.  Every step took him closer to the church door and the strange noises from inside.  He barely heard the first burst of automatic weapons fire.

“This is Dietz to all units, check in.  Whose firing and at who?” Called out Roman Dietz, Dalton’s oldest remaining friend in the Air Force.

“Harrison here, it aint us,” Came the first reply.

“Chung, we’re clear.  I think it’s McPherson’s team. I’ll move around and cover them,”

Wooderson reached the church door and began to open it.  Dalton wanted to tell him not to, wanted to say leave it.  He wanted to be back at a dry, dead desert, machine parts burning and the smell of fuel.  He wanted to have the pieces gathered around him so he could use that mind that he had sharpened to understand it.

Instead they opened the church doors.  It wasn’t much of a church, much more like a little chapel.  A single large room with pews scattered to all sides and books across the floor.  There was the smell of blood in the air.  Woodersen entered, his pistol drawn.  Dietz followed up, his own side-arm drawn.  Only Dalton had his weapon still in its holster.

“What in God’s name?” asked Dietz, instinctively crossing himself.

At the other end of the chapel, a man stood over another man who was slumped in front of him.  The man on his feet was wearing the black robes of a priest, dark hair hung off the back of a human-shaped head.  There was a terrible ripping sound coming from the two of them.

“Fuck me,” breathed Wooderson.  Dalton wished himself somewhere else; he wished to be anywhere else.  He reached very slowly for his side-arm.

The ‘priest’ turned around his face still human but blood had leaked from his eyes and mouth.  His hands were long, inhuman, clawed.  From the ends of his hands came long thin red tendrils that had wrapped themselves all around the slumped body in an army uniform.

“Fuck, he’s got Barrow!” shouted Wooderson.  In a fluid motion he brought up the pistol and fired two shots in quick succession.  The first round caught the figure in black in the head, knocking him back a step.  His forehead had caved in from the round and the man stumbled over.

“Good God in heaven.” Said Dietz, moving forward.

“Wait,” Shouted Dalton, almost unable to speak.

Dietz stopped just in time.  The priest began to get up again, blooding pouring from a crushed skull.  Wooderson and Dietz both unloaded their pistols, the sound was deafening inside the close confines of the chapel.

The human-shape was blown backwards into the wall, a strange animal wail coming up from it.  It spasmed and raised its clawed hands at them as round after round exploded into its body.

Wooderson reloaded his pistol.  Dalton had finally drawn his own weapon but he held it at his side.  Dietz reloaded too and looked over at his old friend.

“Pete, what the hell is it?”  Dalton thumbed the safety back off the pistol, this too seemed to take an age.

The downed figure of the ‘priest’ was trying to get up, its body wrecked but somehow it was still able to move.

“This is Storm, small arms fire don’t stop em,” came a voice on the radio.

“Peter!” yelled Dietz, looking over at Dalton.

Wooderson was now reloaded; he took a step forward and fired twice at the downed priest.  Both rounds caught him flat in the face.  After a few seconds, the body continued to move.

“Get Barrow’s body out of there,” Breathed Dietz.  Wooderson nodded and moved forward.  Barrow’s face was bruised and covered in small cuts.  Blood had dried around his mouth.  Wooderson dragged him clear of the priest, thin red tendrils trailing all around him.

“Fire,” Said Dietz.  “Fire, we’ve got to burn it.”

“What?” Said Wooderson, dragging Barrow to one side.

A figure appeared in the doorway behind them.  Wooderson raised his pistol instinctively.  A thin man in work overalls stood there in front of them.  He began to speak rapidly in Spanish.

“You speak Spanish?” asked Wooderson.

“A little bit” said Dietz.

“What’s he saying?” asked Wooderson.  Dalton looked back at the priest.  He was still trying to move.  Dalton stared at him, so much blood, so much violence.  The air reeked of cordite.

“He’s asking us what we’re doing, shooting his village up.  I think he’s the Mayor,” Said Dietz.  Dalton turned and waved a hand at the man in the doorway.

“Fuel, kerosene, anything that will burn,” He said.  “We need it in here right now.”
“Burn?  Burn the church?” asked another voice from the doorway.  He was a younger man, dark hair.

“Yes,” Said Dalton.  “We’ve got to burn this right now.”

The man in priests robes continued to move, slowly and sluggishly.  Spent shell cases were scattered across the floor like the after effects of some bizarre wedding.  There were bullets holes punched through his robes in more than a dozen places.

Dalton thumbed the safety back onto the pistol and tried to put it back into his holster.  Wooderson was still dragging Dalton outside, when the storm outside found its way in.