Inhuman by Eric Leland

Author:Eric Leland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Military, Horror, Thriller, Special Forces, Historical Fiction, Vietnam War, Action & Adventure, Supernatural
Publisher: RTNY Publishing Inc
Published: 2021-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sunlight dripped sparkling from tiny fingers. A wet, smiling face flinched as the boat—

Jaran snapped awake in the dark.

Chilly and damp. Millions of tiny bells rang in her ears.

Fingernails stuttering, scraping across wet, rough stone, she worked her hand into a fist. The coolness of complete physical exertion in her arms and legs.

Tired. Hungry. Cold.

Beyond the bells, voices. Short and sharp. Long and sad.

She propped herself up. Sat on the rock. Leaned on her hand. Dizzy. Shoulders aching, she fingered her soaked hair from her face.

In the rain, black shapes of men moving in the night. Too dark to see their faces.

Her eyes drifted.

By the cliff’s edge, a smaller man lay on his back holding his belly. Screaming. Legs kicking. A much bigger man knelt over him.

Her head wobbled toward other voices. A man sat near her with his face in his hands. Rocking. Beyond him, by the wall of dark stone, a man lay on the ground. His legs were gone—

The projection!

Memories slapped her and she jerked upright.

The cave. The wards. She had to get to the cave. She’d be safe there.

She tried to stand. A cramp snatched her leg and she stumbled and fell to her knees. Grunting at the ache in her legs, she crawled, dragged herself into the cave. Stopped just inside. Gasping. She looked behind. Out into the night. The rain spattered outside. The projection, where had it gone? Pressing the wall she pushed herself to her feet. Fingers sliding along the familiar shallow grooves—the wards her ancestors had carved in the rock.

Touching those old markings summoned the memory of Grandmother holding Jaran’s tiny hand. Together their fingers traced those markings over and over.

They keep us safe, Grandmother’s soothing voice echoed from long ago. The wards won’t keep Erlik Khan’s mortal bodies from crossing, but they will destroy a projection.

With the memory also came grief. Jaran was safe here. But she was alone.

Safe.

Jaran’s lingering terror of the projection compelled her deeper into the cave. Leaning against the wall, she limped down the passage.

Orange light flickered near the end. She went to it.

The crippled Vietnamese man, Boing, she had heard the men call him. Boing lay by a small flame.

Jaran fell against the wall beside the flame. Slid down and sat hard. Sleep pulled her down, but she fought it. Fought to keep her eyes open. She stared at the flame. A strange candle. A block of something, seemingly hand-molded to the size of a small rock, sat aflame upon a fat can from the men’s food boxes.

The men.

She had left them. If Erlik Khan’s projection came back...

In that moment of terror upon waking her instinct had been to seek the safety of the cave. She had not even thought to warn the men. Had she left them to die?

The ache gnawing her muscles reminded her. She had not left them to die. She had sung the song. Just like Grandmother had taught her. The projection....

Had she banished it?

As a young girl, in her heroic

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