Damnation Code (William Massa) - William Massa Page 0,55

much for being inured to the cold. She always teased her British colleagues when they complained about their comparatively mild winters. But this was different. The temperature must have dropped over twenty degrees since she took her tumble in the snow. How was this possible?

She reached the trees and began to round the strange ice wall. Behind her the branches stirred, wooden fingers brushing against her back. She stifled a scream.

Get a grip on yourself!

Just a few more seconds and she’d be on her way, blasting down the trail and headed for the safety of the base about 800 feet below.

She suddenly noticed strange carvings etched into the trees. Her eyes narrowed and she had to lean forward to catch a better look. As a native Norwegian, she recognized the symbols as runes, the characters of the alphabet used by the ancient people of Northern Europe. She didn’t know the meaning of these symbols, but it deepened her sense of dread. Heart hammering in her chest, she turned away from the trees and wove around the icy obstacle. Fear fueled her movements. Reality had narrowed to one simple objective — she had to get back on the trail.

Her singular focus paid off and she reached the other side of the ice wall, only to grow dead still… Three human silhouettes blocked the trail ahead.

A scream wanted to escape from Kristin’s throat, but her lips were frozen shut. The tall, gaunt snowboarders loomed before her, creating a human barrier across the width of the chute. Even if she managed to somehow weave around them, nothing would stop them from chasing after her.

The spooky trio advanced. As they stepped into the moonlight, Kristin realized they all wore fiberglass skull-helmets favored by both hardcore snowboarders and paintballers. They looked more like monstrous, medieval skeleton creatures than masked humans.

Despite the punishing cold and her mounting terror, Kristin exploded into motion. Using her poles, she pushed away from the figures and shot back toward the trees.

She had barely advanced a few feet when a massive silhouette peeled from the shadow-soaked woods, barring her escape. Like the others, he wore a skull-mask that erased all humanity from his visage and a glittering knife extended from his gloved hand.

Kristin’s piercing scream cut through the forest but was quickly drowned out by the unforgiving wind.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY CALLED HIM the vampire.

His real name was Rezok and he was the lead singer of the Norwegian black metal band Ice God. He also happened to be the reason why Mark Talon, the occult assassin, had come to Bergen, Norway and found himself in a rundown pub surrounded by a mob of screaming, drunk fans. Any minute now Ice God would hit the stage, and the anticipation in the crowd was palpable.

Talon shared their excitement, but for different reasons. This was a recon mission and he hoped to catch a closer look at the enemy.

All eyes in the club remained riveted on the dark stage, lips mouthing the lyrics to their favorite doom-and-gloom songs. The surging throng wore exclusively black - any other color was frowned upon. Interspersed with the hardcore constituents were a few conservative-looking guys seeking to get drunk while listening to some gnarly Norwegian metal. Judging from the disapproving stares these outsiders received, the “real” fans considered them impersonators who lacked the balls to commit. It took more to make you a true member of the scene than loosening that tie and trading a pair of slacks for black jeans, after putting in a long week as a cubicle drone.

Talon’s years as a special operator in Afghanistan and Iraq had taught him the value of blending in and becoming part of the scenery. He’d opted for the black metal uniform of choice: a leather jacket, jeans and steel-tipped combat boots. The T-shirt of an obscure Danish band with an illegible name sold the look. No one questioned the authenticity of his commitment to the movement. Or if they did, his six-foot-one, well-muscled frame and the fire in his eyes made them keep it to themselves.

Talon inhaled the sour stench of wood soaked in beer mixed with human perspiration. He had frequented enough shitty Third World dives in his Delta days to pick up on the undercurrent of violence when it was present. Some of the characters in this crowd were already visibly drunk, chasing vodka shots with beer and letting out shouts of anticipation while fist-pumping the air. Talon took a sip of his Rignes Pils, Norway’s leading brew,