Nick Pollotta - Bureau 13 - Damned Nation

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PRAISE FOR BUREAU 13

"Great!"

—DRAGON® Magazine

"Very funny."

—Locus

"High adventure, highly recommended."

—Science Fiction Chronicle

"A wonderful read. Extremely humorous."

—Moscow Times

"This is the X-Files meets the Marx Brothers!"

—Raymond's Reviews

* * * *

WILDSIDE PRESS NOVELS

BY NICK POLLOTTA

ILLEGAL ALIENS(w/Phil Foglio)

BUREAU 13: JUDGMENT NIGHT

BUREAU 13: DOOMSDAY EXAM

BUREAU 13: FULL MOONSTER

THAT DARN SQUID GOD(w/James Clay)

* * * *

FORTHCOMING

BUREAU 13 RPG SOURCE BOOK

THE BROTHERS GRIMOIRE

DAMNED NATION

NICK POLLOTTA

WILDSIDE PRESS

DAMNED NATION

Excerpts from, “The Song Eternal” were from “The Collected Poems of A.B. Hassan,” and are used

with the permission of his estate.

SPECIAL THANKS

To the lovely and talented Judith Taylor,

proofreader extraordinary.

Games. www.TriTacGames.com

Join the “Bureau 13” fan club! www.Bureau-13.com

To my nephew, Logan Randall,

master swordsman.

"...and a wall of troops surrounded the campfire, guarding the civilians and children through the chilly

darkness until the dawn. So shall it ever be. Soldiers standing bold against the creatures of the night."

Marcus Aurellius

Roman Emperor, 140 AD

CHAPTER ONE

Standing at a window in the mansion, Joshua Witherspoon gazed in torpid horror at the deadly battle

raging across the Potomac River. Somewhere over the horizon, entire divisions of Union and

Confederate cannons were firing non-stop, the violent discharges of the heavy artillery filling the night sky

with crimson flashes. The massive guns must have been deafening to the ground crews, but the distance

softened the titanic blasts and Joshua could only hear a muffled thumping. Strong and steady.

Almost like the beating of a human heart, Joshua observed sadly. The analogy was disturbing.A civil

war, there was an oxymoron if I've ever heard one .

Looking down at the sleeping city, Joshua couldn't see a soul on the cobblestone streets. Washington

seemed as deserted as a whorehouse on Christmas. This eagerly awaited war-between-the-states was

already eight months old by now, and the initial hope for an early victory was long gone. The civilians

were becoming accustomed to thundering cannons in the night, and the military was digging in for a

prolonged conflict. As a prelude against possible invasion, the Union Navy had anchored a dozen

warships in a defensive line across the Chesapeake Bay to protect the entrance to the Potomac River.

And hidden in the thick forest along the river, the Army had hundreds of disguised gunnery

emplacements, more than enough troops, rifles and Napoleon cannons to stop any conceivable

Confederate attack on the Executive Mansion. Built by the famous architect James Hoban, the great

white house on the bank of the Potomac River was the official residence of the President of the United

States, the headquarters of the northern War Department, and a prime target for the Confederate Army.

To take and hold the Executive Mansion would mean capturing President Lincoln alive, which would

assure Jefferson Davis an almost instant victory.

However, the War Department was prepared for such a scenario. Encamped around the Executive

Mansion was a thousand armed soldiers, the elite 110th ‘Cassius Clay’ Battalion, backed by more brass

Napoleon field cannons than could ever be counted in a single day without the use of roller skates. A

dozen sharpshooters walked the flat roof of the Executive Mansion, and a score of heavily armed

soldiers patrolled the sprawling grounds of the estate. To the general public, the Executive Mansion was

a military hardsite, a fortified redoubt. What the Confederacy thought about the matter was anybody's

guess.

Shaking his head at these dark thoughts, Joshua let the curtain drop back into place and turned away

from the window. The war was not his concern tonight, dinner was. With a properly neutral expression,

the head butler for the Executive Mansion lifted the silver serving tray loaded with foodstuffs and started

along the dimly lighted corridor of the West Wing. The War Department was still in session, and although

nobody had rung for food, it was part of his job to know when such things were needed before being

asked. A good butler always anticipated the needs of his employer. Like putting a kerosene lantern into

the outhouse to warm the seat just after serving a large meal. Or obtaining a wheelbarrow during a night

of heavy drinking to help move the more inebriated guests to their bedrooms.

Or dump them out onto the street, Joshua noted sagely. It all depended upon how badly they had

worn out their welcome during the festivities. Getting drunk and vomiting was considered manly, messy,

but acceptable. But pinch the bottom of a maid and the president would personally heave the

transgressor out the nearest window. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln didn't touch alcohol. However, they didn't

mind drinking, only drunks. If a guest found himself airborne, then he must have committed a serious

breach of etiquette. It was always a shocking discovery.Especially just before crashing into the

rhododendron bushes .

As Joshua walked through the huge mansion, only the creak of the floorboards disturbed the thick

silence. In spite of the late hour, Joshua was neatly dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and matching

bowtie, along with a gay tartan vest he had purchased at a Boston pawn shop. Orphaned at a young age,

Joshua had no idea if his ancestry was Scottish, but he liked the bright mix of colors. Besides, the vest

was a small rebellion against the iron rules of decorum that governed the social elite in DC like invisible

chains.

Unlike the real shackles that others wore in the South, Joshua thought sourly, glancing back at the

curtained window.Wish to Heaven there was something I could do to help them, but I'm just a

butler. If I was to join the Army, they would only assign me to be the aide to some fat general. If

I'm going to be a servant no matter what, then I might as well stay in DC and work for the

president. Besides, what possible difference could a single man make in the outcome of any war?

Moving past the railing at the top of the stairs, Joshua saw a dark shape lunge out of the shadows.

"Halt, and be recognized!” the private ordered brusquely, then he smiled and lowered the shotgun. “Hi,

Joshua."

The butler paused. “Private Augustan,” Joshua replied politely, giving a little nod. Then he looked at the

ceiling and started whistling.

Quickly shouldering the .69 smoothbore Remington, the private gently lifted the linen napkin covering a

plate on the tray, and snaked out a sandwich from the stack of them underneath. Lowering the napkin,

the soldier hid the food behind his back and delicately coughed.

"Good evening, private,” Joshua said, facing forward again. Giving a wink, he continued into the West

Wing. Oh, it was against orders for the staff to feed any of the soldiers around the mansion. But in

Joshua's opinion, a man could not properly guard the president and his family if the poor fellow was

weak from hunger. Some rules were meant to be adhered to at all costs, and some could tactfully be,

well, bent every now and then. It was all a matter of moderation.Which every man had to decide for

himself .

Turning sideways to squeeze between two large packing crates blocking the hallway, Joshua fervently

hoped that the private was not caught with breadcrumbs on his uniform by Sgt. Montgomery. The wrath

of the sergeant was legendary. With just a stern glare, the big Irishman had once made a mule burst into

tears.Scary stuff .

Raising the tray high, Joshua maneuvered past a colossal packing crate with labels from France. This

collection of boxes was just the most recent purchases for Mrs. Lincoln's planned renovations of the

Executive Mansion. President Buchanan had been a fine man, but a total slob, and the mansion had been

an absolute pigsty when the Lincolns moved in. Incredibly, the new First Lady had gotten Congress to

loosen its purse strings and grant her thirty-thousand dollars to repair, rebuild, and redecorate the

Presidential abode. To anybody with even the slightest dollop of political savvy, that was a miracle equal

to the parting the Red Sea, and Mrs. Lincoln had wisely moved fast on the repairs before Congress had

gotten sober and rescinded their outrageously generous offer.

Every day another crate arrived with more furniture, curtains, or fixtures; a chandelier from Paris,

dinnerware from New York, rugs from Madrid, or crystal from Moscow. Wherever that was located.

But even more importantly, an invading army of carpenters had done a splendid job repairing the creaky

old mansion. The windows could now be opened without resorting to the use of a crowbar, the banister

on the main stairs no longer threatened to collapse, and everybody was delighted that the furnace was

working again. Sans the usual ‘black fog’ of escaping coal soot.

Sidestepping a sideboard from Sweden, Joshua grimly reminded himself that there was still the problem

of the basement rats that needed attending to. There were several rooms below that the maids steadfastly

refused to enter without pitchfork and burning torch. On his first day, Joshua had declared war on the

indigenous rodent population. But the rats seemed to thrive on the arsenic-laced cheese he put in the

traps. Only hot lead stopped the little monsters, and while Joshua was slowly becoming rather a good

shot, the home of the President of the United States was as divided as the nation itself, with humans ruling

the upper floors, but the Potomac River rats the uncontested masters of the dank basement.

Softly, the distant cannonfire continued to thump in the background, the beat quickening.

Spotting a tilted picture on the wall, Joshua scowled and placed the serving tray on top of a packing

crate from Luxembourg. Whatever the box might contain, the butler was positive that it could not

possibly be as useful as a bloodthirsty farm cat. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lincoln did not want any animals in

the mansion out of a fear that they might scratch the new furniture.Pennywise, pound foolish .

"There you go, sir,” Joshua said politely, leveling the frame. “All better."

In the flickering light of the ceiling lanterns, the unfinished portrait of George Washington seemed to wink

in reply. The butler chuckled as he took up the tray once more. Amazing how a man could imagine such

things late at night.

Traversing one last barricade of crates and barrels, Joshua slowly approached The Shop, the private

office of the president. Angry voices could be heard through the closed door.Oh dear, what was wrong

now?

"Poisoned bullets?” a deep voice growled, footsteps pounding along the floor. “What does that madman

Lee think he's doing?"

A gruff voice replied, “Bah! What could we expect from rebel scum?"

"By God, that's inhuman!” President Lincoln sputtered furiously. “Are our spies sure about this?"

"Well, our soldiers certainly aren't dying just because they looked at some hairy-arsed rebel!” somebody

replied with a sneer in their voice. “Sir, our troops are being found dead in the battlefields from minor

wounds that shouldn't have slowed down a Spanish dandy! Scratches, sir, mere trifles! If the

Apothecary-General wants money to hire chemists to try to find an antidote for this poison, plague,

whatever the Hades it is, then by thunder, I say give it to him! Give the man anything he requests!

Including the mucking Liberty Bell melted down into surgical probes if he so desires!"

"And I agree,” Vice President Hannibal Hamlin added in his booming oratory voice. “I say the War

Department should assign the good doctor the sum of a thousand dollars for emergency medical

research. All those in favor?"

The room chorused in the affirmative.

"So passed,” President Lincoln stated wearily. “Now what's next on the agenda?"

"The planned attack on Leesburg, sir."

"Oh, very well. Any suggestions?"

Feeling the time was ripe for an intrusion, Joshua politely knocked.

"Come in!” Vice President Hamlin demanded.

Expertly balancing the tray in one hand, Joshua worked the latch and entered.

"Well?” President Lincoln wearily snapped in his standard greeting. Both of his hands were full of

papers, and the tall man was bent over a Hoban drum table covered with maps.

Across the room, several generals were drawing diagrams on a blackboard with squeaky sticks of

chalk, and a couple of yawning Union soldiers stood exhausted in the corners, their Springfield rifles

more holding them up than the other way around. Bent over a desk, two of the president's secretaries,

Nicolay and Hey, were busy scribbling away in journals, the scratching of their pens sounding like chicks

trying to be hatched.

"I brought coffee and sandwiches, sir,” Joshua said, deftly closing the door with an expert bump of a hip.

"Thank the lord,” Vice President Hamlin sighed, rubbing his eyes with closed fists. “I was getting ready

to eat the furniture."

Laying aside the papers, the president frowned. “Coffee is not what this nation needs,” Lincoln growled

dourly. “Nor I, for that matter."

"Speak for yourself, sir,” General Henry Halleck snorted, rubbing his unshaved jaw to the sound of

sandpaper. The military officer had been freshly shaved when he arrived at the Executive Mansion this

morning, but that was so long ago it seemed like another lifetime.

"That better not be Virginia ham,” Lt. General Winfield Scott muttered in accusation, placing aside a

piece of chalk, and dusting off his callused hands.

"Never, sir!” Joshua brazenly lied, placing the tray on an empty table. “That would be unthinkable!"Ah,

politics, the fine art of splitting hairs with a sledgehammer.

As the War Department descended upon the food like Alabama farm workers, there suddenly came a

ghastly noise from outside that froze the men motionless. Half gurgle, and half whimper, every manjack

present instantly identified it as a deathcry. Somebody had just been violently killed in the garden.

"Lock the door!” General Scott ordered, pulling his LeMat pistol, and thumbing back the massive

hammer. “And sound the alarm!"

As the guards rushed to obey, a window exploded, throwing glass into the office, and a huge mangy dog

landed on the India rug near the crackling fireplace.

Dropping a pile of napkins, Joshua recoiled from the incredible sight. The beast was colossal, larger than

a grown man, with fangs like daggers. But how in Hades could anything that large have jumped to the

second floor?

Snarling in a manner that almost sounded like a chuckle, the slavering beast looked over the array of

gaping people, and launched itself at the President. Slammed out of his chair, Lincoln went tumbling to

the floor, and the monstrous animal closed its jaws on the president's throat with a loud snap.

CHAPTER TWO

Clutching his heart, Joshua gasped in fright, braced for a terrible spectacle of gushing red blood.

Sputtering in disgust, the werewolf turned to expel a mouthful of bristly black hair.

Overcome with joy, Joshua felt his heart leap. The president was unharmed, saved by his bushy beard!

But the butler knew that mistake would not happen again. In a surge of indignation, Joshua started

forward with bare fists.

Shoving the president's head backwards to expose his throat, the werewolf opened his jaws just as a

Union soldier rammed a Remington .44 revolver into an ear and fired.

Pausing in his rush, Joshua saw the head of the beast rock back from the triphammer blow of the lead

miniball, and flame actually shot out of the opposite ear.Gotcha!

Crossing its eyes, the werewolf tumbled off the president and collapsed, sprawling onto the floorboards,

his limbs twitching. Brandishing weapons, everybody rushed closer. But then the werewolf rolled over

and impossibly rose again, the flow of blood stopping and the gaping wound closed as if it had never

been.

"Lord protect us, it's a demon from Hell!” the frightened trooper cried, fanning the hammer and firing

three more times into the hairy chest. The lead bullets erupted out the back of the werewolf, throwing

blood onto the stucco ceiling.

Snarling in annoyance, the monster leapt upon the trooper, ripping the man apart with both paws,

gobbets of flesh flying everywhere. A moment later the corpse of the Union soldier dropped to the floor,

looking as if the poor fellow had fallen into the working gears of a McCormick reaper.

"Protect the president!” General Scott bellowed, firing his pistol into the nightmare beast. General

Halleck did the same, Mr. Stanton threw a bottle of whiskey, and a Navy officer drew a saber. Coming

out of their shock, the two Army guards in the corners aimed and fired their Springfield rifles, the deadly

duet of .58 miniballs slamming the demonic animal against the fireplace, cracking the mantle.

As the billowing gunsmoke cleared, the men gasped as the fantastic creature slowly stood, the bullet

wounds closing and smooth fur growing to cover the bald patches.

"Sweet mother of God,” a major whispered, making the sign of the cross. “It's Satan himself!"

Strangely, the creature seemed to flinch at those words, and Joshua felt a surge of hope.So this was

some sort of a devil dog, eh? he theorized wildly.Well, my Sunday school teacher had told me how

to deal with those ! Snatching a huge Holy Bible off a Hoban drum table, Joshua threw it at the beast

with all of his might!

The book hit the werewolf in the haunches and harmlessly bounced off, the creature seeming more

confused than annoyed.

"Oh crud,” Joshua muttered, backing away quickly.I'd best leave this to the men with guns . The

butler had a 1776 Manton horsepistol in his room, but the .75 gun was loaded with gravel and arsenic for

the rats in the basement. Somehow, the butler felt that mixture would not do much against a monster from

the deepest pit of the Unholy Abyss.

Slamming aside the office door, four Union soldiers burst into the room, their rifles at the ready.

"Shoot it!” Mr. Stanton shouted, yanking a sword from the ornate scabbard hanging from the belt of a

paralyzed Naval officer. “Shoot the damn thing!"

Seeing the bloody corpse on the floor, the Union bodyguards needed no further prompting to aim their

Sharps rifles and start rapidly firing. The new-fangled repeaters unleashed a hellstorm of hot lead at the

animal until the office was foggy from the black powder discharges.

Finished with their reloading, the soldiers in the corner added the strident firepower of their big-bore

Springfield rifles, and the devil dog was driven backwards against the wall again, howling and snarling like

a lunatic in Bedlam.

"Summon the battalion!” President Lincoln commanded, rising to his feet, an arm pressed to his chest as

if cradling a wound.

At the sound of his voice, the werewolf turned and charged through the smoky gunfire, knocking aside

Stanton. Pulling out a silver-plated Colt with an ivory handle, Vice President Hamlin blew flame at the

passing demon. Nicolay threw an ink bottle at the beast, and Hey added a wooden stool. Both of the

impromptu missiles hit the target, but bounced off doing no more appreciable damage than the lead

miniballs.

Scrambling over the map table, the monster paused in surprise as President Lincoln dropped into a

boxing stance and hammered a rock-hard fist at the sensitive nose of the canine.

Blinded by the searing pain, the werewolf backed away, only now spotting the sterling silver ring on the

hand of the bony politician.Curse the luck, the prey was wearing death metal!

Stepping between Lincoln and the devil dog, two soldiers raised their double-barrel shotguns and pulled

the trigger. Caught pointblank, the werewolf literally flew off the table, blood gushing from a dozen

wounds, huge chunks of flesh torn off, revealing the pulsating organs inside his body.

Sprawling on the floor, the beast landed in a pool of moonlight streaming through the broken window,

and once more the impossible occurred as the monster regenerated, the ghastly wounds closing and

healing even faster than before.

"Eat steel, devil dog!” General Scott cried, swinging his saber.

Then the steel blade hacked off an arm of the werewolf, and it howled in anguish.The shiny sword was

edged with silver! But catching the limb in his other paw, the man-beast simply shoved the arm back

into place, bones, tendons and torn flesh rejoining instantly.

"Lord, love a duck,” the general muttered, going pale, lowering the useless saber.

With a low moan, Nicolay fainted, and a Union private dashed out of the room screaming hysterically.

But the rest of the War Department moved closer. General Halleck began to empty a pistol into the devil

dog, hitting it with amazing regularity, while others threw knives, bottles, and random pieces of furniture.

For a moment, the beast was driven backwards into a corner by the sheer mass of assorted projectiles.

"Get the president out of here!” Joshua ordered, shoving a stunned soldier towards the panting Chief

Executive. It was obvious that the president had received injuries from the first attack. Broken ribs if they

were lucky, but there could be internal bleeding.Please don't let him die. The nation would fall if

Lincoln perished.

As the guards closed around the president, a mob of soldiers knelt in formation to hammer the beast

with concentrated volley fire. Snarling in rage, the werewolf ignored the lead miniballs, and started

forward once more.

The air in the room was becoming thick with gunsmoke, and Joshua's ears were painfully ringing from

the constant fusillade of the indoor battle.Guns, swords, footstools, could nothing stop this thing ?

Looking over the devil dog to see if it had received any lingering damage, Joshua noticed the small cut on

the monster's forehead that wasn't healing like the other wounds. Less than an inch long, the tiny gash

was still bleeding, and was oddly surrounded by a smear of green ink.

Joshua blanched.The bulletproof monster had been injured by an inkbottle ? The butler felt his mind

whirl in confusion. Then he saw the twinkling shards of the silver crystal laying on the filthy floor. And the

president was wearing a silver ring on the hand that made the demon bleed.Silver hurt demons ?

As the cursing Union soldiers paused to reload, the werewolf dove forward to rake a pawful of claws at

Lincoln. The president escaped, but only by the thickness of a prayer.

Icy cold adrenaline flooded his body as Joshua grabbed the sterling silver tea tray on the sideboard,

flipped off the food, and insanely stepped between the onrushing monster and the leader of the Republic.

Joshua raised the tea tray just in time, and the metal bent from the impact of the beast. The butler was

shoved backwards into Lincoln and nearly fell, but the president caught him by the arms.

"Thank you, sir,” Joshua panted.

"No problem, son,” Lincoln replied tersely. “But what in tarnation are you doing?"

"I'll explain later, sir.” Jerking free, Joshua peeked around the tray to see the devil dog crouching on the

dirty floor, cradling the busted paw. White bone showed through the matted fur, blood flowed freely, but

most importantly, the wound was not healing.Checkmate !

"Look there!” General Halleck cried out, pointing with a shaking hand. “The beast is wounded!"

Without conscious thought, Joshua rushed closer to slam the silver tray over the head of the hairy

hellhound.

The monster rocked from the blow as his skull cracked, and the werewolf turned to rush blindly through

the gunsmoke, only to stumble over the body of his first victim and slammed into the fireplace. Moving

fast, the Vice President snatched a brass lantern from a table. Pitching it sideways like a cricket ball, he

saw the lantern hit the monster, the glass reservoir shattering to cover the beast with burning kerosene.

Howling in agony, the flaming werewolf tried to reach the window again, but volley fire from the soldiers

drove it back once more. When the soldiers stopped to reload, the fiery monster charged, only to find

the way blocked by that darn butler again, still holding the tea tray. As the werewolf headed for another

window, Joshua swung the tray sideways and caught the beast squarely in the throat with the edge.

Hacking and coughing, the smoldering beast doubled over, and Joshua raised the tea tray to bring it

down upon the head of the monster with every ounce of strength he possessed!

The embossed metal bent from the staggering impact, and with a guttural moan, the monster dropped to

the floor, trembled once, then went still.

Eagerly rushing forward, the soldiers and officers shouted a battlecry as they used swords and bayonets

to ruthlessly hack the crackling monster into pieces.

"Keep going, lads!” General Halleck shouted, trying to get a clear shot at the beast with his Colt. “Dice

the hairy bastard into mincemeat!"

But the group of men slowed in the mutilation, and started backing away. Many of the soldiers dropped

their weapons and starting whispering prayers, or pulling out religious icons.

"Impossible...” President Lincoln whispered, lowering the fireplace poker he had snatched up to join the

fight. “That ... this can not be happening!"

His hands still vibrating from the killing blow, Joshua looked down to see that the pieces of the animal

laying on the floorboards were changing shape like wax melting in the sun. The fur was retreating, the

decapitated head altered, and the pulsating limbs were shrinking. Talons retreated into furry paws. Hair

withdrew into pink skin. The rear legs straightened, the pointed ears dwindled and the battered face took

on a startlingly human appearance.

Reloading his rifle, a soldier gasped, dropping the paper cartridge from his mouth. General Scott used a

blistering oath, and a colonel tried to sheath his sword, but missed the scabbard entirely, stabbing the

blade into an Ottoman instead.

Barely able to believe what they were seeing, the men stared at the incredible metamorphosis until the

devil dog was gone, replaced with the vivisected body of a naked man laying in a spreading pool of red

blood.

CHAPTER THREE

Nick Pollotta - Bureau 13 - Damned Nation

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