David Gerrold - Chtorr 2 - A Day for Damnation

The War Against the Chtorr

Book 2

?

A Day for Damnation

?

David Gerrold

?

For the Mccaffreys, Anne, Gigi, Todd, and Alec, with love

CHTORR (ktor) n. 1. The planet Chtorr, presumed to exist within 30 lightyears of Earth. 2. The star

system in which the planet occurs; a red giant star, identification unsure. 3. The ruling species of the

planet Chtorr; generic. 4. In formal usage, either one or many members of same; a Chtorr, the Chtorr.

(See CHTOR-RAN) 5. The glottal chirruping cry of a Chtorr.

CHTOR-RAN (ktor-en) adj. 1. Of or relating to either the planet or the star system, Chtorr. 2. Native to

Chtorr. n. 1. Any creature native to Chtorr. 2. In common usage, a member of the primary species, the

(presumed) intelligent life-form of Chtorr. (pl. CHTOR-RANS)

-The Random House Dictionary of the English Language,

Century 21 Edition, unabridged

?ONE

THE CHOPPER looked like a boxcar with wings, only larger. It squatted in the middle of the pasture

like a pregnant sow. Its twin rotors stropped the air in great slow whirls. I could see the tall grass

flattening even from here.

I turned away from the window and said to Duke, "Where the hell did that come from?"

Duke didn't even look up from his terminal. He just grinned and said, "Pakistan." He didn't even stop

typing.

"Right," I said. There wasn't any Pakistan any more, hadn't been a Pakistan for over ten years. I turned

back to the window. The huge machine was a demonic presence. It glowered with malevolence. And I'd

thought the worms were nasty to look at. This machine had jet engines large enough to park a car in. Its

stubby wings looked like a wrestler's shoulders.

"You mean it was built for the Pakistan conflict?" I asked.

"Nope. It was built last year," corrected Duke. "But it was designed after Pakistan. Wait one minute-" He

finished what he was doing at the terminal, hit the last key with a flourish, and looked up at me.

"Remember the treaty?"

"Sure. We couldn't build any new weapons."

"Right," he said. He stood up and slid his chair in. He turned around and began picking up pages as they

slid quietly, one after the other, out of the printer. He added, "We couldn't even replace old weapons.

But the treaty didn't say anything about research or development, did it?"

He picked up the last page, evened the stack of papers on a desk top, and joined me at the window.

"Yep. That is one beautiful warship," he said.

"Impressive," I admitted.

"Here-initial these," he said, handing me the pages.

I sat down at a desk and began working my way through them. Duke watched over my shoulder,

occasionally pointing to a place I missed. I said, "Yeah, but-where did it come from? Somebody still had

to build it."

Duke said, "Are your clothes custom made?"

"Sure," I said, still initialing. "Aren't everybody's?"

"Uh huh. You take it for granted now. A computer looks at you, measures you by sight, and

appropriately proportions the patterns. Another computer controls a laser and cuts the cloth, and then a

half-dozen robots sew the pieces together. If the plant is on the premises, you can have a new suit in

three hours maximum."

"So?" I signed the last page and handed the stack back to him. He put the papers in an envelope, sealed

it, signed it, and handed it back to me to sign.

"So," he said, "if we can do it with a suit of clothes, why can't we do it with a car or a house-or a

chopper? That's what we got out of Pakistan. We were forced to redesign our production technology."

He nodded toward the window. "The factory that built that Huey was turning out buses before the

plagues. And I'll bet you the designs and the implementation plans and the retooling procedures were

kept in the same state of readiness as our Nuclear Deterrent Brigade for all those years-just in case they

might someday be needed."

I signed the envelope and handed it back.

"Lieutenant," Duke grinned at me, "you should sit down and write a thank-you note to our friends in the

Fourth World Alliance. Their so-called `Victory of Righteousness' ten years ago made it possible for the

United States to be the best-prepared nation on this planet for responding to the Chtorran infestation."

"I'm not sure they'd see it that way," I remarked.

"Probably not," he agreed. "There's a tendency toward paranoia in the Fourth World." He tossed the

envelope into the safe and shut the door.

"All right-' he said, suddenly serious. "The paperwork is done." He glanced at his watch. "We've got ten

minutes. Sit down and clear." He pulled two chairs into position, facing each other. I took one and he

took the other. He took a moment to rub his face, then he looked at me as if I were the only person left

on the planet. The rest of the world, the rest of the day, all of it ceased to exist. Taking care of the soul,

Duke called it. Teams had gone out that hadn't and they hadn't come back.

Duke waited until he saw that I was ready to begin, then he asked simply, "How are you feeling?"

I looked inside. I wasn't certain.

"You don't have to hit the bull's-eye," Duke said. "You can sneak up on it. How are you feeling?" he

asked again.

"Edgy," I admitted. "That chopper out there-it's intimidating. I mean, I just don't believe a thing that big

can get off the ground."

"Mm hm," said Duke. "That's very interesting, but tell me about James McCarthy."

"I am-" I said, feeling a little annoyed. I knew how to clear. You dump your mind of everything that might

get in the way of the mission.

"There-" pointed Duke. "What was that?"

I saw what he meant. I couldn't hide it. "Impatience," I said. "And annoyance. I'm getting tired of all the

changes in procedures. And frustrated-that it doesn't seem to make a difference-"

"And ... ?" he prompted.

"And..." I admitted, "...sometimes I'm afraid of all the responsibility. Sometimes I just want to run away

from it. And sometimes I want to kill everything in sight." I added, "Sometimes I think I'm going crazy."

Duke looked up sharply at that, but his phone beeped before he could speak. He pulled it off his belt,

thumbed it to life, and snapped, "Five minutes." He put it down on the table and looked at me. "What do

you mean?"

"Well... I'm not sure if it's even real or not. . ." I weaseled. Duke glanced at his watch. "Come on,

Jim-there's a chopper waiting for us. I need to know if you're going on it or not. What's this `crazy' stuff

about?"

"I've been having... episodes. . . ." I said.

"What kind of `episodes'?"

"Well, dreams. Sort of. I don't know if I should even be telling you this. Maybe I should plug into Dr.

Davidson-"

"Yes, you should be telling me this!" Duke looked annoyed and impatient now. "'Cause if you don't, I'm

going without you." He started to rise.

I said quickly, "I've been-hearing things." Duke sat back down.

"And," I continued, "-I've been remembering things. Mostly when I'm asleep or dozing. But it's things I've

never heard or seen before. And-this one is the most confusing; you know how most people dream in

pictures? Well, last night, I dreamed in sound. A symphony. It was cold and ghostly. It sounded like it

was coming from another world, or another plane of existence. I thought I was dying. I woke up in a

sweat, it scared me so."

Duke studied me like a father. His eyes were sharp. "Dreams, huh? That's what's been bothering you?"

I nodded.

He didn't say anything immediately. He looked away, out the window, then looked back to me. "I have

dreams all the time," he admitted. "Nightmares actually. I keep seeing all the faces of all the people-" He

stopped in the middle of the sentence. He dropped his gaze and looked at his hands. His huge old

battered hands. I wondered if I should say something. Abruptly he looked back up at me, and he was

Duke again-and he'd left several volumes unsaid. "But I don't let it stop me. Jim, do you hear what I'm

saying?"

"Uh huh. It's just-"

"What?"

I was embarrassed to admit it. "It's just that I'm afraid of going out of control," I said. "It's almost like

there are voices-I think if I could just make out what they're saying, I'd know the answer and everything

would be all right. But I can never quite make it out. It feels like distant whispering." There. It was out. I

waited for his reaction.

Duke looked troubled. He looked as if he couldn't find the answer he was looking for. He looked out the

window at the chopper again. When he came back at me, his expression was unhappy.

"By all rights," he said, "I should ground you pending a medical exam. Except, I can't. I need you for this

mission. That's the way this whole damn war is being run. There's not a one of us that doesn't deserve a

couple of years of R and R. But we'll never see it. Instead, we'll just keep getting kicked from one crisis

to the next and we'll have to take care of our sanity at the stoplights." He studied me sharply. "Do you

think you're crazy?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. I certainly don't think I'm normal."

Abruptly, he grinned. "Now-that's normal! Nobody's normal on this planet, Jim. If you're aware of that,

you're not crazy. It's only when you start insisting that you're sane that we're going to lock you up."

I blinked and hesitated-and then I got the joke. Sanity. If you thought you had it, you probably didn't.

The evidence that you have it is that you wonder if you do. You can go crazy thinking about that one too

long.

"Jim-" Duke said, "put all that aside for the moment. What are you here for? What's the job?"

"I'm here to kill worms. The job is to stop the Chtorran infestation of the Earth. By whatever means

possible."

"Good," Duke said. "Now, let me ask you another question. Do you have to be sane or fit some standard

of `normality' to do that job?"

I thought about it. I looked at the answer inside my head. Obviously not. "No," I said.

"Good. So you see, it doesn't matter if you're crazy or not. There's only one thing I need to know. Can I

count on you today?"

Now it was my turn to grin. "Yes, you can count on me."

"Absolutely."

"Absolutely." And I meant it.

"Good," he said. "Grab your kit and let's go."

I didn't move. There was one more thing. "Uh-"

"Something else?" He looked concerned.

"Um, not really. Just a question-"

"Yes, what?"

"Um ... Duke-who do you clear with?"

He looked startled. He turned away from me while he picked up his phone and his traveling kit. Then he

turned back to me and said, "I check in with the boss from time to time." He jerked a thumb toward the

ceiling-and beyond. "The man upstairs." And then he was out the door.

I followed him, shaking my head in wonderment. The universe was full of surprises.

?TWO

I WAS wrong.

A machine that big could get off the ground.

It lumbered through the air like a drunken cow, but it flewand it carried enough troops and gear to

overthrow a small government. We had three of the best-trained teams in the Special Forces-Duke and I

had trained them ourselves-a complete scientific squad, and enough firepower to barbecue Texas (well, a

large part of Texas anyway).

I hoped we wouldn't need to use it.

I climbed into the back and sat down with the "enlisted men." Draftees, all of them. Except they weren't

called draftees any more. The Universal Service Obligation had been rewritten-twice-by the New

Military Congress of the United States. Four years of uniformed service. No exceptions. No deferments.

No "needed skill" civilian classifications. And this means you. You were eligible on the day you turned

sixteen. You had to be in uniform before your eighteenth birthday. Very simple.

To get into the Special Forces, though, you had to ask. In fact, you almost had to demand the

opportunity. You couldn't end up in the Special Forces any more unless you wanted to be here.

And then, you have to prove you could handle the job.

I didn't know how rigorous the training was-I'd fallen into the Special Forces by accident, before the

standards were tightened, and I'd been spending most of my career playing catch-up-but I could tell by

looking at this team that it produced the result. I'd also heard that three-quarters of those who started the

training dropped out before it was halfway over.

These were the survivors. The winners.

There wasn't one of them old enough to vote. And two of the girls didn't even look old enough to be

wearing brassieres. But they weren't kids. They were combat-hardened troops. That these soldiers still

counted their ages in the teens was incidental; they were as dangerous a bunch as the United States Army

could put togetber. And it showed on their faces. They all had that same coiled look behind their eyes.

They were passing a cigarette back and forth between them. When it came to me, I took a puff-not

because I wanted one, but because I wanted to make sure it wasn't "dusted" before I passed it on. I

didn't think any of my troops would be that stupid, but it had been known to happen-on other teams, not

mine. The army had a technical term for officers who let their troops go into combat situations stoned; we

called them statistics.

The team wasn't talking much, and I knew why. It was my presence. I wasn't much more than three

years older than the oldest of them, but I was the Lieutenant and that made me "the old man."

Besides-they were afraid of me. Rumor had it I'd once burned a man alive on a worm hunt.

I felt old looking at them. And a little wistful too. These kids would be the last ones on the planet for a

long time who would be able to remember what a "normal" childhood was like.

They should have been in high school or their first year in college. They should have been putting up

balloons in the gymnasium for some school dance, or worrying about their Global Ethics reports, or even

just hanging out down at the mall.

They knew this was not the way the world was supposed to work. And this was definitely not the future

they had planned on. But this was the way it had turned out; there was a job that had to be done and

they were the ones who had to do it.

I respected their commitment.

"Sir?" That was Beckman, tall and gangly and dark. I remembered, his family was from Guam. I glanced

over toward him. "Are we gonna be back in time for Derby?" he asked.

I thought about it. We were headed into Southern Wyoming. Two hours in the air each way. Four hours

on the ground, maximum. Derby was on at 9:00 P.M. T. J. had found out that Stephanie was coming

back from Hong Kong. Now for sure, he had to locate the missing robot before Grant did. "Should be,"

I said. "If we're off the ground by six. No later." I glanced around at the others. "Can you guys target on

that?"

They nodded agreement. "Sure."

"Fine by me."

"Let's do it."

I gave them a grin. A trick I learned from Duke. Spend your smiles as if each one cost you a year off

your life. Then your troops will bust their buns to earn them.

They looked so thrilled, I had to get up and go quickly forward before I burst out laughing.

Duke glanced at me as I climbed up beside him. "They okay?"

"They're worried about the missing robot."

"Huh?"

"Derby. It's a TV program."

"Never touch the stuff myself," he said. He checked his watch. He leaned forward and tapped the pilot's

shoulder. "You can call Denver now. Tell them we've passed Go-NoGo Lambda. They can launch the

follow-chopper." To me, Duke said, "You can start warming up the jeeps now. I want to drop the hatch

and roll as soon as we hit dirt. I want this ship empty in thirty seconds."

"You got it," I said.

The target was nearly fifty klicks south of Wheatland.

It had been spotted, almost accidentally, by a Reclamation Scout. Fortunately, he knew what he was

looking at. He called it in, then turned his jeep north and drove like hell. He nearly made it too.

A response team spotted the overturned jeep from the air a day later. A drop squad pulled the jeep's

log-disk, and the video record confirmed the infestation site. Four worms. Three "children" and an

"adult." The nest would have been burned or frozen within forty-eight hours-except this time, Denver had

a better idea.

This time we were going to capture a whole Chtorran family alive.

Duke and I always got the good jobs.

?THREE

WE BANGED down onto the ground with a thump hard enough to rattle the teeth out of our skulls.

Almost instantly, the rear door of the chopper blew open and the exit ramp popped out and down with a

metal clang. It felt like the whole ship was coming apart at once. The lead jeep was already bouncing

down the ramp and onto the hard Wisconsin clay. The rollagons rumbled right down after it. And then

the rest of the convoy.

The lead jeep wheeled north immediately; its wheels stirred up the loose dirt on the ground and it left a

thick cloud of dust in its wake. The dust tailed out quickly-the wind was strong today, not the best of

conditions.

The other seven vehicles turned north also, forming a ragged diagonal line on the prairie. I was riding in

the command vehicle with Duke, the largest of the rollagons-it looked like a landing barge with centipede

legs and balloon tires, but it was steady and it was almost comfortable. In addition to our driver, we also

had two auxiliary technicians, and a drop squad. For the moment, it was their mission. Duke and I were

just cargo. Our job was to sit quietly and be delivered on-site.

We had a huge bank of tactical displays at our command. We could see our approach on a

representational map, or as a colorcoded radar scan of the surrounding terrain. We also had a dead

reckoning inertial guidance display and continuous confirmation by satellite Earthwatch. When we were

two kilometers away, Duke halted the rollagon and sent the attack vehicles scurrying off to their positions

for Go-NoGo Point Kappa, and I launched a skyball-an aerial drone-for one last look-see before we

went in.

The image on the screen tilted and swooped dizzily as the skyball skidded and slid across the sky. It was

having trouble navigating in the wind. After a moment, though, it figured out what it was doing and the

image steadied into a long glide.

The nest came up on the screen suddenly. It was a squat brown dome with a bulging circular entrance.

"A textbook case," I said. "See the purple stuff around the outside?"

Duke grunted. "You can spare me the narration."

I nodded and tapped at the keyboard, bringing the drone lower. The image turned slowly as the skyball

circled the nest. I punched for scanning. The image shifted colors then: blue for cold, red for hot, yellow

for in between. Most of the screen was orange. I had to turn down the range.

The corrected scan was mostly green and yellow. A faint orange track led to the dome. Or away from it.

The track was at least an hour old.

I glanced at Duke; his expression was unreadable. "Scan the dome," he said.

We knew that the worms were hot when they were active. But we also knew that when they went

torpid-which was usually during the hottest part of the day-their body temperatures could drop as much

as thirty degrees. That was why the earliest mobile probes had failed to register their presence. The

worms had been too cool.

We knew better now.

The worms went deep and they went cold. Men had died to find that out.

The skyball came in low and close now. The dome filled the screen. I punched in a sonic-scan overlay.

There was something there, all right-a dark blue mass, mottled with quickly shifting colors. It was large

and deep below the surface.

The screen said it massed four tons.

"That's a good-sized family," said Duke. "Can we take 'em?"

I was wondering the same thing, "Denver says the gas is good. This is at the upper end of the range, but

it's within the limit."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I say go."

"Good," said Duke. "So do I." He thumbed his mike. "All units. It's a go. I repeat, it is a go. Proceed to

your final positions. This is it."

We were committed now. There were no more Go-NoGo points. Duke leaned forward and rapped our

driver. "Come on-let's move!" The big rollagon trundled forward, up a small ridge and then down the

long slope on the opposite side.

I pulled the skyball up and directed it to circle the dome on a continual scan. If there was any change in

heat level, it would sound an immediate alarm. We would have between ten and ninety seconds'

warning-depending on the worms. I checked my earphones and mike. This was the most dangerous part

of the mission. We were too vulnerable to ambush on the approach.

I had to read this dome quickly and say if it was safe to proceed. If not-if I thought it appropriate-I had

the authority to abort the entire mission. This was the last Go-NoGo and I was the worm expert.

The troops liked to believe that I had some kind of uncanny "worm sense." I didn't, of course-and the

rumor made me nervous. But they wanted to believe it-I was as close to a lucky charm as they had-so I

didn't try to squelch the story.

And besides, I sort of halfway wished it was true. It would have made me feel a lot better about how

little I really knew.

The rollagon bounced onto level ground then and I stood up in my seat to peer ahead. There was the

dome. It looked deceptively small in person. Most of the nest was underground. We really didn't know

how deep the worms would tunnel. We weren't willing to let a family establish itself long enough to find

out.

I tapped the driver's shoulder. "This is close enough," I said. "It's spider time. I'll walk the rest of the

way."

The rollagon slid to an uneven halt. I sat down again at my keyboard, and activated United States

Military Spider ARAC-57i4. Beside me, I could hear Duke acknowledging each of the other vehicles as

they slid into position around the dome. I didn't bother to look up. I knew that the teams were already

dropping out of their vehicles, torches at the ready. We were eight tight little islands of death. Priority

one: survive. Dead heroes do not win wars.

The green ready light came up. I slid the console back and pulled the spider control board up and into

position. I slipped the goggles over my head, waited for my vision to clear, and slipped my hands into the

control gloves.

There was the usual moment of discontinuity, and then I was in the spider. I was looking through its eyes,

hearing through its ears, feeling through its hands. "Forward," I said, and the point of view moved down,

out of the forward ramp of the rollagon, and forward toward the quiet-looking dome.

My point of view was closer to the ground than I was used to, and my eyes were farther apart, so

everything looked smaller-and the perspective was deeper. I needed this walk to slip into my

"spider-consciousness mode." I had to get into the feeling of it.

The military spiders were hasty adaptations of the industrial models. This one had a black metal body,

eight skinny legs-each ending in a large black hoof-and an observation turret. The spider could function

with half its legs disabled; any two of its legs could also function as arms. There was a waldo inside each

hoof, complete with tactile sensors.

During the plagues, the spiders had been used extensively in situations where human beings could not-or

would not-go themselves. The spiders had been very useful in hospitals. And in crematoriums. The

spiders had gathered most of the dead.

"Slower," I commanded. We were approaching the entrance to the dome. "Scan. . . ."

The image before me shifted down the spectrum. The colors of objects changed, then changed again.

Green and yellow again. Some orange, but very very faint.

"Sonic scan..." I said, and turned my attention into the dome. The large blue mass was clearer here. I

could almost make out the shape of four huge worms. They were intertwined in a circular formation, if I

was reading the image correctly. And they were still cold.

"Well?" asked Duke at my shoulder.

"They're an awfully pretty shade of blue," I replied. "It's go." I gave the command, "Forward."

The spider entered the dome.

Turn right, go up and around and enter the central chamber. Go to the center hole. Squat over the hole.

Look down. Nothing in the lower chamber?

Look again.

I made that mistake once. I won't make it again.

The worms are huge. It's hard to see them as worms. They look like a huge furry carpet.

Scan.... Still blue.

I wonder what it looks like when they wake up-but I'm not going to wait to find out.

Lower the nozzle.

And ... give the command, "Gas." There is a hissing noise.

The color of the worms goes darker.

I slipped my hands out of the gloves and pulled the goggles off my eyes. I looked at Duke. "Done," I

said.

Duke grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "Good job." He turned to the communications technician.

"All right, bring the chopper down. We'll be ready to start loading in thirty minutes. Move the 'dozer unit

into position and tell them to fix grapples and stand by for detox. Have everybody else move in to the

primary perimeter. "

The rollagon lurched forward again and Duke gave me a cheerful thumbs-up signal. He started to say

something, but I didn't hear it. A second huge cargo chopper was just clattering in overhead. It sounded

like a cosmic jackhammer-the one God uses for starting earthquakes.

This was the machine that would carry the worms back to Denver.

I wondered if it would be big enough.

?FOUR

AS SOON as we pulled into position, I took a second reading on the mass of the worms. They were too

big. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a mistake here. Perhaps I should have said no at the

last Go-NoGo point.

I almost turned to Duke then, but I stopped myself. I did this every time. As soon as it was too late, I

started second-guessing. It didn't matter any more what I thought. We were committed.

I took a second reading on the mass of the worms, recalculated the gas dosage according to Denver's

mass-ratio equations, and detonated another pellet. I wondered if it should have been two. I'd rather kill

the worms than have them wake up while we were loading them.

We gave the gas a full ten minutes. I took a final reading-the worms were the most wonderful shade of

dark purple I'd ever seen-then brought the spider out.

Then we pulled the dome off its foundations. We anchored grapples in its base, attached tow ropes to a

jeep and backed up slowly. The hut ripped off like so much Styrofoam. The worms didn't build for

strength. They didn't have to.

We had to do it twice; the dome shredded too easily. I felt like an intruder, a vandal. We had to pull it off

in pieces. Then we had to rip off the top floor too.

That job was harder. We had to plant small charges in the floor to break it up. It was made out of the

same material as the dome walls, but it was denser and had the strength of industrial Kevlar. It would

have to be strong to hold the weight of a healthy worm family.

The worms built their nests by chewing up trees and spitting out foam. Apparently they could vary the

mix enough to produce lightweight translucent walls and heavyweight hardwood floors all from the same

basic ingredients. A neat trick.

When the lower half of the nest was finally revealed, there was a moment of... hesitation. The teams-men

and women alike-gathered in silence around the edge to stare down at the exposed worms.

They were huge. Just knowing they were huge from the readings on the screen was not the same as

actually seeing them in the flesh. Even the smallest of them was a meter thick and three meters long. The

"adult" was two meters high at its brain case and twice as long as the baby. I wished I'd given them that

third pellet.

The worms were coiled around each other like lovers, head to tail, head to tail, in a circular formation.

They were shadowed in the lower half of the nest, but even so their fur still shone a brilliant red. It was

almost alluring.

Duke came up beside me to look. His expression tightened, but he didn't speak.

"Looks like we interrupted a Chtorran orgy," I said. Duke grunted.

"The baby's about three hundred kilos," I offered. "Papa bear is probably a thousand."

"At least," said Duke. He didn't like it, I could tell. He was too silent.

"Too big?" I asked.

"Too expensive," he grumbled. "You're looking at fifteen cows a week. That's a lot of hamburger." He

clicked his tongue and turned away. "All right," he bawled, "let's get down in there and get to work." He

pointed to a man with a headset. "Tell that chopper to drop the slings. Now!"

We had one bad moment with the loading.

We started with the baby. One squad dropped into the pit while the other two teams stood above them

with flame throwers, bazookas and incendiary bullets. The worm was too big to lift or roll onto a sling-it

had to be lifted so the canvas could be pulled beneath it.

The squad in the pit quickly slid a series of stainless-steel rods underneath the smallest worm to form a

lattice of crossbars. These were then connected at their ends to two longer bars placed lengthwise

against the worm. The baby was now lying on a ladder-shaped bed.

The chopper was already clattering into place overhead, whipping us with wind and noise. Its cables

were already lowering. The team didn't try to grab the free-swinging ends-instead they waited until the

lines touched ground and there was enough slack. They grabbed the cables and ran to attach them to the

David Gerrold - Chtorr 2 - A Day for Damnation

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