Hellboy: The God Machine (3 page)

Seamus pulled at the long, wispy hair on his chin. "And what of him?" He pointed at Hellboy. "Why has a crimson spawn from the fiery pits come to your domicile?"

Hellboy started to speak.

"Silence!" King Seamus bellowed as he raised a dismissive hand. "I have not given you permission to speak."

It was all Hellboy could do not to stomp the rodent-sized monarch into the ground. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit.

Kramer stepped closer. "This is Hellboy--of the BPRD, he's come to help."

The tiny king crossed his arms over his chest and studied Hellboy with an unwavering eye.

"Can I talk now?" Hellboy asked.

The Graken soldiers moved closer.

Hellboy squinted down the barrel of his pistol. "I'd step back if I were you," he warned. "Big gun, big bullets, big mess."

The soldiers scowled but stepped back.

"You may speak, Hellspawn," King Seamus pronounced.

"It's Hell
boy,
" he said, holstering his weapon. "Appreciate it. Look, Skipper, what your boy Kramer here said is right. I've come about the stone, so maybe you could explain why it's so freakin' important?"

There was an uneasy silence in the backyard as the king seemed to consider his response. He returned to his mount and climbed back into the saddle. Taking hold of the reins, and making an odd, clucking sound, he steered the rabbit toward the Graken women. "You will follow me."

Kramer at his side, Hellboy did, careful not to step on any of the little creatures swarming around his feet. "What's your connection to these guys?" he asked the writer.

Kramer vigorously rubbed at his arms, trying to warm them against the December chill. "Years ago, when my career had kind of stalled, I made a deal with them. In exchange for certain items--bread, alcohol, an occasional candy bar--they would
assist
me."

The wound near his eye had started to itch, and Hellboy rubbed at it as Kramer's words started to sink in. "These guys help you with your books?"

Kramer fixed him in an icy stare. "Would it be easier to accept if they were helping me make shoes?"

Hellboy shrugged. "Just never figured the little buggers as writers. See, even in my line of work I can still be surprised."

King Seamus had again climbed down from his bunny mount and was standing with the grief-stricken Graken Spriggin women. Hellboy could see where the stone had sat, the soil dark and rich, the area around it overturned by activity.

"And you didn't hear a thing?" Hellboy asked the man standing beside him.

Kramer shook his head. "Nothing. I woke up, and it was gone."

"This is where she rested," the king said, falling to his knees and reaching down to sink his tiny hands into the earth.

"You keep making reference to
she,
" Hellboy commented. "No offense, I'm just saying, but, she's a rock."

Seamus rose, wiping the dirt from his hands. "She was our queen, the first of us all, Sheela-Na Gig, and from her blessed womb we sprang."

The female Graken began to wail again, throwing themselves in the earth and burying their faces. Most of the soldiers were crying now.

The king continued. "Those lesser races that came after us--the Gathan, the Goblin, the Fittletot and the Whoopity Stoorie--they was all jealous of our mother's love fer us, and us fer her, and joining their evil magicks together, they cursed her to stone."

"Bastards!" screeched one of the soldiers, inciting a fit of cursing among the gathered.

"But even as cold and lifeless stone, our mother's love was strong, and she continued to bless us, allowing our kind to grow in number over the centuries even as those who had turned her to rock dwindled and eventually were dust."

King Seamus reached over to gently stroke the brindle-colored fur of his rabbit mount as it nibbled on what remained of the late-fall grass. "But now she is gone, and already I see signs that our days are short."

A female Graken approached the king, hands upon her stomach. "A babe grew inside me, but now 'tis gone," she cried in a tiny, pathetic voice. One of the soldiers, the husband, Hellboy guessed, came to her then, taking her in his arms. They cried inconsolably.

"This is why we are enraged, Hellspawn," King Seamus said, voice rising in anger. "This is why we are moved to war, for without our Sheela-Na Gig, we will soon be no more, going the way of the Gathan, the Goblin..."

"Yeah, yeah, the Fittletot and the Whoopity Stoorie," Hellboy finished for him, moving closer to where the sacred stone had lain. "I get the picture. Without the rock, little Graken production goes belly-up."

He knelt in the dirt, after making sure that none of the Graken were beneath him, and began to check out the scene.
BPRD file said the rock was at least five hundred pounds,
Hellboy thought, stroking his chin.
Whoever took it needed some heavy machinery, or was pretty damn strong.

He stood up, looking around for any signs that a machine had been driven across the yard, but found nothing. The lawn was intact.

Kramer stood shivering with the Graken legions.

"You heard nothing," Hellboy said to him again, hoping to jar some memory that might give him something to work with.

The man shook his head as he blew hot breath into his cupped hands. "Not a sound."

Hellboy turned his attention to the Graken Spriggin. "And I suppose you guys didn't hear or see anything either?"

The creatures were silent, helplessness etched on their homely faces.

"Evil is afoot," King Seamus said, slowly nodding his large head. "'Tis dark magick that took our mother."

"Y'know what, Tiny," Hellboy said, gazing up into the gray winter sky, at the cawing crows circling above. "You just might be right."

Hellboy reached across the meeting table for a bagel. "Does this look like cinnamon raisin to you?"

Abe Sapien popped a piece of lox into his mouth and started to chew. "Either that or chocolate chip," he said after he'd swallowed. He brought a napkin to his mouth. No talking with his mouth full for Abe.

The amphibious BPRD agent had excellent manners.

"Whatever." Hellboy cut the bagel in half with a knife. Breakfast meetings with actual breakfast weren't the norm at the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, but every once in a while the suits tossed a bone to the grunts--to keep morale up and all. Hellboy wasn't complaining; he was starved.

"Is there any cream cheese?"

Kate Corrigan, the assistant director of field operations, looked up from her notes long enough to pluck a small container of cream cheese from the tray in the table's center and slide it over to him.

"Hey, H.B.," Liz Sherman called from across the table, where she sat slumped in her chair, hands clasped in a death grip around a steaming mug of coffee. "Hear you kept us from going to war yesterday."

Hellboy thanked Kate and glanced at Liz, petite and pretty, dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep.

"Yeah, I guess," he said as he slathered his bagel with the cream cheese. "Had a tribe of Graken Spriggin up in arms over in Plymouth 'cause a statue of their mother got ripped off."

"Graken Spriggin," Abe repeated, pretending to shiver with revulsion as he helped himself to more of the raw salmon. "They are a nasty bunch."

"Yeah, real sweethearts," Hellboy agreed, around a mouthful of bagel.

"So what'd you do?" Liz asked, taking a sip from her coffee.

"Good question," Kate said, setting her pen down. "Considering that I don't have a report on the case yet."

"You look particularly stunning this morning, Kate," Hellboy said as he wiped cream cheese from the corner of his mouth. "That a new blouse you're wearing?"

She smirked. "Yeah, like you'd really notice. Keep this up, and I wouldn't be surprised to see Manning take you out of the field until your paperwork's caught up."

"Ouch!" Hellboy grimaced.

"So where
is
Tom this morning?" Abe asked, expertly diverting the subject.

Good one, Abe. I can always count on you.

"Yeah, where is he?" Hellboy joined in. It wasn't like the Director to be absent from a morning meeting. "Surprised not to see our fearless leader, especially with the grub and all."

"The Director's running a little late, I guess," Kate said, quickly glancing at her watch before picking up her pen and removing the cap. "So, who wants to start?"

Liz sat forward in her chair. "Now, hold on. I hate cliffhangers. Is Hellboy going to tell us how he kept the Graken from going on the warpath or not?"

She reached for the carafe of coffee and refreshed her cup.

Hellboy spread what remained of the cream cheese on the other half of his bagel. "I promised 'em I'd bring their boulder back, and then I had to swear on a sacred woodchuck."

Abe stared with dark, glistening eyes. "Sacred woodchuck?"

Hellboy shrugged, mouth full. "Could'a been a weasel, I guess."

Liz stared at him. "You're making that up."

"Would I do that? It'll be in the report."

"And if you can't bring this rock back, what then?" Liz asked.

He finished chewing and swallowed. "Then the Graken Spriggin will lay siege to the world."

Kate sighed, picking up her notepad and turning to a fresh page. "So what've we got, people? Should we be worried?" She looked around the table. "Abe, what did you find?"

Abe cleared his throat. "As you saw in
my
report..." He glanced briefly in Hellboy's direction.

Hellboy coughed suddenly into his hand, the barking hack sounding an awful lot like
kissass.

Unfazed, Abe continued. "The missing item is a cup supposedly used by Elvis Presley before going on stage for what would be his last live performance in Indiana's Market Square Arena on June 26, 1977."

"You get to check out stolen Elvis memorabilia and I get Graken Spriggin? Where's the justice in that?" Hellboy asked, crumpling up his napkin and throwing it down onto his plate.

"The cup had been purchased for an undisclosed amount from an online auction, and was being transported by courier to its new owner in Massachusetts. The vehicle ended up at the bottom of the Merrimack River in Lowell. The driver was killed, and the Elvis cup was not recovered. The suspicion is that it was stolen right after the accident."

Kate gave Hellboy the evil eye as he started to hum "Don't Be Cruel." "What've you got, Liz?"

She set her coffee mug down and ran her fingers through her straggly, shoulder-length red hair. Hellboy guessed she hadn't bothered to shower this morning, catching every possible moment of sleep before the meeting. He was half-surprised she hadn't shown up in her pajamas.

"Nothing as cool as a missing Elvis cup," she assured them. "I've got a water stain that looks like the Virgin Mary. Evidently it was caused by a combination of renovations to an office building and heavy rains last spring. Word got out, and the faithful started flocking to the building. The guy who owned the place even started to charge admission."

Hellboy stood and rummaged through the bagels again. "So what happened," he asked, picking up a sesame-seed-covered bagel and sniffing it. "Somebody steal the water stain?"

"Not exactly," Liz said, running her finger along the rim of her mug, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "They stole the wall."

Hellboy froze. "C'mon, a hunk of wall was stolen out of an office building? How is that done?"

"Same way a boulder is taken from a yard and a cup is stolen from a truck in transit," Kate answered. She set her pen down and looked up from the notepad. "So, we have a pattern. Anyone see any logic in it yet?" she asked, sounding like a teacher fishing for answers from her students.

"They're all items of adulation," Abe said, stroking his chin with a webbed hand. "Strange objects to be certain, but inspiring devotion nonetheless."

Kate tapped her pen on the tabletop. "And this is just the stuff we know about," she said. "Who knows how many other things may be missing."

"Couldn't it also be just some bizarre coincidence?" Liz asked. Hellboy noticed a faint glow coming from the palm of her hand as she gripped the side of her mug--using her pyrokinetic talent to reheat the contents of her cup.

"You've been with the BPRD for how long, and you still think there's such a thing as coincidence?" Abe asked.

"I'm just not sure we should be getting worked up over a missing Elvis cup," she added, carefully taking a sip of her now steaming coffee.

"What do you think, Kate?" Hellboy asked. He'd taken his seat and was digging into the second bagel.

The assistant field director shook her head slowly. "I'm not going to sound the alarm yet," she said, "but this is certainly something we should keep an eye on." She placed the cap back on her pen and stood. "That's it for me," she said, grabbing her notepad and heading for the door. "And I can expect your report on the Graken incident when?" Kate asked Hellboy as she passed.

"It's the next thing on my list," he told her in all seriousness.

Both Liz and Abe started to laugh, and he gave them a look.

"Keep it up, and you'll give me a complex," he said to his supposed friends as he stood and followed them from the conference room.

"So, H.B.," Liz asked, "what's on the agenda now?"

Hellboy shrugged, throwing his breakfast trash in a barrel beside the door. "Probably head back to my place, maybe watch a few videos, why?"

"I thought you were going to do your paperwork?" Abe said, holding open the door that would take him into the corridor that led to their living quarters.

"Right," Hellboy agreed. "Next thing on my list."

Chapter 2

U
sing the body of Stanley Thomas, Absolom Spearz smiled and waved from the porch of the old farmhouse. An annoying high-pitched peal filled the air as the truck from Advent Technology slowly backed down the rutted, unpaved road, delivering the supplies Spearz had ordered just days before.

What fascinating times these are,
he thought, recalling how easy it had been to obtain the equipment he'd need for his holy tasks--a brief conversation on the telephone, and then reciting the number he'd found on a card in his host's wallet. So much had changed since he was last flesh and blood.

Spearz looked at the others standing on the porch with him, his faithful congregation. Geoffrey Wickham now inhabited the body of Mrs. Thomas, a fine-looking woman, and considering how homely Geoffrey had been in his time, it would seem he had made out quite well. Now if only Spearz could prevent him from constantly touching himself.

"Brother Wickham," Spearz said to the woman standing beside him, her hand stuck within her coat, languidly massaging her left breast. "Restrain yourself."

"Sorry, Absolom," Wickham said in an unfamiliar voice, pulling her hand from within the coat, a spark of shame in her deep brown eyes. "I know it's been weeks, but I never realized how wonderful it would feel--to be of flesh again."

Spearz nodded with understanding. "All I ask is that you exhibit restraint when in public."

The sound of giggling caught his attention, and he turned to look at the Thomas children--the young boy hosting the mind and spirit of Tyler Arden, and the little girl, Annabel Standish.

"Did I say something amusing?" he asked them. He found it interesting that the youngest members of his congregation had found their way into the youngest bodies. Another example of the strange synchronicity affirming that the time of their return was correct.

The children bowed their heads in reverence.

"No, sir," Tyler said in a voice yet to feel the change of puberty. "It's just that we know how Brother Wickham feels."

"To have a body again," Annabel added, holding out her small hands and flexing her fingers. "It's glorious."

Spearz noticed that the girl's fingernails were painted a bright shade of red.
A harlot's shade.
Yes, these modern times filled him with wonder, but they also made his blood boil. No matter, if all went according to plan, it would not be long now before everything was finally set right.

He returned his attention to the truck that had come to a lurching stop before them. The incessant beeping ceased and the property around the farmhouse returned to blessed silence.

The dog that had been lying silently on the porch, face between its paws, climbed to its feet, tail wagging furiously as it growled and whined.

Spearz reached out to stroke its head. Not all of his flock had fared well. Poor Silas Udell had had nowhere else to go but into the vessel of the family pet.

The dog's dark eyes gazed into his imploringly.

"Patience, Silas," Absolom said, feeling a familiar tingle in his fingertips--the urge to design, to create, to build. He would help his friend as soon as he was able.

"I wonder how they will explain their sinful lives when they come face-to-face with God?" Annabel mused, young eyes on the delivery truck.

"That's not for us to worry about," Spearz said, as he stepped from the porch to greet the man climbing down from the vehicle, clipboard in hand. "Ours is to pave the way for his righteous arrival. What happens after that is none of our concern."

"Road's a bitch," the deliveryman said, vulgarity spewing from his mouth with ease.

Spearz wanted to slap the man's face, but restrained himself. "Yes," he agreed instead. "We've been meaning to do something about that."

The man grunted and plucked a pen from behind one of his protruding ears. "You Stanley Thomas?"

"Yes, yes, I am," Spearz replied. It had been mere weeks in this new body, but he felt as though it had always been his own. It had only taken him hours to sift through his host's thoughts, learning all he needed to know about these modern times.

"Got a delivery for you." The man handed Spearz the clipboard and pen. "Sign at the bottom."

A second man had climbed down from the passenger side of the truck and was opening the rear door, exposing the numerous boxes and pallets.

A cascade of images flooded Spearz's mind--the innumerable inventions that he and his followers would construct. He saw every nail, every piece of metal, every nut, bolt and screw required to build these fabulous machines.

"You all right?" the driver asked, startling him from his reverie.

"Yes, of course," Spearz replied, his mind aflame. "I'm fine." He reviewed the receipt on the clipboard before affixing his signature. Everything seemed to be in order. Now they could begin their work in earnest.

The man passed a cursory glance over the signature, then tore the yellow copy away from the clipboard and handed it back to Spearz. "Here ya go, Mr. Thomas."

Spearz smiled politely as he accepted the receipt.

The driver brought the clipboard back to the truck, then returned, pulling on a pair of work gloves he'd taken from his back pocket. "Where would you like us to put this stuff?"

"Right here is fine," Spearz answered, pointing to the ground at his feet. "My family and I will see to them after that."

The deliveryman glanced doubtfully at his followers, who still stood upon the porch in the bodies whose owners they had usurped. The man shrugged. Absolom knew there was no way he could even begin to suspect what had recently occurred on this property--but it didn't hurt to be cautious. There was so much at stake; the fate of the world, and the glory that was due it, was now in their hands.

The two men lugged multiple boxes from the truck and stacked them outside. Spearz watched, his mind filled to bursting with the work that awaited them; hard, grueling work, but all for the most magnificent prize.

"All this stuff," the driver asked, grunting with exertion as he hauled the last box from the truck. "You building a rocket ship or something?"

"Oh no." Spearz said as he closed his eyes. "It's more than that." He smiled broadly, imagining the future.

"Something that will change the world."

Tom Manning came awake with a gasp, his cheek resting on the rough weave of the small area rug around his desk. Immediately his thoughts went to those fears that men, as they grow older, often have.

Am I all right? Did I have a stroke?
He was afraid to move, fearing that he'd be unable to, but gradually he came to realize that he was, indeed, fine.

But am I really?

He struggled to all fours, looking around his office, wondering how he'd come to be on the floor. He saw the time and felt a twinge of panic. He was late for work.

Using the corner of the desk, he climbed carefully to his feet. His body was shaking. Again he looked about the room, and everything appeared to be in order. Then he saw the notebook.

The Director of Field Operations for the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, still wearing his bathrobe and pajamas, sat down heavily in his leather desk chair, staring at an open notebook on the desk before him, and felt long-established defenses beginning to crumble.

He read the words on the open page, and suddenly felt dirty. Defiled. His heart fluttered uneasily as he gazed at his hands--hands stained black. He picked up a Magic Marker that lay beside the notebook. The tip of the thick pen had been pressed nearly flat. He dropped it into the trash barrel beside his chair.

Something had happened to him, something worse than a heart attack or a stroke.

He'd always suspected that the world was a much stranger place than it seemed, even before he went to work for the BPRD, while he was still with the FBI. He remembered his first encounter with the Bureau, and its best field agent, Hellboy. It was a serial killer case out of Columbus, Ohio, and the primary suspect had proved to be something far less than human.

That was when everything had changed for him. Manning remembered how it had felt, the fearful realization, and found himself again reading the words scrawled in the notebook.

Working with Hellboy had confirmed his worst suspicions, testing the bonds of reality, driving home the fact that there really were things that went bump in the night, monsters under the bed, things that would eat you alive if given the chance. And with that knowledge confirmed, he had no choice but to adjust how he dealt with the world. It was either that or go completely insane.

Tom had established a kind of
bizarre-free zone
around his personal life. It was his way of not letting the job consume him. He would handle the strange and horrible things he saw with the FBI, and then with the BPRD, with full efficiency and professionalism. But when it came time to call it a day, he would raise the barrier and the weirdness of the world would be locked out until it was time to go back again.

This worked quite well for him--or at least it had.

Manning pulled his eyes from the notebook and looked around his office disdainfully, as if it had somehow betrayed him. He was supposed to be safe here. It was meant to be a place where he could trick himself into thinking that the paranormal was nothing more than rich fodder for popular entertainment. Here was where he could be blissfully ignorant. But not anymore.

It
had broken through his defenses.

He allowed his gaze to fall back to the open book, where a message had been left in a handwriting not his own.

Manning had gone to bed shortly after Leno's monologue, checking the alarm clock settings, as he did every night before shutting off the light and falling asleep almost immediately. He'd never had any difficulty sleeping, thanks to his
free zone.
But now he had to wonder if sleep would ever come so easily again.

He had no recollection of leaving his bed, and certainly none of coming downstairs to the office, removing the notebook from the desk drawer and writing this strange message.

Not much time. King's cup...stone Queen...Virgin wall. All stolen. Medicine bag next. Stop them. Was right. DANGER! Go to Waldoboro. Stop them. Don't take any wooden nickels.

Manning felt an icy finger of dread run down the length of his spine. There was something disturbingly familiar about the tone of the message, something that began to dredge up painful memories long buried by the passage of time.

The image of a sad old man restrained upon a hospital bed flashed before his mind's eye, and Tom gasped aloud, slamming closed the cover of the notebook.

Ghosts of the past, never laid to rest.

Franklin Massie held on to the sides of the embalming table, the painful arthritic throb of his old joints making him momentarily unsure he could continue with the task before him. He paused, gazing down at the elderly corpse laid out before him, and decided that he must.

Not much older than me,
he thought, reaching down with hands sheathed in rubber gloves to pluck an unsightly hair from the corpse's nose. Franklin studied the man's features. It was obvious that his passing hadn't been pleasant, for there was a certain strained expression on his face. He took note of the ruptured capillaries in the nose, the distended belly and the yellowed skin. Alcohol abuse had claimed another one.

This was nothing new to the funeral director, especially when dealing with the more troubled populace of the old city. He had an agreement with City Hall to handle the arrangements for those who passed from life with no one to mourn them, nor funds to pay for the cost of burial. The City paid him a flat rate for his services, barely enough to cover expenses, but he didn't mind. It made him feel good that these poor souls were at last being shown some proper respect. He treated them as he treated all of his clients. To Franklin Massie, death was the ultimate equalizer.

Franklin imagined himself lying naked upon the cold metal table, a stranger's hands preparing him for his own final slumber.
It won't be long now,
he thought. The ache of his joints was growing steadily worse, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to handle his equipment. It had been the same with his father, Walter. When Father could no longer get up in the morning to open the doors of the Massie Funeral Parlor, he had simply surrendered his spirit. Franklin wondered if he would be as smart, or would he be found dead in the embalming room one day, an extra body on the floor, in addition to the one on the table.

He turned from the corpse, forcing the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, and flicked the switch to start the embalming machine. He picked up the long, sharply pointed trocar and turned back to the deceased.

"I know this looks bad, but I guarantee, you won't feel a thing," the mortician said, preparing to plunge the pointed tip of the shaft into the corpse's belly.

A green light began to flash above the room's entryway--someone was at the door upstairs.

"Wonderful." Franklin set the trocar down and switched off the machine. "Sorry about this," he said to the corpse. "But it looks like we'll have to finish up later."