Hellraisers (5 page)

Pan stepped back, jamming the crossbow on the floor in order to reload it. The weapon was powerful but it was just about the most awkward thing Ostheim could have given her. She wound the handle, yelling as she did, “Somebody shoot it!”

The driver was on the floor now, jets of blood spraying from the stump of his leg, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. But Herc was there, jabbing the end of his shotgun against the bulk of the concrete demon and pulling the trigger. Pan threw up her hands, feeling shards of floor embed themselves in her face, the pain lost in the thunder of the adrenaline. She finished winding the bow, fumbling for a bolt and jamming it into the gutter. Herc pumped, fired again, and the demon was gone, just a concrete shell left behind.

“Hang in … re…”
said Ostheim through her earpiece, his words faint and in pieces.
“They've al … broken … contract. Five min—”

Five minutes. That was an eternity. She scanned the parking lot. The metal demon and the concrete one were both gone, and a pile of rubble by the side of the truck made it clear that Herc had finished off another. But the air was still full of sulfur. She could almost see that paper-thin line between this world and theirs straining, the countless demons that teemed on the other side, all trying to break through. All trying to get to her.

But where the hell was Forrest?

Herc swore, pointing up the ramp.

“Kid's doing a runner!” he roared. “Goddammit! Forrest!”

Stupid. Really stupid.
You couldn't run from them. There was nowhere to hide. Pan opened her mouth to call the boy's name but it was too late. Something wrenched itself from the wall that formed the side of the ramp, a dog-like shape with concrete skin and a steel spine. Forrest never even saw it coming. It pounced onto his back, crushing the boy in a spray of blood and jelly. Even past the howl of the demon Pan heard him scream, a rasping, desperate, haggard cry that echoed off the walls.

Turn away,
something in Pan's head told her.
You don't want to see.

But she kept looking, seeing the floor beneath the dead boy grow soft, melting like licorice. The air began to shimmer, the way it does over a barbecue, and with a soft
pop
Forrest's clothes ignited. The whole ramp was growing red, dissolving in the heat, but the dead kid was still howling—even as his hair caught fire, even as his skin bubbled.

She didn't look away. She didn't blink. Not even when she felt Herc's hands on her, trying to pull her around. The demon's head snapped forward like a viper's and Forrest's head exploded, scraps of bone and brain skittering across the molten ground. But she could still hear those screams as the boy's twitching body started to sink into the ground.

He'd be screaming for the rest of time.

Forrest vanished slowly, as if he had fallen into a tar pit. Then the demon crumpled to the floor, like its batteries had run out. Through the smoke and the haze Pan watched the ground start to heal, cooling.

Not for long, though.

She looked at her watch. Less than a minute and she'd be pulled under too, the fast track to hell. She felt Herc's hands on her again, pulling her close.

“We'll do what we can, Pan,” he said, his voice shaking like a leaf. “I … I'll try.”

She shrugged him away. She didn't need his pity. She knew what she was getting into.
You play the game, you take the pain.
She checked her crossbow, choking on that gut-churning stench of sulfur seeping out between the cracks in reality. There was another smell too. She looked back at the Ford, seeing gasoline spurting from the ruptured tank, pooling around the tires.

She checked her watch.

Five, four, three, two, one …

It emitted a soft, chirping alarm. Somehow it didn't quite have the gravity she expected it to—an air-raid Klaxon would have been more appropriate. She lifted the crossbow, the whole thing shaking.

Here they come.

“The wall!” Herc yelled, and she followed the barrel of his gun to see a shape pull itself free from a pillar. This one was bigger, almost human shaped, exploding outward in a plume of dust. The whole parking lot groaned, cracks appearing in the ceiling, the weight of the building above threatening to crash down, bury them all alive.

Herc lifted his gun and fired, the demon pushing through a hail of buckshot. It swiped a huge fist before Herc could reload, sending him flying. Pan fought her panic, lifting the crossbow and firing. The creature twisted at the last second, the bolt burying itself in the wall behind. Pan swore, slamming down the crossbow and winding the handle.

It pounced, its fingers gouging trenches in her armor, knocking the air from her lungs and the crossbow from her fingers. Herc appeared by her side, shoulder charging the demon, forcing it back. He raised his gun and fired, again, again, each blast punching the demon across the parking lot. Too late Pan noticed where they were heading.

“Herc, no!”

The demon slipped and fell into the puddle of gasoline from a car's ruptured fuel tank, Herc firing one last shot. The world went white, burning like a supernova, a silent explosion that lifted Pan up and hurled her backward. By the time she'd hit the floor the noise had caught up, a wave of rolling thunder that felt thick enough to drown in. She fought against the heat, against the boiling tide of smoke and vaporized blood, feeling like she was drowning.

“… zzzttt … okay?… ing hell, Pan!”

She tried to push herself up onto her elbows, her whole body made of pain. Everything was red, glowing, and she realized her eyes were closed. It seemed to take an age for her to remember how to open them. The parking lot was a lake of fire. Everything danced in the heat, nothing quite real. It was almost as if the fire were a living thing, lumbering toward her …

Oh no.

The burning demon was made up partly of a charred corpse, partly of something that might once have been a car seat. The whole thing was an inferno, but it wasn't slowing it down. These were demons, after all. Fire was like silk to them. It lurched through the wreckage, bounding right for her.

Pan grunted, ignoring the agony as she lifted herself up. Her leg wasn't working properly, and when she looked down she saw a shard of bone poking from her shin. She stumbled, crunching against a pillar. Where the hell was the crossbow? The demon was halfway across the lot when another parked car exploded, the force of it lifting the Corvette up and crunching it against the ceiling. Pan ducked behind the pillar, feeling the fist of the shock wave buffet past her.

She hobbled around, flanking the demon. There, a dozen yards away, her crossbow. She pushed herself away from the pillar, limping toward it, hearing the howl of the demon on her tail. She collapsed next to the weapon, swinging it around just as the creature was reaching for her. The wire twanged and the bolt buried itself in the creature's eyeless face. It had time to grunt, almost like it couldn't believe its luck, then it exploded into dust.

A shotgun blast behind her. Herc calling out a word that might have been her name. Pan turned to see him limping her way, clouds of smoke billowing around him. His face was a mess, smeared with angry burns. She couldn't see what he was shooting at, the truck was in the way. At least
part
of the truck.

Part of the truck that unfolded into a demon the size of a grizzly; which opened its mouth and roared.

Pan swore, lifting the crossbow even though it wasn't loaded. One of the demon's long front legs curled around her chest. It squeezed and she heard a rib snap, a supernova of pain detonating inside her. The crossbow fell, clattering to the floor.

Herc's gun roared again, the creature's head tinkling like a tuneless music box. Clouds of shot tore past her, stinging her skin. The demon didn't even seem to feel it, lifting another leg, angling its bladed foot in her direction. Its head was made up of part of the bumper and the license plate—
SKI UTAH!
—serrated teeth still pushing themselves free of the metal. Even though it had no eyes it seemed to look at her, and she knew exactly what it was thinking.

Finally, after all these years, we can collect.

She almost felt the relief of it, until she remembered what would happen next.

“Pan!” Herc cried out, too far away, too slow. The creature squeezed again, her bones splintering. Pan closed her eyes, hoping it wouldn't be as bad as they told her, hoping that Ostheim had been wrong when he'd said she'd be begging for death if they ever caught her. She'd be begging for death for the rest of eternity.

“Go on, then,” she spat, half words, half blood. “Do your worst.”

And it did.

 

COWARD'S WAY OUT

First he was expelled. Now the world was ending.

Talk about a day from hell.

Another dull explosion shook the bodega, hard enough to rattle Marlow's bones. He grabbed the door handle, sucking in a lungful of hot, smoky air. The shotgun was heavy, threatening to slide out of his sweaty hand, and he gripped it hard enough to make his fingers ache.

What was he doing?

Sirens rose up over the echo of the explosion, wailing like mourners at a funeral. There was a smell in the air like nothing he'd ever experienced, something that was almost volcanic. He wondered if it actually was the end of the world out there, if he'd step out of the store to see lava running down the streets of Mariners Harbor.

Staying here, though, wasn't an option. The rest of the ceiling was coming loose, threatening to crush him like it had crushed the cashier.

He eased open the door, squinting. There was no lava but plenty of people, all of them panicking. A few looked his way, double-taking when they saw the shotgun clenched in his hand. The guys hanging out in front of the store had scattered.

He half thought about dropping the gun but he had no idea what was out there. Could have been a terrorist attack or a full-on gang war, in which case he might need it. Not that he was planning on shooting anyone, but it might give him the time to run. The air outside was thick with smoke, tendrils that snaked into his lungs, choking him. He coughed them out as best he could, reaching for his inhaler with his free hand, sucking in a couple of blasts until the pressure on his chest loosened.

Where was he? He didn't recognize any of the buildings but every window in sight had been shattered. The explosions were coming from behind him, which meant the best way to move was forward.

He jogged across the street, clutching the shotgun to his chest, hoping the thing wouldn't self-detonate and blow off his head. He'd only made it a few paces when he saw a shimmer of light up ahead, a cop car screeching around the corner.

“Hey!” he yelled, then suddenly pictured himself charging down the street with a lethal weapon.
Great move, Marlow.
The cops around here shot first and asked questions never. He turned and bolted the other way, in the direction of the smoke and thunder.

Are you insane?

All that mattered was not being caught. He was in enough trouble as it was.

He was wheezing bad by the time he passed the store, seeing what looked like a hospital up ahead. There was a ramp for an underground parking lot, smoke churning out of it like an upturned waterfall. It rose up into a sky that was too dark for this time of day, the sun just a greasy smudge. The air was full of something sharp, almost electric, that same charge that made his hair stand on end, which pricked his skin with gooseflesh.

A car engine behind him, revving hard. He glanced over his shoulder to see the cop car looming up. Another cop car was approaching from the right, a couple of hospital security guards to the left. He heard the squeal of tires behind him and the pop of a car door being opened. Putting his head down, he went the only way he could, right toward the ramp. Whatever was going on down there, he might be able to find a way out. If they arrested him now, god knows what they'd charge him with.

He ran, tripping over the soft ground, the weapon rattling in his grip. The cops were yelling, the guards pushing their way past the flocks of people in pastel scrubs and billowing hospital gowns that were scattering from the building. Marlow ignored them, pushing forward into the darkness of the ramp and doing everything he could to catch his breath.

He peeked down, seeing a whole lot of nothing through the smoke. Something was glowing there, though, like the heart of a volcano.
Pop pop
, then a scream that didn't sound human, that sounded more like shredding metal. He tried to take a step but his body wouldn't obey, locked tight in protest. Maybe he should just surrender, try to explain himself.

Yeah, and what's the going rate for a weapons charge? Five years? Ten?

He took as deep a breath as his crappy lungs would let him, then he set off, propelling himself down the ramp. He ducked low but the smoke still found him, clawing its way down his throat, as solid as a dead man's fingers. He coughed, again and again, each time feeling like he was going to spit up a lung. The glowing embers up ahead grew brighter and he saw the passage leading into the first level of the parking lot. It looked like it had been sculpted out of clay by a child—the floor covered in huge bumps, the ceiling drooping. The parking lot beyond was framed by fire, and through the shimmering haze he could see at least two cars blazing, the floor a lake of flame and the ceiling a storm of smoke.

The bark of a gun rang out from somewhere in the chaos, startling him. He squinted into the flames. Was that somebody up there? A man dressed in black, his hair singed away. He was holding a rifle of some kind, or a shotgun maybe, firing it into the churning heat of one of the exploded cars. Marlow raised his own gun, so much heavier than it had any right to be. Was the man one of the good guys or the bad guys? Should he pull the trigger now, cut him down? What if he called out and the guy turned around, shot back before Marlow had a chance to defend himself?