The Devouring (18 page)

The mirrors.

Reggie raised her aching fist and punched again, but this time not at the clown. Instead, she struck the mirror next to him. The glass cracked and the clown stumbled. Reggie’s hand bled freely, but she hit the glass again, shattering the mirror. As the glass broke into shards, the clown’s makeup cracked, revealing bone beneath the caked greasepaint. Berzerko touched the bone with his gloved fingers like he was trying to plug a breaking dam.

Reggie smashed another mirror and a crevasse split the clown’s forehead, pouring smoke. Reggie shoved Berzerko aside, and sprinted down the glass hall toward the arch of light at its end. She heard the shoes flop behind her as she dove out of the house of mirrors.

A soft wind blew her hair, and a light rain fell on neatly manicured grass. Flower beds lined the road that led uphill into the graveyard. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

Her hands throbbed, and she rubbed them in the cool grass. Any second Berzerko would come charging out of the fun house. Reggie was exhausted; she had to rest for just a minute . . .

But when the clown did not follow, a realization hit her. He couldn’t follow. Each environment was contained, a layer with its own boundaries. Henry could cross through.

And so could she.

Reggie now stood at the gates of Cutter’s Wedge Cemetery.

At the top of the hill Reggie saw two mourners, dressed in black and huddled together under a black umbrella. She recognized them immediately.

“Mom!” Reggie shouted. “Dad!”

She sprinted toward them, but they bowed their heads and walked into the thick fog on the edge of the cemetery. By the time she reached the top of the hill, they were gone. Reggie dropped to her knees and read the epitaph carved into the marble headstone.

Henry Thomas Halloway

Beloved Son

Buried on Sorry Night

The last line was scrawled beneath the other two in blood. It was still wet.

“It’s not real ... ,” Reggie reminded herself, but even so, she never knew she could feel so sad. She knelt in front of her brother’s headstone and began to dig.

She clawed at the ground with her bleeding fingers, trying to ignore the pain. Worms and maggots swarmed up through the dirt and onto her hands, wriggling up her wrists and arms. Reggie fought the urge to retch. She swiped madly at the bugs, and each one she touched turned to a puff of black smoke, but there was always more crawling up through the earth and onto her skin.

Reggie continued to dig, tossing the rocky grave away in chunks. Finally her hands hit something hard, and she smoothed the dirt away to reveal a casket.

Despite the time-ravaged headstone that marked it, the coffin looked new. She pried the lid open and found Kappy the koala bear tucked inside, frayed and grubby.

Henry had been here. This was all his mind, his fear. The Vour gave those fears form, but there were some things Henry had shaped, too. The coffin belonged to the monster, but the bear belonged to Henry. This gave Reggie some hope, though she realized that if Henry had been carrying Kappy, he had dropped it along the way. How much more would he lose before being lost forever?

“I’m coming,” she whispered to the bear. Reggie climbed inside the coffin and lay on her back.

She shut the lid and clutched Kappy to her chest.

Suddenly, the coffin lurched upward ninety degrees so that Reggie was in a standing position. A red button with a downward arrow appeared waist high in front of her, and tinny jazz music played softly. A fluorescent light flicked on above her head.

The coffin had transformed into an elevator. It startled her for a moment. But while the environments felt disjointed, she knew now that they tied together around a common theme: Henry’s fears.

She pressed the down button and heard the scraping of gears. The car descended, and then the doors opened with a polite
ding.

Reggie walked out into the sterile hall of a vacant hospital.

“Henry!” she called out. Her voice echoed down the corridor.

The place was eerily silent. No voices, no movement — not even the regulated beeps of heart monitors or the squeaky shuffle of medical carts. She walked to an abandoned, dimly lit nurses’ station, where several charts littered the desk. Reggie entered through the swinging door and grabbed one. The letterhead at the top read
St. Joseph’s Memorial,
a hospital in Boston.

Below that was the patient’s name: Henry Halloway.

When he was five, Henry had stayed in the hospital for two weeks to recover from an operation. Reggie had accidentally struck him with a tree branch, and a splinter had lodged in his eye, spread an infection, and almost blinded him.

Nothing below the treatment plan on the chart was legible. Reggie picked up a second chart and saw that it was identical to the first. So was the next one. And the next.

She continued down the corridor. Room after room was empty. On one hospital bed she found a small pool of blood spreading across a white sheet. Another room had a set of jagged surgical tools laid out on an operating tray. In this place of Henry’s mind, he couldn’t conjure the flowers and cards that had decorated his room, the kind nurse that had read to him, the warmth of a loving family that had surrounded him. The Vour forbade her brother’s mind to rebuild any memory not steeped in pain and loss.

“So you want pain and loss?” Reggie asked aloud. She armed herself with a long scalpel from the palette. “You’ll get it.”

At a T-juncture at the end of the hall, she heard a sucking sound from a small dark room to her right.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Reggie ran to its door, creaked it open, and peered inside.

The light from the hallway spilled across a woman sitting motionless in a rocking chair. She cradled a small, squirming bundle in her arms.

It was feeding.

“Hello?” Reggie’s voice sounded thin, like old parchment.

The woman did not answer, but at the sound of Reggie’s voice, the infant at her breast stopped sucking. Her heart pounded as she fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on.

The mother had been dead for hours, her eyes still open, her tongue hanging out, purple and swollen. But her child had continued to feed, tiny hands scratching at gray, sagging flesh. The baby did not feast on its mother’s milk, but on her blood and flesh. With tiny, needlelike fangs, it had bored an apple-sized hole through her chest, and a stream of deep red dripped down the soft rolls of the little creature’s chin. The mother’s abdomen was ripped open, as if the ravenous offspring had
eaten
its way out of her. What remained of her entrails spilled over her lap and down onto the floor.

As Reggie backed away, the thing continued to turn its neck, following her with its yellow eyes and catlike pupils — twisting, twisting, until the awkward movement put too much pressure on the dead mother’s arms; the limbs, stiff from rigor mortis, cracked sickeningly as they unfolded and dropped the naked infant to the floor.

The thing resembled a human baby in both shape and proportion, but its skin was a sickly ash, taut and scaly, and spiky black nubs protruded from the cuticles where nails should be. The child expelled shallow breaths on the floor near its mother’s blackening feet, its hours-old arms and legs jerking spastically.

As she watched with morbid fascination, the thing rolled over onto its full belly and slithered across the floor, head craned unnaturally upward. Reggie heard the thing’s tongue suck at the roof of its own mouth, desperate for nourishment. She retreated into the hallway and screamed as pain seared through her foot — another demon baby had plunged its fangs into her ankle, and a dozen more crawled toward her.

Then they were upon her, clawing and biting. Her shrieks echoed off the white walls, but the monsters only delighted in her terror. She swung her scalpel wildly, but the imps were too small and close to the ground to slash without crouching down — which would expose her face and throat to their attacks. Reggie kicked at one, and it skidded across the slick floor. The demon bared its needle teeth and scuttled back toward her.

Reggie felt another spawn sink its fangs into her calf, and she ripped it from her skin, flesh and muscle tearing in hot chunks. Without thinking, she squeezed the back of the creature’s neck until the top of its tiny spine popped in her grip. She released the infant monster, but the broken thing rose up unnaturally on its tiny legs, neck askew, and
walked
toward her.

Others bit into her ankles, thighs, back — piercing, biting,
feeding.
The smaller monsters, the runts unable to compete with the stronger ones, lapped frantically at the drops of warm blood that pooled on the floor. Reggie kicked and writhed, knocking the creatures to the floor as she raced down the hall.

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever as she ran, her breath gasping, the scalpel clutched in her white-knuckled fist. At last, she hazarded a look behind.

The little demons were gone.

Reggie heard raspy breathing coming from behind a nearby door. She entered a room filled with hundreds of white curtained enclosures. The edges of it were steeped in mist. As Reggie approached the first curtain, she heard a child’s scream. A tall silhouette holding a needle moved behind the drape.

Reggie yanked back the curtain to find an empty hospital bed with a clean white sheet. Another child shrieked to her left, and the same ominous silhouette loomed behind that curtain. Reggie ripped it aside, but again, no one was there. The piercing wails of boys, girls, and infants flooded the room. Reggie ripped curtain after curtain from their metal rungs, always finding an empty bed. The cries grew louder and more pained.

Suddenly Reggie was face to face with a surgeon in a gray gown and cap. A surgical mask covered her mouth and nose, and her black eyes leaked streams of smoke. She walked toward Reggie, holding a long needle in one of her latex-gloved hands. She pushed the plunger on the needle, and a stream of acidic green fluid spurted to the ground and sizzled on the tile.

“Time for your shot,” she said.

“Don’t come near me.” Reggie wielded the scalpel.

“You’re late for your operation. The infection is spreading.”

“What infection?”

“Humanity.” The surgeon’s voice was smooth as stainless steel. “Poisonous. Cancerous. Terminal.”

Reggie sliced at the surgeon, but she effortlessly stepped out of the scalpel’s path.

“Very well. I’ve had more difficult patients.
Security
!”

Two security aides burst from behind the curtains, gorilla-like humanoids with sloping foreheads and dull eyes. Huge biceps and shoulders bulged beneath their gray uniforms. Reggie slashed at them, nicking forearms and fingers, releasing small valves of black steam from their flesh. Undeterred, the aides plodded forward and seized her with their massive hands. She screamed and thrashed as they dragged her back to the operating room. The surgeon and a nurse drifted like ashen ghosts behind them.

The aides heaved her onto the operating table and held her down.

“No!” Reggie writhed and struggled. “Get off of me!”

The surgeon swung a lamp over Reggie’s head and flicked on a blinding light, then leaned over her with needle in hand. Reggie let out a ferocious scream and pulled one arm free. She smacked the syringe out of the surgeon’s hand, but the nurse grabbed Reggie by the throat and slammed her back onto the table. The two aides pinned Reggie tight.

A mechanical arm unfolded from underneath the table, whirring and buzzing. Its viselike metal hand gripped onto her head and held it in place. A small silver tentacle, tipped with a flat disc, slithered from the robotic wrist. Reggie gasped as it swayed in front of her face and placed the metal disc over her right eye. With a click, the disc dilated, opening the eye’s lids and holding them in place.

The surgeon bent over her, holding a long gleaming drill.

“We go in through the iris, bore into the lens, though the vitreous until we reach the optic nerve . . .”

“Stop ... please ... ,” Reggie sobbed.

Pure fear overwhelmed her, and the fog at the edge of the room crowded in. She was falling away. She would fail her brother . . .

Then something small and wet touched her left cheek. Reggie strained her eye and saw a twitching nose and whiskers next to her head on the table.

“General Squeak?”

The hamster nuzzled against her, sniffing at the pocket where she had stashed Henry’s koala bear. She began to understand.

Henry had brought the memory of General Squeak to this place, just as he had brought Kappy. These things gave him hope. But the Vour was stripping all of it away until Henry was nothing more than a shadow. Henry had lost Kappy. He had lost Squeak. How much more hope did he have left before he succumbed to this world?

“I won’t leave you here, Henry. Not again.”

She stopped kicking and flailing. Her terrified fits only empowered the monster within her brother.

“Do it,” she said. “Go ahead and carve me up any way you like. I’m not afraid of you.”

The surgeon reeked of raw hatred as she pushed the drill toward the clamp on Reggie’s eye. But then her hand shook as if jolted by an electric current. The shaking grew frenzied. The nurse grabbed the surgeon’s arm to try to stop the convul-sions.

“What’s the matter, doc?” Reggie sneered. “Losing your nerve?”

The surgeon ripped her arm free from the nurse’s grip and struck, but not at Reggie. The drill pierced the nurse’s left eye and sent a fountain of smoke soaring into the room. The clamp over Reggie’s eye withdrew, and the vise holding her head sparked and disengaged. The aides loosened their grips and she broke free, knocking the instrument table over on the floor. Needles, scalpels, drills, and clamps splayed onto the tile.

She rolled off the table and raced down the corridor after the fleeing hamster.

Curdling screams from invisible children vibrated inside her bones, but Reggie focused only on the little fur ball.

She turned another dark corner and stumbled into an alcove where white sheets were piled up on the floor against the wall. They turned pink, then darkened to red, then glistened deep crimson.