by Matt Turner
“Something I had to say,” Adam wondered. His hollow eyes blankly stared into the distance as he paused in thought. “To make it right…there was something…”
The pain was too much; Seth could see the blackness starting to creep in on the edges of his vision. Stay awake, he told himself. He tried to lift up his arms, but the spikes in them were embedded too deep; he could not even so much as make his fingers twitch.
“The devil,” Adam suddenly exclaimed. With a final agonizing crack, he ripped his hand out of Seth’s chest. He opened his trembling palm and wept in glee at the scrap of bloodied bone it contained. “That was it! The Devil has three heads, son. Yes, to make it right—my fault—she told me to tell you that—”
He let out a hacking laugh that brought up a great gob of phlegm. It weakly dribbled down his chin as he raised the scrap of bone up into the light. “It’s all right now, son. I’ve made it right! We can all be together again! The Garden can come back! I’ve fixed it, I’ve fixed it, I’ve fixed it!”
The shuffling lunatic who had once been Seth’s father suddenly let out a scream of fear as something shot down from the skies at him like a bullet. Dark, ragged feathers sprayed out in every direction as two razor-sharp talons tore across his face, easily tearing through skin as thin as tissue paper. “No!” he screeched as he reeled backward, both hands raised to cover his features. “I fixed it! I fixed it!”
“First Man!” Podarge the demon cawed in delight. Adam violently slashed one of his hands through the air, and Seth let out a gasp of relief as the spikes embedded in his body tore backward through the air. They shot for the harpy, but even by the standards of the hell-birds, the beast was incredibly agile. The missiles harmlessly whipped by her as she let out a mocking squawk.
“Three heads!” Adam screamed out. “Remember! The devil has—”
The rest of his words were drowned out in a spray of blood as Podarge hurtled past his face, claws outstretched. Adam’s hands were torn away by the harpy’s vicious talons, and for a brief instant, Seth saw his father’s tongue peeking through the massive gash the devil had ripped through his throat.
“No!” Seth exclaimed in horror. “Father!”
Adam gurgled out a stomach’s worth of blood through the hole in his throat and toppled to the ground. Before his body even struck the dirt, it evaporated away into dust, once more becoming a part of the dust devil that swirled about them.
“We like man,” Podarge croaked triumphantly as she circled over Seth’s head. “First Man especially.”
“Monster,” Seth said between gritted teeth. “You will not touch my father again.”
“I touch whoever I like, little man.”
The masculine voice was so utterly unlike Podarge’s normal parrot-like tone that Seth glanced up in surprise. I must have misheard her, he wondered. Surely the wind— The rest of his thought died as Adam suddenly resumed his attack.
13
Even in life, Simon had been a master swordsman—but in death, with the power of the Horseman’s Mark pulsating in his shoulder blade, he had found, time and time again, that he was nearly unstoppable. He had carved his way through hundreds of the Kingdom’s denizens. Only the Prophets he had faced had possessed any sort of chance against his mighty strength.
But Lamech was a different beast altogether. The flaming sword in his hand seemed to have a will of its own, spinning in such a blur of light that it was all Simon could do to fend it off. Even with Vera and Amaury firing at Lamech from two separate directions, the servant of Cain did not take so much as a scratch—the ringing clash of their bullets uselessly crashing against the fiery blade made an earsplitting cacophony of noise.
“Still can’t even touch me!” Lamech’s golden eyes glittered with laughter. “Are you Horsemen truly so useless?”
Simon swung down with his blade, hoping to tear off Lamech’s left arm at the shoulder. Just as he had anticipated, the younger man nimbly danced to the side—just as Simon adjusted his grip on the handle and sharply altered the trajectory of his sword with all his might. The blade moved faster than he had ever dreamed possible, letting out a crash of thunder as it hurtled toward Lamech’s head faster than the speed of sound—
Lamech’s blade was still faster. It whipped up to meet Simon’s sword, and the two weapons clashed together in an explosion of metal that made every bone in the two combatant’s bodies shake and clatter. Simon’s eardrums very nearly ruptured from the thunder of the blow.
“Love this sword!” Lamech crowed in delight. His voice was difficult to hear over the ringing in Simon’s ears, but he could make out the words formed on his opponent’s lips. “I should thank the heaven-man for bringing it to me!”
Directly behind Lamech, Amaury raised his machine-pistol and emptied an entire clip at his back. Simon pressed his blade harder against Lamech, hoping to pin him in place—and then gaped in astonishment as the flaming sword suddenly jerked behind Lamech’s back in a blur to intercept the barrage. A handful of shards of steel toppled down to the ground, and Lamech’s sword tore forward once again to crash against Simon’s blade. The entire process took less than a second—Simon barely had a chance to move his blade forward more than an inch before Lamech was pressing him once more.
“You see why I am Cain’s chosen?” Lamech grinned. “You don’t touch me unless I want you to, Horseman.”
He suddenly altered his grip on the flaming sword, sliding it over Simon’s blade and stabbing it directly at his heart.
Simon yelped and tried to redirect his sword upward, but the heavenly blade could not be denied—it sliced through the thin fabric of his tunic. The tip of it traced across his skin, and the worst pain that he had ever known shot into his chest—by Christ’s wounds, it hurt even more than when that bitch had set him on fire.
“Give us a scream, you old bastard!” Lamech laughed hysterically. “I want them to hear you down in Judecca!” The tip of the blade gouged in deeper, and this time Simon did open his mouth to cry out in pain, for he could feel it prying apart his rib cage—
Vera suddenly appeared out of nowhere, a mad yell on her lips as she charged at Lamech. The pistol in her hands blasted a dozen times, and once again, Lamech’s sword rushed out to intercept the bullets.
Simon staggered back, his free hand pressed up against the scorching wound in his chest, as Lamech turned to face his new opponent. “Vera, get away,” he managed to croak out. The idiot is going to get herself eviscerated.
“I—am—fucking—sick—of—bullets—not—working!” The roar of her pistol punctuated each word that Vera spat out.
Lamech strode toward her, a broad grin on his face. “You remind me of one of my wives,” he said thoughtfully.
Amaury rushed his flank, both knives drawn, and the servant of Cain almost casually smacked him away with the flat of his sword. Amaury screamed and fell back as flames rushed up his sleeve.
“I’m not the marriage type,” Vera retorted. She squeezed the pistol’s trigger one last time. Click.
Lamech raised the blade over his head with both of his hands, ready to bring it crashing down on her skull. “I always cared for Chava.” He sighed wistfully. “You will make a fine replacement…once I tame you.”
“If you’re looking for a wife,” a cocky voice called out, “you can do better.”
“Not another one of you,” Lamech snapped. For the briefest of moments, his eyes flickered away from Vera to make out the source of the voice—just enough time for something to whip up from the ground around Vera’s waist. She cried out in surprise, and Lamech whipped his sword down to crush her skull in two. But the speed of the rope-like thing was so great that it wrenched her off her feet and out of the madman’s reach.
“Hello, Vera,” John said pleasantly. He released the vine that he had wrapped around her with a little flourish. “It’s been awhile.”
“John—what?” Vera gasped out in surprise. “Where—”
“God damn it.” Lamech ground his te
eth together in fury. A small forest of trees began to rise out of the rubble around him; he set them ablaze with a single swipe of his blade. “You fucking Horsemen…”
“Forget about them, handsome,” the first voice called out again. Lamech turned to see that a stranger was approaching: a bloodstained, filthy figure dressed in a few silks that hung raggedly from her bandaged face. “Now it’s just you and the most beautiful woman in all Hell.” She sarcastically made a pose with the strange device in her hands.
“I don’t—wait, what?” Lamech demanded.
She let out a single sharp whistle—almost immediately, the hills of wreckage exploded with movement as a small army of soldiers burst out of the crevices like ants.
Simon barely had enough time to register their familiar uniforms before the gunfire began—a rain of steel that crashed toward Lamech. He dove backward, the flaming sword in his hands a blur of motion as he hacked and chopped at the incoming barrage.
“Fucking ENOUGH,” Lamech howled, and he slammed the tip of the blade into the ground. A column of fire lashed through the rubble, incinerating everything in its path, and the strange woman dove out of the way—and it was at that moment that both Amaury and Vera finally managed to reload their guns.
“Take him,” the stranger croaked out in a harsh voice.
Vera squeezed her trigger, and Lamech turned to block the bullets with his sword—but just at that second, a grenade exploded several feet away from his feet. Shrapnel slashed across the back of his scalp, and he cursed and stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance, but half a dozen of John’s vines were rising to wrap around his legs. He chopped them aside with a brutal swing, but Amaury was mirroring Vera, blasting at Lamech from a dozen different angles with his machine-pistol, and even the speed of Lamech’s unnatural blade was not enough, for a bullet got through his defense and tore through his bicep.
“Enough,” Lamech howled, and he raised his left hand to the sky, on the verge of performing his strange ritual. “Feel my pain—”
“No,” Simon growled. “Feel mine.” He sprinted forward, allowing the momentum of his charge to carry the force of his sword. There was a rewarding sensation of steel carving through bone—and then his mad dash carried him a few yards farther. It was only when he had skidded to a stop that he turned to see the damage he had done.
“Y…you…” Lamech choked out. He raised his right forearm to his face in puzzlement, as though wondering where his hand had gone. He reached for it with his left arm—and then found that nearly the entire limb was missing as well. A plume of blood suddenly exploded from the great gash in his torso when his body abruptly realized the sheer damage that had been done to it.
“My turn,” the newcomer called out. She pulled the strange device in her hands up to her mouth and spoke a single word into it.
The effect was nearly instantaneous—one instant Lamech was there, staring in shock at his severed arms, and then a score of mortar rounds crashed down from the sky, blanketing the entire area in fire and smoke. The force of the shock wave pummeled those gathered around with pieces of man and building, and then Lamech was gone.
“What in God’s name—” Simon croaked in astonishment once the ringing in his ears had subsided.
The first thing that he was able to make out was the all-too-familiar shriek of metal clashing against metal. Damnit. His heart sank as the first stiltwalker emerged from behind the remnants of a shattered tower, flamethrowers and machine guns at the ready. Maybe it’s alone, he hoped. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it was dashed, as three more emerged from the depths of the city. And wading through the blood and the filth at their iron feet was another unwelcome sight: rank after rank of marching soldiers.
Somewhere in the distance, a single trumpet blasted out a command. In response, one of the stiltwalkers shot up a flare that left a shadow of blood-red upon the shattered city.
“Shit,” Simon muttered.
Across the horizon, a dozen more flares lanced upward, tracing a great circle around the city’s periphery. The legions were returning. Once again, the iron heel of the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace reigned in Hell.
14
Lao’s eyes had grown back quickly enough so that he could see what was coming—and Christ, did it look awful. It was not the distant legions or scream of machinery that attracted his horror; it was the strange woman who had just arrived. What little he could make of her face through the gaps in the clumsily wrapped bandages was disgusting: nothing but raw, weeping muscle and sinew. Her clothes, which looked to have once been expensive, translucent silks, were stained by filth and pus, and sweet Jesus, she reeked to high heaven of rot and decay.
And yet he had absolutely no trouble identifying his former lover. The Master had taken away her devil and her face, but Salome the Seductress, Lord Prophet of the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace, was somehow still kicking. A cold pit of fear formed in his stomach.
How is she still moving? Even by Hell’s standards, the agony from her face must have been unimaginable, yet somehow she was still here, shouting out orders to the scores of soldiers picking their way through the ruins. Is she even human?
Lao swiftly ducked behind an outcrop of pavement to hide from her horrifying gaze. “Shit,” he whispered to himself. “Shit, shit, shit.” How the hell do I get out of here?
“Argh, Christ,” a voice moaned from beside him. Lao whipped his head around to see that Lamech had appeared beside him, so suddenly that he might have formed from thin air. “Those bastards,” Lamech spat. The parts of his face that were visible under the smoke and blood were gaunt and pale from blood loss, yet he still had enough energy to crush the stumps of his arms under his armpits. “You too, whore,” he gasped. “Hiding here like a goddamned coward…”
“Shut up,” Lao hissed. “Let me think, damnit.” It was painfully obvious that they weren’t going to be able to obtain any of the Horsemen for the Master, but they couldn’t possibly go back empty-handed. He shuddered to even consider the possibility. We need something.
His gaze drifted over to the unconscious Prophet the Horsemen had been gathered around earlier. Ellie. She could be useful, he thought hopefully. The only problem was her location—barely ten meters from where Salome now stood. For a brief moment, he struggled between two primal fears: Cain or the faceless woman he had betrayed.
“They took my sword.” Lamech gritted his teeth, although Lao couldn’t tell whether it was in pain or fury. “Those maggots took my fucking sword.”
“You dropped it when they cut off your arms, dumbass,” Lao snapped. “Listen, I’m going to run and fetch that Prophet over there—Ellie, they call her. You get ready to portal us back to Judecca the instant I’m back.”
Lamech’s yellow eyes narrowed, but he, for once, did not rise to Lao’s insult. “What about the Old Man?” he demanded.
Adam could burn in Hellfire for all eternity as far as Lao was concerned. “Forget him. You think the Master gives a shit about the Old Man? Not much the Kingdom can do with that useless old fuck anyway.”
“Right,” Lamech said sourly. His eyes suddenly brightened, and a grin crossed his bloodied face. “Ah, the wrath of a woman scorned.” He chuckled. “You hear that, Lao?”
“Hear—what?” But he suddenly could hear it: the pattering of bare feet across pavement, drawing closer to them from the other side of the outcrop.
“Must’ve seen us after all.” Lamech sighed. “Wish I could stick around to watch this, but ah well—” He clicked his tongue, and a small fissure opened up in the ground at his feet. He tumbled in, adding a cheerful “Good luck, whore!” over his shoulder just before the rift re-closed.
A bucket of ice rushed down Lao’s spine as gooseflesh erupted across his entire body. Not her, he hoped. Please, not her… He could no longer hear the smacking noise of bloody feet against pavement, so maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that she had moved on… He ever-so-slowly slid his face against the corner of the rubble, trying to pee
k out with just the edge of one of his eyes.
The tip of the sword pierced through the pupil of his right eye, splicing the optic nerve in half, and burying itself deep into his brain. He screamed and lurched back, tearing the sword out and ripping away a chunk of skull with his own weight. As fast as the first time, the sword came again, this time to slash against his guts. His intestines spilled out, tangling up his feet, and he crashed down to the pavement. The sword came down in his throat, crushing the vertebrae as it came to a rest in the pavement.
Salome was heavily breathing due to the exertion; her bandages fluttered around the wet slash of a mouth. A few scraps of red, salty flesh dribbled down onto Lao’s lips.
“Hello, lover,” Salome the Seductress breathed. She reached out her hand, and one of the soldiers beside her slid another blade into it—this one was a rapier, thin but wickedly sharp. “Want another kiss?”
15
The strange bandaged woman hammered away at Lao, tearing away pieces of flesh that smoked and rotted before they even hit the ground, yet somehow her strikes had hardly any effect—his body was simply regenerating too quickly.
Simon took a step forward, unsure whether he should intervene, and was stopped in his tracks by a line of soldiers.
“On the ground!” one of them snarled as they raised their machine guns. Behind them, a small army of the uniformed bastards rushed to form a large circle around Lao and the woman who was beating him to a bloody pulp. It was obvious from their happy cheers that they viewed the death-match as a spectator sport.
“Go to Hell,” Amaury groaned. “I’m sick to death of the fucking Kingdom.”
“By order of High Prophet Salome, you are under arrest—” But the soldiers had no intention of taking them back to their master in one piece, Simon could already tell from the way that they were flicking off their safeties and eagerly arming their grenade launchers. He tensed his exhausted muscles, ready for yet another desperate fight—