Hell on Earth

by Mike Wild

  But I'm not gonna make it, she thought. Unless-

  The C4 detonated and Hannah felt the concussion wave from the exploding tanker whack her solidly in the back, giving her the extra few inches she needed. Silhouetted against the billowing plume of flame, she flailed through the air and hit the bonnet of the Mini Cooper, her momentum flipping her up and over. For a second she threatened to skid off the end of the car but, as she expected, a large black hand shot out through the sun-roof, grabbed her firmly, and pulled her down inside.

  Hannah flopped painfully into her seat as Verse slammed on the brakes and brought the Mini Cooper skidding to a halt. Through the windscreen they looked ahead as the burning tanker decelerated at last, half mounted a junction slip road, and then blew itself and its hellish contents to pieces in a huge and final ball of flame.

  For a while they sat in silence, thinking about the men who had died. It was something, though, that neither could allow it to affect them for long.

  Not in this job.

  Emergency services sirens sounded somewhere in the distance. Verse looked at Hannah and slowly slipped the car into gear.

  THREE

  In over three hundred years of existence, Solomon Ravne had trodden in most of the dark places that the true powers of this world preferred kept from the gaze of the uninitiated. The man some called Der Teufel - the Devil - had stepped beyond the black veil more times than he cared to count. He had negotiated the quagmires, the swamps and the cesspits that lay there; he had explored the rank dungeons, the asylums, and the houses of pain; he had known the denizens of such places who feasted on living flesh, who took succour from souls, and who bathed regeneratively in blood, as he himself was wont to do. Ravne knew the places where the proverbial angels feared to tread. He had become privy to such dark secrets that they wreathed him perpetually like a shroud.

  There were amongst these secrets ones relating to himself that he cared not at all to share, and there was therefore one place Solomon Ravne liked not to be.

  And that was in the spotlight.

  "Excuse me, sir... sir? I'm afraid I'm really going to have to ask you to move. Miss Feeling and Mr Pakora are ready to tape their trail."

  Silently and with something only a little short of amazement, Ravne stared down at the hands that seemed to be pushing on his chest. He raised his gaze to meet the eyes of their owner - production assistant by the look of her - who shook visibly when it did, though there was nothing physically imposing about Ravne. He was slight, of average height, with dark hair and a trimmed beard. His eyes carried in them flecks of a history of pain. In a series of flashes, the young assistant found herself momentarily purchasing corpses on a rain-lashed Edinburgh street during the bubonic plague; racing along a Whitechapel alley of the 1800s; and then overseeing death in a Nazi concentration camp during World War Two.

  The message she received was clear: I am not what you think.

  The production assistant took a step backwards, faltered, apologised. The hint of a smile on his lip, Ravne nodded and moved as asked. It was all he wished to do anyway.

  "Annnd..." said another man. He was balancing a high-definition videocam on his shoulder. "Go, Erik, go Yvonne!"

  From further up the corridor, a pair of nervous-looking, underlit figures loomed into view, one a curly-haired woman wearing a parka and jeans, the other a bleached-blonde man who resembled a made-over ferret. The pair took turns whispering fearfully to the videocam, their eyes glowing eerily on its monitor screen.

  "This is Motley Hall," the woman said. "Haunt, if the local legends are true, of a gathering of spirits unlike anything we've encountered before..."

  "Spooks and ghosties," the man joined in. "Two entirely separate kinds of apparition that we are hoping will provide more than our usual share of things that go bump in the..."

  "Shite," a voice exclaimed. "Where di' this bunch o' tossers come from?"

  Ravne turned to look at Mikey Ness, a pumped-up hulk of a Glaswegian whose face and body had more scars and scarred tissue about them than unmarked skin. His nose wrinkled. In combat pants and a filthy, holed vest, the ripe stench of body odour, gun-oil and testosterone that enveloped the Scotsman made for a heady concoction. A veteran of Desert Storm special forces, Michael Ness was, like him, now employed as part of Caballistics, Inc, though there the similarity between the pair ended. The role Ravne played in their ensemble was that of a specialist consultant, while Ness, frankly, was a fugitive mental patient who had seen more than he should in Iraq, but who happened to be very good at killing the kinds of things he had seen.

  "We seem to have chanced upon location filming of a television programme called Scared Witless," Ravne said. "It seems the general public cannot get enough of the afterlife these days."

  "A'll gi' 'em afterlife," Ness threatened. "Ah men ya gotta be kiddin' me. We trek up the arse-end o' beyond ta find ingredients for ya bleedin' lamp o' Ali Baba-"

  "Alhazred. It is the Lamp of Alhazred."

  "Aye, wha'ever. Then whaddawe find when we git here? A bunch o' ponces who think they're bloody Kojak The Night Stalker-"

  "Kolchak."

  "Ah mean ah even ken that bint. She used to do the TV show wi' the sticky tape an' the PVC."

  "Blue Peter."

  "Blue Peter, bollocks. Wassit yer tek me fo' - some kinda pansy? The dom thing on that Ukraine channel - Plastipack!"

  Ravne had to admit that the TV crew's presence here was something of an inconvenience, though it seemed all they could do was ignore it. But when he and Ness tried to move on out of the spotlight it proved easier said than done.

  "Join us, if you dare, for our Scared Witless Halloween special: The House In Haunted Hull."

  "Wa-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaar!"

  "Annd... cut! That was brilliant, Erik. Yvonne my darling, you excelled yourself. Now, everyone take five."

  "Autograph, is it?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Solomon Ravne said.

  "Autograph," Erik Pakora repeated. "No, please don't worry, there's no reason to be nervous."

  "Oh, I assure you there is..."

  Pakora looked at him, sensing an audience. "Do you know, you're right. It isn't safe here."

  "Not safe?"

  Pakora brushed back his hair with his hand. "I daren't tell you some of the things we've seen in these places. Scared Witless, my arse!" Pakora leaned forward conspiratorially and said quietly, "I'll let you in on a little secret. Behind the scenes we call this show Scared Shitless."

  Ravne stared at him blankly for a moment. He did not have time for this.

  "Forgive me, but we are talking here are we not of a wholly fabricated, stage-managed pantomime involving self-induced panic attacks, cheap red-eye camerawork and the liberal use of torchlight on faces? A crass and commercial exploitation of the spirit world suggested in its terrifying entirety by a hidden production assistant called Bambi rapping occasionally on her hollow head?"

  "Er-"

  "A series of wailing moans that have far less to do with stranded souls than the fact that this week you have been scheduled against Big Brother. In short, a vacuous filler between advertisements for the relative delights of Choc-o-bran and BowelStop that purports to delve into the unseen but serves only to demonstrate how little you see at all?"

  Pakora faltered. "I'm a world-renowned medium. A psychic conduit between our world and the next. The sensitive's sensitive. I even have other mediums as my clients."

  Ravne stared at him in silence again, and Ness stepped in. The Scotsman narrowed his eyes and loomed menacingly over the television presenter, his broken nose wrinkling as it was assaulted by a sickeningly cloying wave of hair lacquer and aftershave more disturbing than his own ripeness. "Pakora, laddie, I dinna care if Harry Houdini is one of your clients. Yer mind is so weak that if for some inexplicable reason the next world actually wanted to use it as a conduit, there'd be so many spooks n' ghosties comin' through ya, ya'd need yer own congestion charge. Ken what it is that I'm sayin' here?"

&
nbsp; The psychic gulped. "No autograph?"

  "That's right, laddie, no autograph. Now, fook off home. This place isnae a playground."

  "You have your uses," Ravne said, as he and the Scotsman left the media circus behind. His sigh was clearly audible in the now silent corridors, and as he followed his mental map of Motley Hall, he was grateful it took him as far away in the building as could be. The two of them descended a set of stone steps and came across an apparent dead end in the form of a stone wall. But Ravne described a series of arcane symbols on the stone and gradually it faded to expose a thick wooden door. Ness stared at it, begrudgingly impressed, even if he secretly reckoned that it was nowt he couldnae ha' done hisself with a sledgehammer.

  He listened to the screams and agonised wailing that came from beyond. "Tell me agin wha' this place was?"

  "An Elizabethan interrogation pit for offenders against the Accord," Ravne explained. The Accord was a long-standing agreement between the thrones of England and Hell stipulating sorcery could not be used within the bounds of the City of London. "In military terms, a black site."

  "Extraordinary rendition - only by broomstick," Ness said, smiling. "The poor bastards."

  "Poorer than you know. The torture regime here was maintained thaumaturgically, looped to return the offenders from death perpetually. Though the pit was eventually decommissioned the torture-"

  "Ne'er stopped," Ness guessed, cringing. "Well, no sense in lettin' 'em back on the streets."

  Ness began to move forward but Ravne pulled him back. "Wait," he said. "The loop manifests in cycles, depending on the Infernal Tides." Out of his jacket Ravne pulled a large gold pocket watch and thumbed it open. It showed a face inscribed not with numbers but with ideographs of the moon in various phases of its lunar cycle. A separate ideograph of a flaring sun was inscribed in the centre of the face, and waving lines divided the remainder into sections marked Veil of the Abyss, Veil of Paroketh - and Death. "Gehanna and Sheol pass from conjunction, and Yuggoth is descendant. The tides are turning," Ravne said. "There. It should be quiet now."

  As he spoke, the screams and moaning subsided. Ravne and Ness stepped through the door and into a man-made hell. Every conceivable instrument of torture, from racks to iron maidens to presses, was present in the hidden room, and each device held the severely mutilated naked body of a man or woman: dead, but only for the moment.

  "Ah still donnae ken what all o' this hastae do wi' yer lamp," Ness said casually.

  Ravne lifted the Lamp of Alhazred, studying the tool. It was an antique storm lamp affair with an inset trapezohedron lens. "The body fluids for the oil needed to generate Wyrd Light can only be sourced from the cursed or the enthralled," he said.

  Ness stared at him. "Body fluids..." the Scot repeated.

  "Don't worry, Mr Ness, I do not expect you to be hands-on. I wish only that you ensure I am not disturbed. The fluids can be quite affecting if charged by emotion or other infl-"

  "Hang on a wee mo," Ness said. "Are ya tellin' me ya brung me all this way to act as ya bleedin' doorman?"

  "Trust me, had I another choice of companion, I would have taken it. However, Dr Brand would have proven far too squeamish, Mr Verse pious and our demonic friend... well, need I say more? As for the good Miss Chapter, she considers these ingredients definite R-rated material, and would find my extraction process quite repugnant."

  "An' wha' kin' 'o extraction process we talkin' aboo-?" Ness began, and then span swiftly away. Och, no, this was Ravne - he shoulda known. This was gonna be disgustin'. There was no way he was gonna watch this...

  In fact, bollocks to this bastard. He needed a wazz, anyway...

  Failing to notice Ness's departure, Ravne slung his clothes aside and anointed himself with oil, then drew various protective symbols on his legs, arms, chest and forehead. He drew a red pentacle around his navel, but left it partly incomplete - preferring, as he always did, to let a bit of the badness in. That done, he set to work. "Can you imagine the kind of terrors that manifest in the psyche after years of torment in utter blackness, my friend? The kind of fear the terrors create? The fear becomes a physical thing, a quite unique and potent juice that settles in the-"

  There was a high-pitched scream from behind him and Solomon Ravne span, his gaze dark. Erik and Yvonne stood in the doorway. That was bad enough for Ravne but as Yvonne attempted to quieten Erik down a brilliant white light, a screeching pulse of energy scythed unexpectedly through the pit, and although it was gone as quickly as it came, it ruined his day completely.

  Because the pulse had affected the juices. And somehow the juices had got on Erik and Yvonne.

  They did what they did, the presenters spasming and juddering as they became transformed into the physical manifestation of the terrors out of the prisoners' psyches. Over the space of a clearly agonising twenty seconds clothes tore away, flesh split, and with a loud cracking sound muscles and bones reset themselves to cater to this new form.

  Pakora stomped towards him, tentacles and other bits lashing ahead menacingly. Two toothed holes where his eyes had been dilated and began to emit a piercing shriek. Feeling, meanwhile, distended breasts swinging beneath her like bombs, clacked menacingly across the ceiling, nipples dripping a green, steaming goo that burned tiny craters into the floor.

  Ravne shook his head and smiled. Monsters from the Id. Honestly, you couldn't make them up.

  Behind his stalkers Ness reappeared, tugging up his fly and ignoring Ravne's look suggesting this was all his fault. "Ah go for a piss and you end up in the shit?"

  "An unexpected complication," Ravne said. "But we need to deal with this quickly."

  "No worries." Ness pulled an automatic shotgun from a deep pocket in his combats and chambered two cartridges with a dull kchak-chak. "In fact, it'll be a pleasure."

  "No," Ravne said. "I don't think Ethan Kostabi would be pleased if you shot two of the nation's favourite television stars. Besides, it's only a case of material possession. We can handle this the traditional way."

  "The Merrin Ritual?"

  Ravne shook his head. "I believe the pulse was Earth-based energy, so I thought the other one."

  "Ahh, shite. How didda know yer was gonner say that."

  "It's the obvious choice. The two of them need to be deprived of any contact with the ground."

  "Ah ken that, yer wee bastard. It just bloody hurts!"

  Ravne seemed unmoved by the Scotsman's protests and began to chant to himself. "I will require a little time to build the mantra. Please ensure I am not disturbed this time."

  Ness sighed. "Aye," he said begrudgingly, "all reet." But again - what was it with these fools? - it proved to be easier said than done.

  "This," a voice boomed suddenly, "this is abso-bleeding-lutely fantastic." Ness cursed and turned to see the director and the PA had located the hidden pit, too. When the latter saw what it held she at least had the decency to soil herself and cower in a corner, but the director aimed his videocam on the stalkers, oblivious to the danger they presented. "Erik and Yvonne have got to see this!" he declared, and thrust his head back into the corridor. "Erik!" he shouted. "Yvonne!"

  "Are you some kinda bleedin' moron?" Mikey Ness said disbelievingly. "Get ya fat arse outta here, NOW!"

  But it was too late. Erik and Yvonne revolved their heads one hundred and eighty degrees in the direction of the noisy new arrival, and hissed in unison. Then Yvonne sprang, pinning the director beneath her and dissolving his face away with her goo. As he gurgled his last breaths, she swept a talon across chest and groin, stripping off flesh as if it were rice paper until all that remained was a twitching anatomist's dummy. Done, Yvonne plucked the eviscerated body beneath her arm and sprang back to the ceiling, clacked to where Ness stood, and dropped the steaming heap at his feet.

  "Here's one I flayed earlier," she snarled.

  Gah - it was Blue Peter, Ness thought. But the Scot didn't dwell on it. The bitch had taken her first blood and there was no way it was going to stop
there. Ignoring Ravne's instructions, he discharged both barrels of the automatic shotgun straight into her chest, slamming her through the air and across the room. Yvonne hit the opposite wall then scrabbled for purchase as Ness reloaded with a twirl and snap of his arm and moved toward her.

  "Gyaah! Aaargh! Oh sweet Jesus, help me," the PA cried, and Ness swore under his breath. He'd almost forgotten about the bint. Ignoring Yvonne for the moment he turned to where Erik was trying to work his way into her hidey-hole and without hesitating fired two cartridges between his legs. Erik howled shrilly. "Ooo, it hadta hurt!" Ness shouted. "If yer wasnae sensitive afore, yer wee lacquered ponce, yer is now."

  "I said no shots fired," Ravne said. It was strange but his voice came at the same time that his mantra continued, almost as if the mantra had taken on life of its own.

  "Then I siggest yer get yer arse inta gear. If ye hadne noticed, it's gotten a tad personal over here."

  "I'm ready," Ravne announced. "Right, make for the attics and-"

  "Yeah, yeah," Ness said resignedly. "Yeah, ah know." Not that they needed any encouragement to pursue him, Ness whistled at the buckshot-riddled Erik and Yvonne anyway, and raced out of the pit. Behind him, Ravne sighed, donned his clothes and strolled wearily out of the pit in his wake. The full morning had become a mess that would need to be cleared up later but now he had to concentrate on retaining the mantra induced invocation in his head... for no less a reason that Michael Ness's life depended on it.

  Ravne you're a dead man, Ness thought, bursting into the attic of the old mansion and immediately having to roll sideways to escape the slashing claws of Erik and Yvonne. A freakin' dead man.

  The possessed presenters followed him into the confined space, grins spreading on their faces as they appeared to have Ness backed against a wall. It was not the wall, however, that concerned the Scot - it was what lay opposite.

  First he wants me as a doorman, then the tosser gets naked in front of me, then manages to spring the terrible twins out of nowhere. And now... now this.