Hell on Earth

by Mike Wild

  What she found odder was how much it hurt when Morla rammed her into the attic wall. And again when she pummelled her head against the floor.

  That much power in a vampire? It seemed impossible. But impossible or not, it seemed she had the fight of her life on her hands.

  Vampire and she-demon went for each other with claws, talons, fists, feet, and their very souls, Baarish-Shammon caught off guard more than once by the sheer strength, agility and speed of the thing that called itself Morla. She remained Baarish-Shammon, though, and that very fact made her far from ineffectual as the battle unfolded. Everything the vampire gave, she returned, twice-fold whenever she could, and apart from one slip that caused her to land semi-stunned at Ravne's feet - "She's only a fang; you can handle her," - she managed eventually to turn the tide her way. A combination of energy blasts, hell-fire surges and plain-old razor-slashing viciousness at last wore the sire down. Morla was driven back to the rear wall of the attic and Baarish-Shammon pinned her against the brickwork.

  But even while the two struggled there face to face, foetid breath mingling with hot exhalations, the she-demon could sense the vampire's strength slowly returning. This wasn't right. Vampires were simply not this powerful. There had to be something enabling her to do this that she hadn't seen.

  Morla began to laugh coldly. As she did there was the briefest flash of something from within her leathery body.

  That was it.

  Such power it held, Morla had said.

  That much power in a vampire, she herself had thought?

  Baarish-Shammon jammed her arm across Morla's neck, holding her a second longer.

  [Sire of the nest or not, I have to ask myself how it is that you can withstand me?] she asked. She pressed hard, prompting a choke. [How is it, Morla?] The sire struggled in the demon's grip. [It wouldn't be anything to do with the artefact - where you hide it?]

  Baarish-Shammon slashed suddenly, unexpectedly, and sliced Morla open from pubis to collarbone in a single fluid move. The vampire jerked in shock and disbelief, and her flesh parted. Her insides poured slowly onto the floor between them, a cold stinking mass of necrotic intestine and digestive tract, and lumps of age-old coagulated blood that looked like tarmacadam. There was little else - the major organs of anyone made undead atrophied to virtually nothing soon after siring, leaving only empty space.

  Baarish-Shammon curled her nose as the viscera plopped at her feet. [Whooh. You never heard of positive bacteria, girl?] As equally suddenly as she had attacked, she plunged a hand deep inside the slowly shuddering vampire, prompting an agonised gasp as she felt around. With a slurp of suction she pulled something free from inside her ribcage. The gore-damp, darkly glistening object was about the size and shape of the head of an ancient weapon - a cudgel, perhaps, or a morning star. Baarish-Shammon knew full well it was neither but she simply could not resist.

  She hefted the object in front of Morla's eyes, allowing the vampire to regard it dully. [What's a nice mace like this doing in a girl like you?]

  Morla's expression remained frozen in that look of utter disbelief. Her great fanged maw turning rictal and dripping saliva she exhaled lengthily, jerkily and infinitely slowly, the death-rattle of a thing that believed it would never die. Her head dipped down towards the demoness, coming to rest almost gently on a shoulder, as if she were hoping for a comforting pat of a hand. There was no pat. Instead the she-demon clamped the sire's head in both hands, snapped it through a hundred and eighty degrees, and ripped it from her body, throwing it aside with a look of disdain.

  Solomon Ravne picked his way through the rubble of the attic. He had to admit he been expecting a Sonderkommando Thule presence and wondered why there was none. While he pondered this, Baarish-Shammon took Jenny Simmons's form once more. "Get what you came here for?" he asked her.

  "Guess so," Jenny said, studying the artefact. "Doesn't look like much to me." She leaned close to Ravne, studied his wounds. "You, by the way, look like shit. But I reckon it's nothing that a good bloodbath wouldn't cure."

  Ravne chose to ignore the side comment, even if it was obvious the she-demon had been prying into his affairs. It was something he would have to deal with at a later date.

  They had exited the Overnook, and he looked along the coast in the direction of Boswell. The sky over the area was electric and he realised a further ley line pulse was due, possibly the last before the waveform collapsed.

  And then, he wondered? 1944 all over again?

  But he and Simmons had done all that they could for now. Their half of the artefact they'd take to Boswell but the location of the other hung on Brand.

  At this late stage, he could only hope that the good doctor would come up with something.

  FIFTEEN

  Urp. Rohhh God.

  A disintegrating disc of bile bobbed off on the waves. Everything that was coming up had come up but the damned retching wouldn't stop.

  Jonathan Brand collapsed back on his bench seat in the tiny boat, choosing to ignore the laughter of the two soldiers sharing it, and wiped bitterness from his mouth with his sleeve. Cleaned, he made fists of his bandage-wrapped hands, wincing as the recovering skin stretched and burned anew. For a moment the self-inflicted pain masked the nausea in his gut - his intention - but only for a moment. Although this wasn't the first time he had made this crossing, the dubious cocktail of the previous night's whisky, the petrol stench of the boat's outboard motor, and the claustrophobic gas mask he had been forced to wear since leaving shore - though that had been ripped off in some haste a moment before - had left him in no state to re-grow sea legs. The only saving grace about this trip was that it was almost over.

  The question was: what the hell was he about to get himself into next?

  In the mist ahead, something loomed. A rising of rock that seemed inordinately grey and lonely. The rising gradually resolved itself into a small island, and from somewhere upon it Brand heard a seagull's cry. The cry sounded as sickly as he felt, for a moment reinforcing the rumours about the place it had chosen to rest its weary wings.

  On the subject of which, the soldiers gestured at him to replace his gas mask. Brand shook his head and pointed out the approaching dock. There was no need to continue their little subterfuge now that they were out of the public gaze and in sight of their destination. Somewhat sheepishly, the two of them slipped off their own masks, and breathed gratefully of the sea air.

  The boat hit dock with a hollow clunk and hands that seemed disembodied in the mist reached down to help Brand up onto the quay. He was the only one from the boat to disembark. The soldiers had been his escort on the sea crossing only, and the two did not possess sufficient security clearance to make landfall. Very few people in the defence department, and, indeed, in the upper reaches of the British government itself, did. It was only because of his links with Department Q that Brand himself was granted access.

  The academic flexed his legs on the solid rock, wishing he could enjoy it more. But considering the nature of the phone call that had brought him here, the churning in his guts was eased hardly at all. In fact, he hadn't been so apprehensive of a situation in his life.

  "Dr Brand. Welcome back, sir."

  Brand studied the uniformed NCO with a careful eye. "Thank you, sergeant. I wish I could say that it was a pleasure." He paused. "Is, er, everything all right here?"

  "Of course, sir," the sergeant said with a look of surprise, and for a moment Brand was relieved. But then as he was guided along a short path, the sergeant added with a smile, "Mr Magister is expecting you."

  Brand's stomach lurched anew, but he didn't let it show. There it was again, just like the phone call. Mr Magister is expecting you. The way they said it, it made him sound like the officer-in-charge here, whereas in fact nothing could be more diametrically opposed to the truth.

  Smallpox Island sat thirty-five miles off the rugged coast of north-west Scotland, a mile-and-a-half-wide lump of inhospitable rock in the middle of nowhere. Once it ha
d had another name, but that, along with the crofter community who lived there, was forgotten and gone. For in the 1950s, a number of shadowy figures working in the realm of national security expressed an interest in its isolated setting for reasons unusual even for them. They wanted to open a guesthouse. A rather special guesthouse for a rather special guest. So special, in fact, that it necessitated them condemning the island to death.

  They could have paid the crofters to move away, of course, but the consensus was that this would only arouse unwanted curiosity. What they needed was something that would ensure not only the non-return of the crofters but dissuade anybody from visiting the island at all. And so, in a tactic precursing that used by the US army's Mayflower Project in the Seventies, the island was declared to be lethally contaminated. While Wyoming was made safe after a few days, however, Smallpox Island remained tainted five decades later.

  It would remain so. For as long as its special guest remained alive.

  It wasn't for nothing that Michael Magister had been called the most dangerous man on Earth.

  "I'll leave you here, sir," the sergeant said. "Major Briggs will meet you below."

  Brand nodded. He was standing outside Smallpox Island's only structure of note, a brick and wood affair that appeared to be half keep, half bird-watching hide. Ostensibly its function was that of a contamination research station, but actually it was nothing more than set dressing. As Brand had been informed on his previous visit, the real show here was a hundred feet underground, solidly anchored in the bedrock and designed to withstand any assault up to and including a nuclear strike.

  To put it in plain terms, he was standing on a concrete coffin inside which Michael Magister had spent half this century effectively buried alive.

  And Brand fervently hoped that he wasn't about to exhume a nightmare.

  Brand stepped into the elevator inside the fake station, slammed the cage doors and felt his guts lurch once more as the thing began its clattering hundred-foot descent. He swallowed hard as it travelled through intermediate levels packed with toxic waste primed to be dumped below in the case of a security compromise. This, he knew, was the point of no return. But he knew also that he had to get a grip. If, as he suspected, Magister had somehow taken control of his containment facility why had these defences not been tripped? Why was it that Briggs and his soldiers were still alive? And most confusingly of all - why the bloody hell was Michael Magister still here?

  It was a surreal situation.

  And Glenn Miller did nothing to put his mind at ease.

  Usually utterly silent down in these artificial depths, the strains of Moonlight Serenade already strayed into the shaft as the elevator descended the last few feet, and became louder as it jarred to a halt and Brand slid open the cage doors. As expected, Major Briggs, the facility's CO, waited to greet him, but it was obvious immediately that he was not himself. With Magister possibly free, Brand had been prepared for anything up to and including wholesale slaughter, but the sight of a senior SAS officer grinning at him inanely halted him in his tracks. He looked slowly around, saw that the major was not the only one so afflicted. All the other soldiers in the reception area were simply standing around, bobbing their heads to the music and... grinning.

  Seeing them like this was somehow a lot worse than being greeted by their bloody remains.

  The poor bastards. Magister had them and they knew it. They might all be grinning like idiots but their terror was evident in their eyes.

  Good God, Magister, what are you up to?

  Brand walked slowly over to Briggs, attempting as best he could to ignore the frozen grins, the tears, the looks pleading help us. Had he been capable of stopping this mental rape he would not have hesitated, but the simple fact was that if Michael Magister was in control there was nothing he could do.

  "Dr Brand. It's good to see you again."

  "Major Briggs," Brand acknowledged. He studied the officer. Though clearly allowed more freedom than his men, Briggs's liberty was questionable to be sure. The major hadn't quite greeted him as Goktor Grand but he may as well have done. That same semi-rictal expression marked him as Michael Magister's ventriloquist dummy, nothing more.

  "Mr Magister is-"

  "Expecting me," Brand said wearily. "Yes, I know."

  The major swept out a hand ostentatiously, like Joel Grey acting the Cabaret MC. "Then if you'd be good enough to step this way?"

  "A moment, Briggs," Brand said. He had to know how far this charade extended, whether he could bank on any help at all. He glanced up at the TK Counters on the reception wall. "You told me on the phone that there had been a minor blip on the counters? Have you recorded any unusual activity since?"

  The major looked up, seemingly confused by the question, and shook his head. "Absolutely none, old boy. As you can see, everything is normal."

  Normal, Brand thought bleakly. The TK counters were designed to keep a twenty-four hour check on Michael Magister's telekinetic output and all the personnel in the facility had standing orders to blow his brains out if the needles rose higher than five. And right now they twitched between twelve and fifteen.

  That clinches it, Brand thought. I'm in this alone.

  For a moment he considered just turning around, simply returning to the elevator, jumping back in the boat and getting the hell out of there. But where would that leave him and Boswell? Like it or not, Magister was tied into this whole affair, and that meant he had answers he needed. Besides - a small crumb of comfort, he knew - if Michael Magister had access to his full abilities and had wanted him dead, then he'd be dead already.

  Maybe.

  Taking a deep breath, Brand nodded to the major and followed him along the corridor he indicated. Here too, as well as down every side passage they passed, soldiers simply stood where they were and grinned. Even those whose bladders or bowels had reached their limit of endurance.

  And all the time, Glenn Miller. Duh-de-duh-derr, de-duh-derrr, de-duh-derr, de-de-dahh-dahh...

  It was grotesque. Brand had seen enough.

  Magister, he thought, enraged. Where the hell are you, you bastard.

  "Right here, Dr Brand," a voice said. "And I should be most grateful if you would keep your thoughts down. I'm trying to concentrate."

  Brand span to his left and found himself facing Major Briggs's office. Stupidly, perhaps, he had expected to be led to Magister's cells, though he should have realised he would have been ensconced somewhere more befitting his current station.

  He stepped into the room where Michael Magister sat - well, Magisterially - behind the facility commander's desk, wreathed in grey-blue curls of smoke from a cigarette he was obviously relishing and looking for all the world like some twisted version of Noël Coward. Garbed in filthy white trousers and a stained vest, he was an aged and frail figure, hair wispy and almost gone, flesh mottled with brown liver spots as ubiquitous as plague. This little man would have slipped down a grid had he turned sideways, but his fragile appearance had nothing to do with his true power. To see that, all you had to do was stare into his eyes.

  "Magister, release the soldiers," Brand said. "This is an abomination. Worse than Abu Ghraib."

  "Forgive me, doctor, but where?" Magister said. He did not pursue the question when Brand stayed silent, but his temples throbbed slightly. "Ah," he said, and motioned to the chair opposite him. "As fascinating as that is, we have matters that require discussion. Please, sit."

  Brand stared at the chair and did so. Frankly, he knew he didn't have any choice. "Nice trick," he said, indicating the TK counter on the office wall.

  Magister looked up and Brand took the chance to study how the veins on his brow, temples and neck bulged and pulsed like fat worms under the flesh. If Magister was controlling smallpox in addition to the ley lines then the amount of mental energy he was expending must have been immense. But his concentration did not stop him smiling. "A loop-hole in security so stupid it astounds me, Dr Brand. An instant was all I needed to instil an
impression that all the TK counter readings were lower than they were. A sleight of mind so quick that the fools' synapses barely registered it. By then, of course, it was too late. I had them and could do what I needed to do."

  "The ley lines," Brand said. "I have to admit, you've gotten better since Cromm Cruach."

  Magister tutted. "I told you last time, Dr Brand. The longer they keep me here, the more I learn. For example, for the last few months part of me has inhabited the self-destruct protocol of this facility, my psychokinetics the only thing holding back the trip circuits on the toxic waste dumps - even as I slept. A necessary exercise to prepare me for the rigours of recent days but one also quite gratifying, knowing I could reduce the personnel to a primordial soup any time I wished. If necessary, of course."

  Brand shifted uneasily in his chair, as cold as ice. Michael Magister might don the manners of a gentleman but this, if he needed any, was further proof that beneath their facade he was as insane as they made them. "Not necessary," he said. "I am here only to find out what's going on. I know you were in Boswell in 1944, Michael."

  "I'm impressed. Nestor and I devoted much time and effort to erasing records of that calamitous night. The memories of witnesses in some cases, and over time of anyone whose knowledge of events could have proven embarrassing to us."

  Brand thought of Folkes, Templar, Pelham - all the others he had to tried to question. "The boy recovered. That was somewhat lax of you."

  Surprisingly, Magister smiled warmly. "Hardly. Actually, I've spent a good many years hoping the child would. But that is excellent news. Truly excellent."

  "Excellent? You tried to murder him. You did murder his mother. Christ, Magister, you buried half a town alive. They could have been saved."