Then Hell Followed (Journeyman Book 5)

by Golden Czermak

  “We have company,” Gage groaned, patting himself off while continuing to move. Demons had invaded the streets of Rennes-le-Château.

  Ty trailed behind him but Marcus turned around, snagging three splintered pieces of wood from the debris. Using his magic, he transmuted them into short iron blades.

  “Hey guys!” he called, tossing each of them an improvised knife. “These should help. Hopefully they’ll last until we get to the ship.”

  Ty took his with a smile.

  “Hopefully they’ll work like the real thing, too,” he said optimistically.

  Gage was just confused.

  “Where’d ya get these from?”

  “I’ll fill you in later, big guy,” Marcus replied, slapping him on the arm. “For now, we got a ship to head to.”

  The trio stormed out of what was left of the church and made their way south along Grand Rue. Turning right, they passed the bookstore which was filled with smoke and sparks, all the books aflame.

  With a roar, a smoldering body dove out of the gloom and tackled Marcus, sending him shoulder first into the hard pavement. Ahead, a large townsman charged toward Ty and he pulled his makeshift blade while a pair of strong arms latched onto Gage, constricting his chest from behind.

  Marcus groaned in pain while the smell of burned skin taunted him. Rolling over to his side, he caught the silver blur of a magazine rack whooshing toward his head. Marcus dodged it just in time and the metal struck against the pavement, bending with a resounding clang.

  Meanwhile, Gage shoved the back of his head into the face of his attacker. Spinning, he brandished his iron spike and saw the formerly kind face of the restaurateur Durand, now perverted by evil – his wrinkles dark and deep chasms around a pair of burning red eyes. The old man lunged with a shriek and Gage leapt right at him. Iron sunk into flesh and there was a terrible smell of sulfur.

  “Marcus! These work like a charm!” Gage yelled, thrusting a boot into Durand’s thigh.

  Marcus didn't hear, wrath filling his heart. He stood firm and grasped the stand as it came his way again; the impact stung mercilessly, but he was able to yank it from his assailant’s calloused grip. Rearing back, Marcus swung, bashing it across the possessed man’s head with so much pent up rage that he dented the side of his skull. The burned demon staggered and Marcus bounded toward him to finish the job.

  Ty avoided his aggressor's advance, the hefty man barreling past with surprising speed. Before he could even breathe, the demon had looped back with an unnatural quickness, again speeding toward him. Ty was ready though, shoving his blade at a well-timed moment and striking the demon on the left side.

  An intense heat surged in Ty’s hands, his nose accosted by more sulfur which wrenched his stomach as the man fell, clenching his own bleeding side in agony.

  Durand jerked the iron spike out of his chest. It scalded his grip before he tossed it away. Skipping and clanging, it slid out of reach and the old man bashed his body against Gage while he was distracted, lifting him off his feet for a short while before throwing him to the ground.

  Durand dropped to his knees, straddling Gage while ensnaring the Journeyman’s neck. Gage could feel the old man’s freakish grip tighten and he couldn't breathe, his neck collapsing and his vision fuzzy. He started slipping away, two shapes stepping up to either side of Durand’s blurred form.

  It was Ty and Marcus, each hoisting their blades above them then jamming them into Durand’s skull. There was a loud crunch and blood gushed out as the iron transformed back into wood.

  “Goddammit!” Gage shouted as the hold on his neck loosened, raging tears glinting in his eyes as Durand’s body slumped over to the side. “We gotta stop these fuckers, guys! They can’t be allowed to do this to everyone!”

  Black smoke poured out of Durand, joining that which flowed from the other two bodies. It all spread like a fog across the ground.

  “Regna terrae…” Marcus began, an arm outstretched as he tried to exorcise them back to Hell.

  “Marcus, don’t worry about it,” Ty snapped, already moving with Gage. “There's no time.”

  Scoffing as the three demons scuttled away in their smoky forms, Marcus joined his brother, dashing behind a determined Gage who was pressing on toward the plaza.

  “Come on!” he shouted, heart pounding in his chest as they rounded the narrow street, heading left toward their destination. “This way! It’s not far now!”

  Gage stopped dead in his tracks, the words he shouted having barely left his lips, which hung open as he looked across the vista.

  A sudden dread came over them all. Demons were clawing their way up the mountainside, swarming the small town’s streets like roaches. There were so many they couldn't be counted, the air filling with shrill cries and the clamor of feet hitting pavement – at first walking, then stampeding towards them. Death was approaching in an ever tightening circle and Marcus despaired, his hands sweaty and forehead damp.

  We were so close to saving you, J! I'm so sorry…

  Yet instead of gnashing teeth or hands tearing them asunder, a barrage of bullets and rune stones rained from above, sending the horde into a terrified frenzy. Huge shadows were cast across the pavement and a roar like a wave crashed over the group.

  Two men had appeared out of thin air in front of them, dressed in dark uniforms, one armed to the teeth with advanced weaponry and gadgets.

  It was Gabriel, flashing those gleaming teeth of his toward Gage while Nathaniel sprinted over to Marcus and Ty, checking that they were okay.

  “Glad to see ya!” Gabriel beamed as he tossed Gage a spare pistol. “Iron hollow points.”

  “Thanks!” Gage said. “How'd ya get out here to us all alone?”

  “Oh, we aren't alone,” Gabriel smirked. “Now, let’s clear a path to your ship.”

  The Iliad roared by and fired a blast of concentrated light, lancing through swaths of demonic bodies while the Homer swooped in also, her crew lobbing runes and firing more bullets as she danced overhead.

  Gabriel raised his weapon alongside Gage and their combined firepower tore through over a dozen red-eyes. Casually, Gabriel stepped forward dropping his spent magazine and popping in a fresh one before he had taken two more steps.

  The brothers fell in behind the two men as Nathaniel watched their backs. A couple demons advanced on the fleeing group and in a flash of fire and ice Nathaniel felled them, their bodies bursting into fragments.

  Rushing ahead, the team made it to the plaza, immediately taking up position in the center of it.

  There was a rustle to the left just before Gage called Om and he shot a stern glance in that direction. His eyes softened at the sight of a boy – the same one that had greeted them upon landing – emerging from a loose pile of stone in the corner. He just stared at them from frightened eyes with dirty tears streaming down each cheek. Held tightly in his little bruised hands was a pack of cookies from the local shop.

  “Heya lil’ man,” Gage said softly, reaching out for him invitingly. “Remember me?”

  The boy likely didn't understand the words, but recognized the gesture, shuffling in his tiny shoes over to Gage’s large hand which gently closed on his shoulder once he was close enough.

  Gage wept, as it reminded him not only of his first encounter with Death, but of all things impacted by the Noctis and their play for power.

  “Don't worry,” Gabriel muttered, seeing the look in Gage's eyes and feeling it in his heart. “They'll pay for everything they've done.”

  “Not soon enough if you ask me,” said Marcus under his breath, Ty patting him on the back.

  Gage sniffed and wiped away some snot, calling up to the ship, “Om, we’re ready to get out of here…”

  The six of them were yanked up into the Odyssey, appearing in the forecastle where they watched the countryside roll beneath them as the ship engaged her engines.

  Going out on deck, Gage headed to the rails and looked aft as the new ships fell in behind them, their g
raceful lines similar, yet more modern than the Odyssey. Portions of their sleek hulls rolled back and with a salvo like a thousand stars falling from the heavens, Journeyman justice rained down upon the hell spawn.

  “That ain’t somethin’ ya see everyday,” Gage said in awe, the others joining him as the once sleepy town blazed in ruin.

  There was no keeping this secret for much longer; the entire world was on the brink of finding out that all of their nightmares exist.

  Gage then felt something tap his hand and he looked down, feeling an instant swell of hope. The little boy was beside him, last of his cookies raised high, offering to share.

  THE DAY WAS shifting toward twilight, the cloud-filled sky turning an awe-inspiring shade of indigo as it mingled with the departing warmth to the west.

  Your vessel has been quieted. I am surprised a grand demon such as yourself could not do this simplest of tasks.

  Death’s words continued to plague Dajjal, spreading like an infection in his chest. In one of his favorite suits, perched atop the decorative rails around the manor’s roof, he dangled his gray trousers and dress shoes off the edge as the noxious words repeated again for the thousandth time.

  Dajjal looked down past his black tie and red shirt, thinking it would be so easy to slip off and end it all by falling those three quick stories to the pavement below.

  If only it were so easy. As a demon, his essence would still survive and even if Wilson’s body broke, the Crown would do its part to keep his flesh intact. That option off the table, Dajjal’s eyes traced the manicured green lines of the grass.

  You are on a path of destruction… more words rang out; Death insistent.

  Dajjal tried to ignore it, his red gaze following the long, straight driveway that stretched to the south.

  Shortsighted and blinded by your hatred and greed…

  Seeing the stony arch of the entrance gate and a lush line of trees behind it, Dajjal looked back up to the darkening sky and found it a grim reflection of his ever-dimming mood.

  Nothing but selfishness. Dead to feelings other than fear and rage…

  “ENOUGH!” Dajjal cried, his voice echoing into the coming night, sending a flock of starlings to flight. “Enough…”

  He thrust his head into his rough palms, bouncing between the urge to cry and the urge to destroy. A terrible battle was waging within, yanking from one side to the other, threatening to utterly ruin him. What made it all worse was Wilson was nowhere to be found; this all rested firmly on the demon’s own smoky shoulders.

  It was in the quiet, prior to the crickets chirping, that Dajjal had an epiphany. Spreading his fingers wide, he looked through them, mumbling, “If Death and the other reapers have taken to playing a more active role in this, surely angels are not that far behind. That is, if they aren't already here.”

  A sudden urgency fell upon him and he climbed to the top of the railing. Taking a deep breath of the crisp air he leapt off, falling then vanishing just before hitting the ground…

  … reappearing inside the bustling command center with a colossal boom.

  The demons were shaken out of their busy work by the noise and edgy due to the expression Dajjal bore. It was a blend of desire – for what they didn't know – that clung to his fiery eyes and madness, evidenced by a brow beaded with anxious sweat.

  Valefar and Flauros had been engaged in a hushed discussion when they looked his way, eyes passing cautiously past Dajjal’s as he spoke to a lesser at his immediate left.

  “Where is Morax?” Dajjal demanded, and the woman cowered at the forcefulness of his question.

  “He… is down in the sub-levels, my Lord.”

  “Of course he is, busily working on my grand plan,” answered Dajjal, suddenly shifting to a friendlier tone.

  On the far wall he noticed a digital map of the world, a grid of intersecting lines forming a triangular grid. In front of it was a thin wisp of a man trying to hide tiny gaps in the pattern, but he was too narrow.

  “You there!” Dajjal hissed. “What is the meaning of THIS?”

  The man, now sniveling, bent over as Dajjal stomped over to the map, so close that his face was reflected in the screen’s shiny surface. With his breath fogging up the display, Dajjal tapped the first gap he saw.

  “Th… those are ley lines, Your Grace,” the lesser answered, flinching with each of Dajjal’s quick knocks.

  “I know what THEY are, you idiot!” His voice inched higher, growing more callous. “Why are the lines broken here, in Karachi and over there in…”

  “Hawaii?”

  The demon immediately shrank away, afraid to look up after his rude interruption.

  “Yes… thank you. Now speak.”

  “It's b-because of the Journeymen, my Lord. T-they have been storming our operations in those areas, causing…”

  “EXCUSES!” Dajjal spat, serpent-like in his anger. His eyes were no different, narrow and dreadful. “Fix it… NOW!”

  The demon bowed again, fleeing the room while he could.

  “Understood,” he huffed, just as the door closed behind him.

  It felt as if everyone were looking at him and a faint ring began in Dajjal’s ears. The noises of the command center seemed to get louder, making everything worse. The walls felt like they were closing in and pressure pounded mercilessly from his temples.

  “Damn you, reaper,” Dajjal whispered in disgust.

  The words Death had spouted lingered on far longer than Dajjal had expected, those festering comments eating away at his core, their chill sting building like a pebble rolling down a snowy mountaintop to become a monstrous snowball.

  Dajjal surveyed the room and found himself envious watching his minions performing their duties while in full control of their vessels. He needed to find space and fresher air to breathe.

  Moving to depart, he was regretfully stopped before taking his first step. Dajjal rolled his eyes.

  “My…Lord,” another lesser murmured as he approached, his inflections blaring that something was amiss. With each step he stooped lower to grovel, yet was surprisingly still on his feet by the time he made it over to Dajjal.

  The Great Demon greeted him with eyes snapped shut, attempting to calm an overbearing desire for blood.

  It wasn't working.

  “My Lord, it’s about Gage…”

  Dajjal’s eyes shot open before the demon had even finished mentioning the named.

  “What did you just say?” Dajjal asked, fury burning inside.

  “G-Gage Crosse, my Lord.” The demon was quaking, gazing directly to the floor. “H-he has escaped…”

  Dajjal pinched his shoulders together and held it, letting out a soft moan.

  “I know there is more. Continue.”

  The lesser shook his head; if he could urinate, there would already be a steaming puddle on the floor.

  “I. Said. Continue,” Dajjal commanded, his voice rising even higher.

  Scrunching his face, the cringing demon spoke between whimpering puffs, “Y-your troops, my Lord. The new Journeyman airships arrived…”

  Dajjal sent a threadlike glare toward Flauros and there was a lengthy silence, far too long for anything good to arrive at the end of it.

  “And they did what?” he finally asked.

  “They are gone, obliterated as Gage himself was rescued.”

  Dajjal’s face contorted and it looked as if he were crying, or screaming, but there was no sound other than a sharp intake of breath. He became enraged, the emotions breaking free without limit or control.

  In a frenzy, hellfire whipped around the room, scorching instruments, artwork, furniture, and bodies without bias. Screams rose like smoke to fill the room and the demon closest to Dajjal was the first victim, smashing on the floor dead and aflame. Soon he was joined by another, and another, then many more as the orange light signaled death to anyone it fell upon.

  A horrified Flauros and Valefar sped toward the door, desperate to escape the bloodshed, heaving dis
traught and trembling lessers out of the way in desperate acts of self-preservation. They did not make it, Dajjal seeing them, snapping his fingers and causing them to erupt like water balloons, as did all of the rest, alive or dead.

  Instantly, the screams died and it was shockingly quiet.

  Taking in gulps of the hot, rancid air that now filled the devastated command center, a blood smattered Dajjal collapsed to his knees.

  “My Lord?” came a confident voice from the entrance, missing its once ornate double doors, since rendered to ash.

  Dajjal did not move, calm beginning to take hold.

  “Morax,” he said lightly, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Morax seemed unbothered by the massacre surrounding him, casually strutting into the room with his head held high.

  “All the preliminary research is finished,” he said, “and we are now able to start proper preparations for our Lord’s grand revelation in Paris.”

  Dajjal was elated, but stayed outwardly silent.

  Morax cocked his shriveled neck to one side, having reached his ruler.

  “I assumed my Lord would be pleased by this news?”

  “Do not mistake my silence for displeasure,” Dajjal chided hollowly.

  “No, of course not, Your Grace.”

  Dajjal at last appraised the death around him for himself. He had lost control again, the results plastered on everything in the room – including himself.

  “This is not the way of a true leader,” Dajjal muttered, “but of a tyrannical madman.”

  Morax regarded Dajjal and for the briefest moment he looked a stranger. A human could have been sitting there before him on his knees, Dajjal’s vessel peering out from a maroon-caked face with his piercing blue eyes.

  “If I may disagree? Our Lord is a great leader and this demonstration of his majesty will not only win the day, but seal his name in the annals of all time.”

  “That is quite the promise,” Dajjal replied, though convinced of its truth.

  “A promise that shall be met with success,” said Morax, extending a wizened hand.