Hellboy

by Yvonne Navarro

  “Smuggled into this country by an overzealous curator,” Broom continued impassively. “The statue, however, was hollow.”

  “Ah.” Hellboy nodded. “A reliquary.”

  “A prison,” Broom corrected. “The Vatican deemed its contents dangerous enough to include it on the List of Avignon…of which we hold a copy.”

  Hellboy looked again into the munitions case. There were shells of all sizes and shapes, and he dug a big hand into the contents, then selected a full clip of bullets and a speed loader. “Would you look at these babies?” His straight line of a mouth widened into a ferocious grin. “Made ’em myself,” he said proudly. “Holy water, silver shavings, white oak. The works.”

  In front of him, Abe shuddered and pulled his hand away from the door. In a low voice, he said, “Behind this door…a dark entity. Evil, ancient. Hungry.” Abe turned back, then spotted a few leather-bound volumes of ancient magic that another agent had brought on Broom’s orders.

  Hellboy shrugged carelessly. “Oh well. Lemme go in and say hi.”

  He wrapped his big fingers around both door handles and pulled, then stepped into an unexpected, flickering, amber glow on the other side.

  In here was a whole different world.

  It had been easy to forget the mission on the far side of the doors Hellboy had closed behind him. Out there was a normal world, the same sun-soaked one always filled with people and cops and media, the constant danger of discovery and public exposure that made him always have to hide. The one in here? It was unnaturally dark, tinted mostly by the blue emergency lamps that had powered on to take the place of the regular light fixtures that had been destroyed. The exhibits cases were all crushed, their contents interspersed with the shattered glass and twisted pieces of metal strewn throughout the room; here and there, small piles of what had once been featured items crackled as they burned at floor level, like small campfires lit by hellish Boy Scouts.

  Everything was in shadow but thanks to the fires, nothing was still. The darkness flickered and moved, making inanimate objects like the larger carvings and statues seem like living, twitching things—more than a few times Hellboy jumped as he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. So far, though, it was turning out to be nothing more than fire-fed shadow patterns. The whole thing would have seemed like the temper tantrum of someone…okay, something, the same size as Hellboy, except for a few minor details, like the blood-filled, half-chewed guard boots on the floor, the leather belts with the teeth marks in them, the tattered remains of scarlet-stained uniforms and hats.

  Hellboy eyed them, then wrinkled his nose. He lifted the radio to his mouth and thumbed on the speaker. “Blue,” he whispered into it, “it stinks in here. Like finely aged roadkill.”

  Before Abe could come back with a reply, Hellboy stopped and listened carefully. Was he hearing what he thought he was hearing? Oh yeah—there it was, the sickening sound of snapping bones and hearty chewing. The smell increased and Hellboy scowled and reluctantly sniffed. Stronger—yuck. He sniffed again, then tilted his head up as he finally realized the noise and noshing were coming from overhead.

  A huge, pale creature hung from the ceiling. The thing had powerful arms and hind legs riddled with muscles and thick veins, along with a wicked-looking head covered in tentacles. Its face was mostly hidden in the shadows so Hellboy couldn’t see everything, but he could hear it, all right. There was no mistaking the sound of slow chewing, and he could just see the bottom of the sharp-angled jaws that were shiny with blood.

  Hellboy made a face. “Hey, Stinky,” he called “Kitchen’s closed.”

  The thing overhead seemed like it turned its head toward the sound of Hellboy’s voice, but it wasn’t going to be bothered with him until it was through with its meal. It just kept munching, hanging there without any effort at all.

  “Whatcha having?” Hellboy asked casually. “Six library guards, raw? Plus belts and boots?” He shook his head, trying to sound nonchalant to disguise the fact that he was carefully scoping out what was very shortly going to be the battle zone. “Man, you’re gonna need some heavy fiber to move that out.”

  Abe’s bubbly voice suddenly vibrated through the tiny speaker tucked behind Hellboy’s ear. “Red, I found something.” There was a pause, then Abe continued. “I found a small medieval engraving in one of these books. There’s not much here, but the entity’s name is Sammael, the desolate one, son of Nergal.”

  Hellboy listened to Abe’s voice, never taking his eyes off the creature clinging to the ceiling. As if it had heard its name, Sammael abruptly released his hold and dropped nimbly to the floor a few feet in front of him. Now that the creature was on the same level, Hellboy got treated to a better view of it, including part of its exposed neck. It looked vaguely like a big dog, and Hellboy’s mouth twisted in disgust at the sight of white, slimy skin, cracked like old marble and crisscrossed with blue veins.

  “Hold it,” Hellboy said, although he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Abe or the Sammael beast in front of him. “Hey, Sammy,” he said loudly. “What do you say we work this out peacefully? I’m not a great shot.” Even so, Hellboy raised his gun. “But the Samaritan here uses really big bullets.” He waited, but nothing happened. Did the thing have brain power in there? He tried repeating himself. “So what do you say we work this out?”

  Without warning, Sammael raised to his hind legs, then suddenly he turned…or the top part of him did. The bottom part stayed still while his upper half went craaaackkkk! and did a startling three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. Then he screeched and leaped away.

  Hellboy squeezed the Good Samaritan’s trigger.

  The high-caliber ammo ripped through two columns before it finally connected with Sammael. The bullet kept going, blasting right through it and destroying a statue and the large window on the other side of its body. Sammael gave a piercing squeal, loud enough to annoy even Hellboy’s ears, then fell over on one side. It gave a final rattling cough, then was still.

  “That’s all for you, Sammy,” Hellboy said with satisfaction. He watched the body for a couple of seconds, just to be sure, then backed up.

  Abe’s voice trilled in his ear again. This time there was a worried tone to it. “Red, you need to hear the rest of the information!”

  Hellboy turned away and jammed his pistol into the holster on his utility belt with a flourish, like a gunslinger. “Nah, he’s taken care of.”

  But Abe was insistent. “No! Listen to this—Sammael, the desolate one, lord of the shadows, son of Nergal, hound of resurrection.”

  Hellboy grimaced. Resurrection? Seldom a good word. “See?” he said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Hound of resurrection,” Abe repeated.

  Hellboy turned back around. The corpse was gone, but he wasn’t a bit surprised.

  “Harbinger of pestilence, seed of destruction,” Abe continued hurriedly.

  Hellboy glanced around warily. “Skip to end, will you? How do I kill it?”

  There was a beat of silence before Abe finally answered. “It doesn’t say.”

  6

  HELLBOY FOUND OUT FOR SURE THAT SAMMAEL WAS still alive when the hound-creature hit him so hard that he sailed through the air and crashed into the brass doors.

  As the thick metal doors bulged and cracked, he wasn’t so stunned that he couldn’t imagine Abe and Father backpedaling, as well they should. If that new guy, Myers, had any salt in him, he’d please Father by pulling out his piece and trying to find a way in to help Hellboy…not that his fragile human frame could take the kind of pummeling it was clear Hellboy was going to get. As if to attest to that, before Hellboy could find his way upright again, Sammael was back, lashing out with another massive and extremely painful punch.

  Hellboy went up and up and up, taking out at least six of the surrounding glass cabinets before he hit one of the big reinforced windows. Some reinforcement—he crashed through it and kept going—

  falling

  —a fu
ll two stories through the darkness outside the building, the extra high stories that only hundred-year-old government buildings and museums can lay claim to. He landed hard on his side in some kind of industrial garbage bin. Blood dripped from his mouth, and as he fought to stay conscious and drag his bruised body out of the metal box, Hellboy thought he saw someone through his pain-slitted eyes.

  “Child…”

  He blinked and scrubbed at his face, succeeding only in smearing his own blood into his eyes, tinting everything red to go along with the black-and-yellow sparkles of unconsciousness that were trying to horn in on his action. Now who was this? Squinting up, straining to focus, Hellboy finally saw a man in a black suit and overcoat standing in front of him like a phantom; his eyes were shielded by pitch-black sunglasses.

  “All grown up, I see,” said the figure in a low voice.

  Hellboy squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again. He was feeling better already. A man had to appreciate supernatural healing powers. Still, something wasn’t right. Something about this guy. “That voice,” he muttered. “It’s…”

  “I sang the first lullaby you ever heard, my child,” the man said in a voice as smooth and chilling as cold, black oil. “I ushered you into this world.” He paused, giving Hellboy time to consider this. “I alone know your true calling. Your true name.”

  Knew his name? If the old stories were true, that meant the spook standing in front of him was none other than Grigori. Hellboy already didn’t like him.

  “Don’t tell me,” Hellboy said testily. “It’s Zeppo.” Tired of the wordplay, his quickly sharpening vision found the Good Samaritan, lying at the edge of a puddle about ten feet away. He rolled to his knees, then tensed his muscles for a leap. But before it could happen, something blurred before his eyes and the ground vibrated. When his vision stopped shaking, Hellboy realized that Sammael had dropped into the space between him and the gun, his landing a hell of a lot easier than Hellboy’s own.

  The black-clad Grigori sighed. “I can see that you’re still young and don’t know your place.” He cast a sideways glance at Sammael, and when Grigori spoke again, his voice was soft and deadly. “Teach him.”

  Hellboy lunged for the gun, but before his hand could close around it, a yellow tongue, as thick as an arm and seven feet long, whipped out from Sammael’s mouth. Butter-colored sacs billowed out from the tongue’s fleshy length, expanding and contracting. Hellboy grunted and fell beneath more agony than he’d ever felt, writhing as the thing squeezed and pulled on his arm, grinding his teeth as smoke began seeping from the area where Sammael’s flesh was cooking his arm. He tried to pull away but Sammael’s hold only tightened, like a boa constrictor locking in closer with every exhalation of its prey. In another few seconds, Hellboy was going to start screaming, and he didn’t want to do that, not here and now, and specifically not in front of this Grigori creep.

  BAM BAM BAM!

  Muzzle flashes cut through the alley’s darkness and around the pain; Hellboy realized Myers was suddenly there, the barrel of his revolver dribbling smoke as he emptied his rounds at the demon attacking Hellboy. Amber liquid—Sammael’s blood—exploded from half a dozen holes in his tongue, and with a squeal the hound-creature released Hellboy and snapped his tongue back into his mouth.

  The pain was nearly smothering, but Hellboy managed to roll away, combat-crawling until he could take cover behind the Dumpster. Out of one swollen eye, he saw Myers dive for the Good Samaritan; a snatch and a grab, then the gun was in Myers’s hand. The agent then plunged behind the container to where Hellboy lay, trying to recover, willing his body to mend itself and be damned quick about it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Hellboy demanded. He might be howling inside, but at least on the outside he could still sound belligerent.

  Myers proudly held up the Good Samaritan. “Helping you,” he announced. “I just—”

  “No one ever helps me,” Hellboy said angrily. “It’s my job!” He yanked his weapon out of Myers’s hand and tried to reload it, then grunted as fresh pain swelled through his arm. Nope—it was hurting him too much. “Damn,” he growled. “Okay—here.” Myers took the gun when Hellboy offered it along with a fresh clip from his utility belt. After a second’s pause, Hellboy reached into one of the smaller utility pockets and pulled out a vacuum-sealed packet. He tossed it to Myers. “Then load this.”

  Myers obediently tore open the packet, revealing a single, shining bullet. At his questioning look, Hellboy nodded. “It’s a tracking bullet. Crack the pin and load it.”

  KLANG!

  Myers jumped and almost dropped the tracer as Sammael’s tongue literally punched through the steel-sided Dumpster.

  KLANG! KLANG!

  Their luck was holding—for now—and each time the demon’s tongue barely missed them. But how much longer could they hold out? His nerves were screaming, but at last Myers was coolheaded enough to crack the safety pin on the bullet; the head of it lit up with chemical fire as he got the gun loaded and tossed it to Hellboy. As he did, his gaze fell on Hellboy’s arm. The flesh was still smoking, and inside an ugly bloody gash was a large, gleaming, black stinger. “Jeez,” he exclaimed, and pointed. “What the hell is that?”

  Hellboy grimaced and yanked it out, then dropped it on the ground. One of his heavy feet shot out and crushed it. The sound it made was ugly, like an over-ripe grape popping.

  Despite his badly injured arm, Hellboy was again churning with energy. “Let me go ask.” Good Samaritan in hand, Hellboy boldly stepped out from behind the Dumpster.

  Sammael’s dark yellow tongue instantly wrapped around the gun’s muzzle. Always aiming to be cooperative, Hellboy fired.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Suddenly the harsh, white lines of its face were lit with a nuclear green glow as the tracking bullet slid into position inside the Good Samaritan.

  BAM!

  Sammael was still clinging to the wall overhead when the bullet traced a pattern straight to his chest and exploded. Bright green goo saturated the creature’s muscle-covered chest. Startled, it shrieked and released its hold, then did another one of those weird body-twists and took off—up and over the wall separating the library’s private alley from the rest of the city, and then it was gone.

  With Hellboy right behind it.

  Now Hellboy knew he was going to have to be a little more careful about things.

  He could hear Father’s constant admonitions running through his head about being seen in public—there had been so many—but at the same time, he needed to find this ugly sucker and step on him, hard. Hellboy crouched and glanced around warily, but so far, so good; he was in a loading alley, nice and empty at this late hour. And there was the trail he wanted, a line of glowing green goop like radiation-soaked breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.

  There was a thump behind Hellboy as Myers clambered awkwardly over the wall after him and dropped to the ground. The agent hissed—something hurt—and cradled his arm, then chased after Hellboy as he hit full stride. “Wait!” Myers called frantically. “No—what are you doing?”

  Hellboy paid no attention to the newbie. Sammael was close—Hellboy could smell him. Another few steps and bingo—he got a glimpse of the fleeing creature’s backside. He grinned in triumph and upped his pace, running at full speed now, registering dimly but not yet fully understanding the meaning of the bright and blinking lights farther ahead, beyond the end of the alley.

  A shrill backup alarm suddenly went off—beep! beep! beep!—and something big abruptly backed across the alley, cutting all of them off from the world beyond. A ten-wheeler truck, rear doors open, carefully positioned itself against a waiting loading dock. As he barreled toward it, Hellboy saw workers and crates of pumpkins—the whole Halloween-Thanksgiving thing, of course. But when life throws you pumpkins, go around ’em—he had to grab that hound-demon before it got away and went into the dinner buffet that was the rest of mankind.

  Sammael never even slowed do
wn. He leaped and landed on top of the trailer, giving it a nice, heavy dent before he jumped off the other side and plunged into the midst of the crowd milling around the neighborhood’s fall carnival.

  One of the workers jerked and turned, trying to follow Sammael’s streaking progress. “What the hell is that?” he demanded, pulling on the arm of a coworker. His friend gaped upward, his attention caught by the rapid movement, but he was too slow and he’d missed it.

  Then Hellboy bounded up and landed on the roof of the truck’s cab. The steel top buckled and dropped inward, shattering the windshield and the safety glass on both sides; inside, the driver screamed and scrunched down as the sharp-edged bits of glass pelted him.

  Now three of the workers had run onto the loading dock and were rubbernecking at the destruction…and Hellboy. “Whoa,” gasped one of the men. “Whoa—whoa!” He seemed incapable of saying anything else.

  Hellboy glanced down at what was left of the front of the truck. “Oops,” he said, and catapulted away.

  The carnival area wasn’t that big, and it began no more than twenty feet from the other side of the truck. At the start of it, to the left, was a small carousel and refreshment stand flanking a small pumpkin patch. A sign out front announced “Any Size $5 As Long As You Can Carry It!” A few people, mostly parents humoring their young kids, milled around the lumpy piles of bright orange, poking and prodding and trying to find the best and biggest in the bunch. Here and there a small boy or girl staggered beneath the weight of a pumpkin they could barely lift.

  Hellboy could see Sammael already at the far end. As he trained his eyes on the demon, he saw the hound-creature stop and curiously examine a small trick-or-treater dressed as a golden dragon. Rumbling under his breath, hoping the beast wouldn’t decide that the little polyester-covered dragon would make a nice little snack, Hellboy started for him.

  Back at the truck, Myers was squeezing himself between the loading dock and the back of the truck, speaking urgently into his headset. “We’ll hit the street in a minute! We’re heading toward civilians!” A half dozen dockworkers ran toward him, yelling and pointing, while others pulled at the driver’s door of the truck and tried to free their buddy. Myers dodged past and waved them away. “Yeah, yeah—crazy costume, huh?” Already leaving them behind with stunned expressions, he added over his shoulder as he rushed after Hellboy, “Trick or treat!”