Time of the Demon

by Ian Taylor

  Gerry, realising all was not well, got off the bike and hurried to her side. "What's wrong?"

  "He's here. Everywhere." Her voice was hoarse and her face displayed intolerable strain.

  He looked around. "I don't see him."

  "Take my word for it." Her legs felt weak, so she leaned on the field gate for support.

  "What if no one shows up?" a teenaged protester wanted to know.

  "If no one comes, we'll know they're pretending ignorance," Gerry replied with calm authority. "They won't want to admit the truth!"

  "It's aliens," a voice shouted authoritatively from the crowd. "They've taken over my bank!"

  Laughter and applause erupted.

  "And the government," someone yelled.

  "And the media," another voice declared.

  "We want democracy," yet another called out. "Accusation without intimidation!"

  Jan realised deep in her subconscious mind—which had lain dormant for millennia, undisturbed by demons or any imposed authority—that these people were kindred spirits. They weren’t believers in extraterrestrials, but in establishment conspiracies. She tried to speak, but Ashtar had filled her head with what felt like a thick heavy mist; it blocked all thoughts.

  Deducing her problem, Gerry seized the megaphone and raised his visor. "They'll come," he shouted with authority. "Because the field's radioactive. They can't put us at risk. They're not ready to wipe us out yet."

  "They're here," a young woman called out.

  Three police vehicles, blue lights flashing, turned off the main road and headed for the field behind the inn. A cheer went up from the protesters.

  The hard-looking men in the black Mercedes followed the police, but didn’t get out of the car.

  "Be ready for their lies," Gerry bellowed, receiving a roar of approval. "It wasn't a hoax and it wasn't a plane. This is the truth–we can see it for ourselves!"

  Another cheer went up.

  Ashtaroth had abandoned his Ashtar form, appearing directly in front of Jan, feathered like Owlman. She reeled with shock. He attempted to embrace her—or, as she assumed at the time, to smother her. The fleeting touch of feathers induced nausea, disorientation, and terror. Flailing her arms, she tried ineffectually to fend him off.

  He pushed her against the field gate. To avoid the touch of his feathers, she had

  to scramble over it, into the field.

  "No," Gerry yelled, realising something horrific was about to happen. The warning made no difference. Jan was trapped in another world with a demon no one could see.

  Ashtaroth was before her, his vast wings outspread, radiating a suffocating toxic stench. His pyroclastic breath, hot and corporeal, burned her eyebrows and tufts of hair protruding from the crash helmet. Images of incinerated corpses from the Iraq invasion sprang to mind–and, horrified, she fled.

  Ashtaroth swooped down as she ran along the field, trying to grab her with his razor-sharp talons. As she attempted to escape, two figures in protective clothing hurried along the field in pursuit. She reached the place where the light had originally landed as Ashtaroth swooped down again.

  Jan fell on the grass. Ashtaroth hovered over her. She heard his voice. "Together we could have made a new world. But you betrayed me. You can’t deceive me–I can discover all secrets!"

  He vanished.

  Her confusion immediately cleared. She got to her feet and, racing back to the gate, shouted to the gathering. "This is the place. Look at their reaction. Now we know of their guilt. They're going to use this to control us!"

  To jeers and applause, the figures in protective clothing grabbed her and led her from the field.

  Superintendent Hemingway watched furiously from the edge of the crowd. For a split second, she saw him morph into a hideous fur-covered demon. No one else seemed to have noticed.

  Jan wrenched herself free. "This is the truth," she cried. "They want to start a war built on lies. Spread the word!”

  Uniformed officers, with no identifying insignia, tried to grab her, but she evaded them, darting into the crowd which had linked arms to protect her.

  Suddenly Gerry was there on the Harley. "Let's go," he roared. She leaped on the pillion and they sped away to more cheers and applause.

  Gerry gunned the Harley down the main road with the black Mercedes pursuing close behind. It was impossible for them to escape on main roads and motorways, even at 125 mph. As soon as he could, he turned off into a warren of country lanes. He knew the area, but his choice of route was limited as he had to cross a river before he’d be able to shake off their pursuers.

  The nearest bridge over the river was five miles away. As he pulled ahead of the Mercedes, he was grateful for the many hours he’d spent on the Pembrey bike-racing circuit. Those hours might save their lives.

  With the Mercedes three hundred yards behind, he thundered across the bridge at 90 mph. As soon as they entered open country on the other side, the passenger in the pursuing vehicle opened fire. Bullets flew past the speeding Harley. Gerry leaned the bike into a tight curve and headed into woodland on a narrow dirt track. The Mercedes couldn’t follow and abandoned the chase.

  Five minutes later he eased the bike into the back of a small horse trailer, which was hitched to Jan's BMW hidden among the trees. Exchanging biking leathers for casual gear, the two leaped into the car with Gerry behind the wheel. They followed a bridleway and headed for the nearest motorway.

  "They actually shot at us," she exclaimed, still stunned.

  "I didn't think they would dare. Just shows how much is at stake for them."

  "Can we risk going back online?" she asked.

  "I don't think so. But I've a good friend who might be willing to take over the blog till he's sussed and has to shut down."

  "What about us? We'll have to vanish for a while, won't we?"

  His expression grim, he nodded briskly. "Either that … or be disappeared."

  Suddenly from nowhere, Ashtaroth in Owlman form, appeared in front of them. He swooped down at the car, as if intent on embracing it and blotting out their visibility. Jan shrieked in helpless terror. Gerry had to make an instant choice: brake or accelerate. He chose the latter. If he braked, the trailer could swing and drag them off the narrow country road.

  Just as it seemed a collision was inevitable, Ashtaroth vanished and a blinding red-and-white revolving light shot skywards at tremendous speed.

  Gerry slowed the car, but didn't stop. "Let's hope he doesn't pull that stunt on the motorway–might be a bit awkward trying to explain how we caused a multiple pile-up!"

  She admired his nerve. She knew she’d have braked, skidded, lost control, and probably killed them both. Then she noticed sweat streaming down his face.

  "I didn't have time to be afraid," he said softly, glancing at her. "The sweat is the after-effect, when adrenalin's kicked in. In a few minutes, it’ll pass and I'll feel cold."

  How many times had he faced a life-and-death situation, she wondered. He seemed familiar with the pattern. "Mr A knows you're with me now, doesn't he?"

  "Maybe he's known all along, which makes me think he has another agenda."

  "What? No secret weapons after all?"

  "The Half Moon thing might be a distraction to keep the conspiracy guys busy."

  "What about my vision and the Earth First Movement?” she asked, puzzled. “Is all that over?"

  "It might have been a dry run, to test the degree of wised-up opposition."

  "But Mr A would already be aware of that if he knows all the world's secrets," she objected. "Why bother to go to such lengths with lights and choppers, and whatnot?"

  "Perhaps to convince his neocon cronies that a different approach might be needed."

  "No phoney war? No false flags?"

  "I don't know. There are countless ways for Mr A to make moves. We'll just have to be ready for them."

  13

  When they reached the warehouse on the industrial estate, Gerry got busy on his laptop in t
he office while Jan drank coffee as she studied her notebook. He talked as he worked. "As agreed, I've lifted your Half Moon piece and sent it off to TRUFON. It's in your name. If they offer the media a few choice paragraphs, you want a cut of any proceeds. I'll be keeping in touch with them. I think once TRUFON has done some front-running, you could tempt a publishing house with the offer of a book. TRUFON will want a sizeable cut as your agents. But they have the clout to push the deal through. I'll help you with any editing work they insist on."

  "But we haven't bottomed out on this," she objected. "We still don't know for definite who's involved, at what level in the military establishment, and how extensive their global connections might be. I can't believe Mr A didn't know the conspiracy guys were going to be out in force. I mean, these are the guys who won't buy the attack-from-outer-space scenario. I can't see the point of a dry run when the outcome's so clear. And I can't understand why I had to be involved."

  "The incident at the inn was a perfect preparation. It fulfilled its purpose."

  She eyed him blankly. "I don't follow you."

  "In our speculative situation, Mr A's military cronies have to convince the most hardened sceptics that an alien invasion is for real. If our small protest was even fifty per cent conspiracy guys, the Black Ops people would know they’ve a major propaganda issue to deal with. And so, with Mr A's help, the conspiracy guys might find themselves marginalised, especially if a more potent version of the white light was used to wipe out an entire city, maybe somewhere in the Middle East–Tehran, for instance. Or further east, possibly Pyongyang."

  "I got the impression Mr A was giving up," she told him. "He’d said ‘together we could have made a new world’—past tense. And I also had the distinct feeling when he flew at the carthat it was a valediction of some sort." She shrugged. "He saw the strength of the opposition and called it day."

  "Don't you think that was what he wanted you to believe?"

  She was annoyed with herself. Of course it was. "You could be right."

  "He'll never give up. Demons don't do defeat. Unless they make war on each other."

  "So what exactly is going on? I'm getting confused."

  Crossing hands across his broad chest, Greg leaned back in the chair. "I think what happened this morning was the start of something more sinister than we realise. In itself it might have been a distraction. While we're putting all our attention on the Half Moon thing, we're not looking for other stuff."

  She frowned. "What other stuff?"

  "I don't know, because we're not looking.” He offered a dry, fleeting smile. “I think your book has to reflect that. It has to go deeper, prepare its readers for anything from a Half Moon type of weapon, to a false messianic resurgence, even a lethal virus outbreak. And, while all this distraction is going on, a massive demonic infiltration transpires … unnoticed."

  "You're frightening me."

  "I just think we should be more cautious. Seems to me that elements within certain western national security services have done a fiendish deal with Mr A's legions to create RFOs … to spread death on a highly selective basis. A devilishly clever way to get rid of any rogue element with nuclear capability that threatens western aims."

  "What the hell are RFOs?"

  "Radioactive Flying Objects–what else? Don't you see–they can claim to be fighting for human freedom?

  "You're right," she agreed quietly, perturbed. "I can understand that."

  "Add a religious element to the mix and who knows where it could go? The key human players would believe that a one-world government would be within their grasp. The United States, Russia, and China control everything. Or maybe just the US. But they could be mistaken. With global warming, the whole thing could fragment into city states and ethnic enclaves fighting each other, like in medieval times. Mr A would really enjoy that."

  "How can humans make deals with demons? It's not going to work, is it?"

  "I'm glad you see that. Once demons are involved, you won't get rid of them easily. And their agenda will be beyond their human cronies' grasp."

  "So we're looking for something more subtle than RFOs, which could just be a distraction?" she reasoned.

  "It could be happening already. We don't know yet what we're looking for."

  She coughed and he looked at her, alarmed. "How are you feeling?"

  Jan fingered her neck and shrugged. "I'm okay. It's only a bit of a cold."

  He eyed her searchingly. "You’ll tell me if you feel worse?"

  "Of course. Don't worry." A thought struck her. "Even sensational news can get deliberately swamped and sidelined. We mustn't let that happen. Maybe we could run the story initially as a series of instalments in TRUFON's mag, adding more revelations as we discover them. Then do the book afterwards."

  "That's a great idea. I'll get on to TRUFON about it."

  "I've lots of pics we can use—the inn surrounded by police tape and the field itself. Shame that I didn't get one of Hemingway."

  "Can you photograph a demon?" he asked doubtfully. "I confess I've never tried. I can imagine the camera bursting into flames."

  They laughed. Her laughter ended in a prolonged coughing fit. After pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she found it covered in blood.

  He was on his feet in a moment, staring at her in dismay. "Jan–you're ill!" Hurriedly, he grabbed a heavy blanket from a bin in a corner. As he covered her, she finally told him about the dream, where Hemingway held the sphere of light with her trapped inside.

  "I'm sorry I didn't mention it before, but I couldn't. I see now that it was prophetic."

  "You're suggesting all that's happened so far was inevitable?"

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. "How can we beat these demons when they have such great power? It seems we're no more than puppets."

  "Leave demons for now," he said sternly. "You're coming with me."

  She looked at him in alarm. "Where are we going?"

  "In an ideal world, I'd take you to a specialist private hospital. But that would ring all the wrong alarm bells. You'd end up with Jess and Gina. Or worse."

  "But if you think it's that serious, isn't it worth the risk? It would be great publicity for the book."

  "At what price? You could die–or simply disappear. That wouldn't be helpful at all, to you or the book."

  "I'd be too well known. I'd be untouchable."

  "You'd vanish, believe me. If you had to appear in public, they'd find an actress lookalike. It's been done before, remember? And they'd use the opportunity to discredit the book. Make you look inept and uncritical, easily led by the conspiracy movement. Your name and the book would be forgotten, except by a few die-hard extremists."

  "What's the alternative?"

  "I'm taking you to a friend's place." As he spoke, he keyed a number into his mobile. "We should go. It's a long drive."

  "Photograph me," she said earnestly. "Make a record of this. If I'm as ill as you think I am, it's crucial stuff for the book."`

  He appeared as if he might refuse. "It would only prove useful when we have objective third-party corroboration."

  "We'll get that. Photograph me," she insisted. "Just do it."

  His call was answered and he nodded reluctant assent.

  They sped down the motorway in Jan's BMW with Gerry once again at the wheel. Before they left the industrial estate, he destroyed the surveillance evidence of their arrival at the warehouse. Sure police nationwide would be looking for her vehicle, he put false plates on it.

  She looked pale. Blood flecked her lower lip and chin.

  "Okay there?"

  "Yes. Thanks." Her voice sounded weak and she seemed confused. "Where are we going? Not to a hospital?"

  "We've been through that. I'd never see you again."

  "D'you want to see me again?"

  "You know I do."

  "So where are you taking me?" Her eyes were filled with sudden anxiety.

  "We're going to see the good guys. The only people I can tru
st. And it's a different kind of magic altogether, nothing to do with ufology. I've come to the conclusion there are no good guys in that world at all." He changed motorways, heading west.

  "You're lucky to have such friends. I'd be lost without you." Her voice was so faint he could hardly hear her words.

  "Well, I'm here now. And I intend to look after you," he promised.

  She coughed more blood.

  "Don't talk," he advised. "We'll be there in an hour." He knew the damage from the demon's actions might be impossible to heal, but he’d witnessed several healings the rational world would have called miracles, so he had to have faith in the good guys.

  Half an hour later he turned off the motorway. After another half hour, he was threading his way through a network of country lanes. Ahead were the November skeletons of ancient indigenous woodland and on the southern horizon the long murky outline of high moors.

  She’d fallen asleep. Gerry pulled up in a lay-by and lifted her onto the back seat, making her as comfortable as he could. She wasn’t aware of the last stage of the journey, with him winding deeper into wild and rugged landscape. Eventually, he turned on to a private road and followed it for a mile through hills dotted with ancient oak, holly and hawthorn.

  A row of tidy old-fashioned cottages appeared against a backdrop of dense woodland. He pulled up to the door of the first cottage.

  Two muscular young men, dark-haired and wind-tanned, stepped from the well-tended cottage. They greeted Gerry like an old friend and lifted Jan gently from the car. They placed her on a stretcher, then took her inside. Gerry followed, carrying their few possessions in a travel bag.

  The men carried the unconscious Jan into a back parlour where a peat fire burned in an old iron stove. After laying her on a simple divan, several young women appeared and seated themselves alongside, laying their hands on Jan's body. A striking woman of thirty-five, tall and ebon-haired, dressed in the robes of a coven priestess, entered silently. She and Gerry exchanged warm smiles. "Thanks for agreeing to this, Morwenna," he said quietly. "It's in all our interests that my friend Jan survives."