The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  I sit at the easel with the painting of Chumlento before me, almost complete. I’m just doing a few touchups. Thoughts of our conversation come back to me, her smug stance and even smugger comments. I picture her condescending smile as she sneers at me, as if I’m a bug she’d like to step on. I hate her. And without thinking, I grit my teeth and smudge the paint on her right eye with my fist, giving it an ugly, sagging slant. The colors smear from a bright, flaming, golden fire to puce-ugly orange. Grotesque, like she is.

  The impotence I feel is somewhat assuaged by my rebellious rant and I sit back, not wanting to paint anymore. It’s early, and breakfast will be served any minute. I stand up, wipe my hands on a towel, and head toward the door. My heart beats erratically, knowing I’ll be sitting with the king and queen of hell—how I refer to them—in only a few minutes.

  My guard waits outside the door. There is something about him that gives me the chills. Literally. He’s a gray man, but he’s cold. Where he touches me, I feel frostbit for a moment. It’s crazy, and I have no explanation for it. Should he be able to do that in a human body?

  The door swings open before I can open it myself. The guard stands there, staring me down, neither of us saying a word. I blink and look away. He wins.

  I dart forward before he can touch me. “So, what’s your name anyway?” I ask, figuring I might as well get to know him. He doesn’t answer; he just keeps walking. I glance over at him, and he’s staring straight ahead. Okay, so he doesn’t want to be friends.

  When we reach the dining room, I’m motioned to the other side of the table to sit next to Coem. Chumlento is already seated directly across from him. I initiate a smile as I sit, but then freeze when I notice her face. Her right eye sags and the hue of her iris is a muted, sickly green color. Puce green.

  My jaw sags, and she notices me staring. She growls, looking like she might reach across the table and smack me. I hurry to glance away and sit down.

  Coem clears his throat and wipes his mouth. “Our dear Chumlento is feeling under the weather this morning, aren’t you, dear? I’m sure it will clear up soon.”

  “Shut up.” She glares at Coem and gives me another sneer.

  “What happened?” I hear myself ask, as though my mouth has a life of its own. I could kick myself. Why would I ask such a stupid question? It’s none of my business and will likely get me slapped.

  “We aren’t sure,” Coem answers. “It happened early this morning. It looks like a palsy of some sort.”

  “Palsy?” I repeat.

  “Oh, for Hell’s sake! Shut up. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here. It will wear off, whatever it is. It’s probably just an allergy or something.”

  I stare at her, my hands on the table, the paint stains visible. I snatch them back and hide them below the tablecloth, trying to rub the paint from my fingers. It’s just a coincidence. A crazy coincidence. I can’t wrap my mind around it, and I can hardly chew, let alone swallow.

  There has to be a connection. But how? Why? There’s no way I did this. I don’t believe in this kind of… what? Magic? Voodoo? Do they suspect me? If they did, I’d already be dead. Chumlento would have killed me herself. I don’t think she’s big on forgiveness.

  I eat quickly and then push back from the table.

  Both Coem and Chum look up, surprised.

  “Done already?” he asks. “You haven’t even finished your coffee.”

  “I’m… full. Thanks for breakfast,” I mumble, stuffing a banana into my jacket, which I always wear to meals now. It has a lot of pockets to hide food in. Plus, I can’t keep sitting there, pretending I’m calm and that everything’s fine. I have to check my painting and figure this out.

  I hurry around the table in time for my nameless guard to shove my shoulder. An icy zap stabs through me, and I feel numb in that spot for the next ten seconds. It wears off by the time we get back to my studio, but the sensation leaves me chilled and yearning for a hot shower.

  As soon as I’m in my studio with the door shut, I forget about my guard and his ice cube fingers and hurry over to the painting. I have to check it before I do anything else. But the painting hasn’t changed. It looks the same as it did when I wrecked it… on purpose. But it does look an awful lot like Chum’s palsy, and I can’t help but release a wicked snicker.

  ***

  It’s late and I sit on my bed, sketching a picture of Coem. This will be a notebook will be an experiment. Something I keep hidden. A notebook of every demon I see, hopefully mutated. I can’t hide it under the mattress. That would be too obvious. Not in a dresser drawer either. That would be the first place they’d check.

  I forget about the stress of finding a hiding place and focus on Coem’s likeness. I’m drawing his human face, experimenting on whatever magic happened with Chummy’s painting and hoping it will happen in pencil too. I’ve analyzed and decided I need to try everything. Oils, acrylics, water color, and sketches in pencil. Drawing parts of the demon face over the human one and then vice versa. Does it only work on canvas or can a paper notebook work magic too? Is it because he gave me these items? Are they enchanted somehow, or is it a power inside me I never knew about?

  When I finish, I inspect my work, deeming it good enough and wondering if I’ll see results in the morning.

  I start a second sketch. This time of my guard. I do this one in pencil also because it’s quicker and easier. I draw the demon inside, gray and smooth, his toothy grin in a grimace. I purposely draw human teeth where the demon teeth should be, and then erase one. Front and center. After examining my work, I fix the shading and search the room for a hiding place.

  There’s no good spot. Not anywhere… until I turn and study the headboard of the huge monstrosity of a bed where I sleep. Running my fingers along the ridges, I notice for the first time that there are little grooves carved into the wood, running along the outside posts. They aren’t deep, but I’m curious and hook one with my fingernail. A long, thin drawer slides out. Like it was prepared just for me. Like God made it happen or something. I bend over and look into its depths. It’s easily big enough to hold a rolled up piece of paper.

  The drawer slides back in effortlessly and is undetectable from the outside. I wonder if Coem knows about these secret drawers. Slowly, I search the whole bed, opening each secret compartment I find. There are four on each side of the headboard. They are smooth and flat, without knobs, so I’m sure they’ve been overlooked. I say a short prayer of gratitude and hope nothing demonic will ever suspect.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Brecken

  Evening approaches, but that doesn’t mean it cools down at all. The sun sits at the top of the hills and soon it will set, leaving this valley carpeted in blackness. It’s still sweltering. You’d think we’d have a reprieve from the radiating heat. Nope.

  The windows of the Jeep are down, letting a breeze blow over us. Heidi has taken off her scarf and long-sleeved shirt, and I don’t blame her or say anything about it. No one can see her anyway. The boys sprawl as much as they can in the backseat. Doug, with his head back and mouth open, snores. Jag watches the landscape out of his window in silence, and Owen works on something in his lap with a headlamp.

  It’s quiet, but we’re still pretty far from any sort of town, and I don’t want to camp out here in the open. I did find a tent at the roadside shop, so we’ll camp if we have to, but the hills that dot the countryside don’t feel safe and could have anything hiding behind them.

  By eleven PM, I’m so tired I can’t go on. The others look just as wiped, so I decide to pull off the road. There’s a small copse of trees that we can pitch our tent behind, and it’s far enough from the road to offer cover. We’ll be hidden at least, and that’s about as good as I can do. It’s safer than trying to drive through this area at night. I know what hides out here in the dark.

  Doug wakes up as the Jeep bounces over the uneven terrain. There’s no road, but we clear it easily. Behind the trees, I pull to a stop.

&n
bsp; “What are we doing?” he asks, sitting up and peering out at the darkness.

  “Stopping.”

  “Why?” he asks with a yawn.

  “Because I’m tired,” I answer. “We can set up the tent and get some shut-eye. Since you’ve slept already, can you take the first two-hour watch?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Doug doesn’t sound too enthused, but he hops out of the car, grabs the rifle we picked up when we bought the tent and other camping supplies—an old AK-47 with an extra clip—and loads it. There are more guns readily available in this country than I’m comfortable with, and they are all old, from before the Rift, but at least we have protection that works at a distance.

  Jag and I put up the tent while Heidi unloads the bags and blankets. Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a ragged sleeping bag and nothing could feel more wonderful. Heidi is a little more vociferous about her lack of comfort.

  “I’m sleeping on a rock.” She tries to move the pebbles beneath her, but they are also beneath the tent, so she doesn’t have much luck. That gives her a reason to move closer to Jag. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Better?” I ask now that she’s a few inches farther from me. I can see her face in the dark and her eyes blink.

  “Yeah.” She smiles.

  I close my eyes and let exhaustion take over. I need as much sleep as possible. We can’t make any mistakes, and the others don’t understand what we are really up against. We need to be sharp, quick, and ahead of the demons at every turn, but I can’t seem to make my mind turn off.

  I’m not sure who exactly we’ll be fighting. Coem is an insidious demon, but he’s not the worst and he’s back in the United States. They’ll have some other general in charge over here, and I worry it’s someone I know. Someone who would do anything to see me, not dead, but tortured for eternity. And they’d be able to think of a myriad of ways to make that happen—all of them so terrible that I would beg for death before it was over.

  I can only think of a couple of beings who could really do the job. Eligor, demon of murder, genocide, and war strategies, would be more than capable. Mean to a fault, but he’s defiant and doesn’t take orders well. Thanatos, one of the many demons of death, is pretty arrogant, and has been known to play well with others… at times. He was decent to work with when I reigned at my most powerful among the demons. He’s earned his place at the top, so it could be him.

  But then there is Mictian, a demon of death and destruction from another realm entirely. He comes here—like a sub-contractor from his world—to wreak havoc, cause war, and other atrocities. He’s worse than the other two, and he hates me with a vengeance. He’s fierce, unforgiving, and he doesn’t quit until the job is done. Ever.

  Mictian was the highest ranking when I defected—a brigadier general, if a comparison can be made with the human military. They all have different talents and abilities, but are all deadly and powerful. Each one fills my heart with dread.

  I review in my mind how they might attack. Their strategies and weaknesses. Then I move on to how they might be coming through to this dimension at The Door. Is each demon checked off a list or do they come through in companies? Are they even keeping track of who’s here?

  Round and round, my thoughts tie me into knots. I toss and turn in my bag, trying to get comfortable and get my brain to rest. My heart races and my eyes scrunch shut, my hands in fists. I can practically hear their demonic laughter. They know I’m coming, I’m sure of it. They’re ready for me and waiting—all set up to capture me and kill the others. Or maybe they’ll make the others watch while I’m tortured.

  Suddenly, I feel a cool hand on my arm. “Are you okay?” Heidi’s soft whisper penetrates the craziness in my mind and I open my eyes, finding hers in the dark.

  “I’m not sure.” I chuckle softly, wondering if I’ve fallen victim to another kind of treachery. A subtler kind. How stupid could I be? How could I have forgotten something so important? In my defense, I was a demon for an eternity and I haven’t been away from them for that long. These things don’t come to me naturally, but I want them to for Heidi.

  “Create a shield around yourself,” I whisper to her.

  “What?”

  “A shield of protection.”

  “Why?” I see her questioning expression, her eyebrows pulled down in confusion.

  I would think it’s basic demon hunting protocol, but who knows if they’ve been taught to do this. I’ll have to explain it to the others tomorrow when they’re awake.

  “It’s easy,” I say. “Just visualize. Picture a bright, white shell around yourself that nothing can get through. Nothing evil, that it. No devils, demons, spirit fragments, contracts, or demonic promises. Nothing. Understand?”

  “Good grief. Are there really that many things to be afraid of?”

  “Yes. Do you have it pictured in your mind?”

  “I think so.” She closes her eyes, breathing evenly, but a little faster than before. “Okay. Got it. Will it work?”

  “Yes, usually.” There are exceptions to every rule, after all, but I don’t tell her this. I can feel her anxiety, and I want her to be able to fall asleep.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asks.

  I hesitate before answering. She’s asking, so I should tell her the truth. There’s no time for lies anymore. “Because we aren’t alone.”

  Her eyes grow wide and she quickly glances around the tent, searching.

  “You can’t see these guys.”

  “They aren’t gray men?” she asks, pulling her bag up higher around her neck.

  “No. But these beings follow the gray men around. They can inhabit bodies too. They don’t need gray men for that.”

  “What are they?” she asks, scooting closer to me. I guess she thinks I’m the better protector since I’m still awake.

  “Just what I told you to protect yourself from. Evil spirits, programs, spirit fragments, and the like. Most people don’t know they’re there. They are invisible to mortal eyes, but they fill your heart with doubts and fears. Nasty little pricks. They have no purpose other than to make you miserable.”

  “Just when you think the monsters under the bed aren’t real,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Right?” I roll to my back, forming my own mental shield of protection. It’s amazing how well it works when I think about it. The power of the mind is astonishing.

  But spirits aren’t the only things we’ll be up against at The Door. We’ll be fighting the big wigs who rule the underworld, who want to keep the door open, who are somehow benefitting from this whole catastrophe. They don’t yearn for bodies. They have their own already. What is it they really want?

  “How long does the shield last?” Heidi whispers.

  “As long as you keep thinking about it.”

  “Okay.”

  My breathing slows and my mind finally rests. I check the watch on my wrist. I’ve lost forty-five minutes. If I’m going to sleep at all, I better get to it.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Heidi

  I listen to Bret’s breathing as he falls asleep next to me. I think about what he said—this visualization stuff, the shield of protection, evil spirits that surround us even though we can’t see them. It creeps me out and I shiver, trying to ignore the niggling fear that scratches at the edges of my mind.

  It’s dark. So, so dark. I can hardly see my hand before my face. Owen snores on the other side of Jag, and I’m the only one left awake. I listen to their inhalations like a symphony of drumrolls. I should have brought earplugs.

  I’m having a hard time closing my eyes, knowing there are dark souls out there that I can’t see. Not that being able to see them would make it better, but I keep searching the shadows, wondering if each trick of the light is a demon coming to kill me. Bret’s pep talk has done little to calm my racing heart, and I lie awake for the next hour until Doug crawls inside the tent. He’s about to wake Owen, but I get up instead.

  “I’ll take next watch
,” I whisper. “I’m awake anyway.”

  “Okay.” He hands me the rifle when I step out of the tent. It’s pretty dark out here too, the moon glowing only a sliver. I take a place on the hard ground against one of the trees, praying I’m not sitting on an anthill. Once that thought goes through my mind, all sorts of other creepy crawlies infiltrate my thoughts. Scorpions, spiders, and other insects. I find myself itching and scratching at phantom annoyances for the next two hours. Not to mention the tricks my eyes play on me in the dark. I’m too frightened to even think about how tired I am or of falling asleep.

  When I hear something, I sit up straight and listen, but when there’s nothing more, I figure I’m just psyching myself out. I don’t want to wake everyone up over nothing. I’ll just sit here for now, tired and miserable, because I’m being ridiculous.

  The night passes quietly. Three-thirty rolls around—when it’s Jag’s turn to take watch—and I’m so exhausted and stressed out that I could literally weep. My eyes feel full of sand, and I can hardly keep them open. I don’t think I’ll have any problem falling asleep now.

  Jag pops his head out of the tent and then he plops down beside me. His body has a clock of its own. I don’t know how he does it, or how he seems completely rested after only four hours of sleep.

  “You better get in there,” he whispers. “You only have two hours left before we have to get up.”

  I can only sigh in response as I try to stand on tingling legs that have gone to sleep beneath me. But before I can even get through the tent flap, I hear a scuffling in the distance. It’s coming toward me fast. I turn to Jag, but he’s no longer sitting by the tree.