Click!
The pistol was empty. Martel knew better than to dry-fire a weapon that was utterly, unalterably empty, as the firing pin can be damaged in some models. He threw it at the newest customer. It thunked against its leftmost tusk and plopped on the grass, goodbye and so long. How he ached for it.
The demon bent low.
Martel screamed.
11
Brayker heard it. In his very long life he had become used to a lot of things, things like hunger, thirst, loneliness, pain. But it was the screaming that ached the most, because whenever he heard it, he knew that it was his fault. Nobody ever invited a man like him into their lives. He snuck in the back door with lies and evasions, and invariably, every goddamned lousy time, people started dying. Screaming as they fought such unlikely foes, screaming as they died. He could never harden himself enough to bear it.
He turned and ran to the front door, hauled it open, and squinted into the dark. Someone was on the ground—Jeryline? Often male and female screams were indistinguishable; people rarely practiced beforehand just to achieve the right pitch. He had seen men as huge as bears squall like babies, had heard women and kids grunt and snuffle like lions as they fought and died. Whoever was thrashing on the ground surrounded by the Salesman’s henchmen was howling like a French hen.
Brayker got the key out of its pouch. The orb had only a few drops left in it, maybe eight or nine. The time for refilling it was upon him, but as yet there was little hope for a proper donor. He turned it to the point where its tiny hole barely peeked at the world, then changed his mind. When the blood was gone, it would take his life with it.
He maneuvered the key so that the long extended point jutted out between his knuckles, and jogged across the porch to the lawn. With the key in his fist like a strange knife he stabbed the nearest demon in the spine. Cold black liquid jetted out as it fell away. It would not die from this treatment, Brayker knew quite well, but the key was better than any gun ever used on one, except a shotgun, which blew them into harmless chunks that squirmed and writhed and never quite died all the way.
One demon was bent over clawing at whoever was on the ground. Brayker rammed the key into the spot where an asshole might reside, if the demons were so equipped. The creature shot up, hissing like a cracked boiler, and sprang across the lawn into the gravel.
A foot drove itself into Brayker’s right knee, causing a bright bolt of pain to rifle up his thigh. He gritted his teeth: that was no fleshy, rubbery foot; it was a boot. He slashed out at a demon and cut a huge trench through its hideous head. Gobbling, it staggered away.
Now Brayker could see well enough. The intrepid Deputy Martel was kicking and waving like a turtle on its back, a portrait of filth from the bottom of his boots to the tips of his hair. In their muddy sockets his eyes gleamed insanely. “Get up!” Brayker roared at him, stabbing the key into the side of a nearby demon’s bloated head. It squawked and fell over.
Martel was in a crazy trance of sorts as he kicked at nothing and flailed his arms, bellowing something about mommy, something about needing artillery for these sumbitches. Brayker bent and took hold of his hair, then twisted it as hard as if trying to open a jar with a stuck lid. Martel stiffened with a strangled groan. “You listen up,” Brayker growled in his ear. “Shut the fuck up, get the fuck up, and we’ll get the fuck out of here alive. Comprenday-vous?”
Martel blinked. Every cord in his neck was thick and tight. “Com-comprenday,” he groaned.
Brayker hauled him upright. One of the demons, till now unhurt, sprang at him. Brayker sidestepped and slit its belly open as it did. A mash of dark, unidentifiable guts flopped across the grass.
“Okay, go!” Brayker shouted.
Martel took a wobbly step, hesitated, then spun around. His feet skidded on the wet grass and he fell hard on his elbows. “There’s guns,” he panted. “One lost out here someplace. Another one in the cruiser.”
Brayker thought for a moment, his eyes jumping from place to place. More guns? If the basement could be sealed off, they wouldn’t need them. But that cat of Irene’s seemed to pop up everytime someone heaved it outside, which meant there was another way in, and another way out besides the trapdoor.
“You look around here,” he told Martel. “I’ll get the one in the car.”
“I want that key before I take one more step,” Martel said. “I saw what it can do.”
Brayker shook his head. “No way. Impossible.”
Martel aimed a shaking, muddy finger at his face. “I’m the law here,” he growled. “I run this show.”
Brayker eyed him coldly. “This key only works for me,” he said. “To you it’s just another piece of metal, won’t do a thing.”
“Hand it over, Brayker. I am an official of the county and the court.”
Brayker let out a short, apathetic chuckle, amazed all over again by the ruthless stupidity of the average Joe. “Go away,” he muttered, and turned.
A demon had crept up behind him and stood there, a gape-jawed, one-eyed monstrosity with its arms poised overhead for the pounce. “Wrong guy,” Brayker said to it, and stepped to the side. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “My pal here tastes better.”
The demon grunted its thanks. Brayker walked away. Martel let out another unhappy whoop and began to thump and twist on the lawn again. At the car Brayker leaned inside, fetched up the shotgun while admiring the redecorating Martel had done to the car’s interior, and worked the pump. One shell sat already poised and anxious to fire. He turned and ambled toward the house again, where Martel was now encircled by three of the original four and not happy about it at all, by the tone of his voice. Brayker raised the key and plunged it into the back of a demon head. The two others jumped back as the first fell, eyeing the damage it did. Hissing, drooling, they backed away.
Brayker leaned over Martel. “Still wanna run this show?”
Martel clambered sullenly to his feet, ignoring him, walked off, and lurched up the steps. Brayker allowed himself a smile, which was rare, and wished, for a silly little moment, that Jeryline were here to see it.
He had not quite made it to the door when someone else screamed, this time inside the building, this time upstairs somewhere, and this time, as always, he could not tell who it was.
Jeryline heard it. Even down in the basement, her secret place where it was dry and cool and free from Irene’s dictatorial grip, she heard it, as if it was carried along the walls to the bricks of the foundation. Not two minutes ago she had heard Brayker’s voice as Cleo the cat revealed her hideaway, had heard the little trapdoor pulled away, had known that there no longer existed a haven for her. When Brayker suddenly vanished she had thought about climbing out, going someplace else, pretending to have been in the pantry or the bathroom the whole time, and in this way keep her secret. But no, as always in her life she had been found out, exposed, stripped of her privacy, so now she decided she would damn well sit here until they dragged her out kicking and screaming.
The nameless victim upstairs was giving fabulous lessons in the vocal arts. Jeryline perked up in spite of herself, concentrating on the noise, an involuntary wave of goose bumps crawling up her spine. Had the monsters gotten inside again? Was everybody dying up there?
Footsteps thumped, hard enough to loosen puffs of dust from the beams overhead. They sounded more like the tromping of people wearing shoes, not at all like the patter of oversized, floppy monster feet. She hesitated, drawing deeply on the cigarette she had used to stab Cleo when the stupid cat scared her, a cigarette that now tasted a lot like burning hair.
More screams. Inhuman screams. She deliberated. Had Irene just found that the stove was not clean yet? Had Wally just seen Cordelia naked for the first time? Had Uncle Willie run out of booze, had that ding-dong deputy shot himself in the foot, had Roach just smelled his own armpit? Tune in tomorrow for another exciting episode of “Mission Inn-possible.”
She decided to find some answers. Her hiding place had been vi
olated, someone was screaming like a moron, her cigarette tasted like violin strings, and she had to go pee. She picked up the candle and stood, the tendons in the backs of her knees complaining slightly at being stretched again, and went to the crude little ladder. She dropped the cigarette in the dirt, and looked up. Bedlam was underway upstairs, perhaps the dying cries and last footsteps of Brayker’s ridiculous demons. The trapdoor was in place again, which made her frown. Cleo was out, Brayker knew where this was, yet he had shut it again. In respect of her privacy? How about this: he had no idea she was down here. All he knew was that Cleo had been on top of the ladder to greet him. Perhaps the jig was not yet up.
She went up the ladder, put a hand above her head, and pushed the door up high enough to see, minding its noise. At floorboard level she saw only that the floor of Irene’s mansion was slightly uneven and held areas of dust. At the distant stairway a set of human legs and feet thumped up and out of sight. No more screaming, though.
Jeryline let the candle fall into the dirt beside the ladder, straightened, and eased the trapdoor to the side. She had become too much of a pessimist, she thought, too ready to give up her secret place. With such screaming going on, everyone would expect her to follow the crowd upstairs. And if they asked where the hell she had been? Hiding somewhere, under the sink or in the linen closet. With all this craziness going on, who wouldn’t?
It seemed plausible. She worked herself out of the rectangle, turned on her knees, and put the door back snugly where it belonged, breathing faster, suddenly desperate not to get caught in this act. When she rose up too fast, the back of her neck scraped against the lowest shelf, making her recoil while putting a whole row of Irene’s preserves in motion like a set of freshly placed bowling pins. Grimacing, she crawled out and pushed the door shut before anything could crash to the floor.
Nothing did. She got to her feet and brushed a light film of sweat from her forehead, dusted her clothes, shook out her hair and finger-combed it back into place. It would be no surprise to her if she looked like walking dogshit, no sleep, no makeup, what could anybody expect? At a hasty jog she crossed into Irene’s absurd entertainment center, passed by the television, the front desk, got to the stairwell, and looked up.
Nothing, nobody, not a sound. She plodded up the steps, seeing at last that Irene was standing in the hallway, Roach was standing in the hallway, Brayker was standing in the hallway—everybody and their dog was clustered in the freaking hallway. She took the last step and waited, frowning, for someone to notice her.
Nobody did. She raised a hand, was about to say how-do, when two things caught her eye that erased the words from her mind.
Brayker was holding a sawed-off shotgun, looking grim and haunted. A shiny line of blood had begun to slide from under the door of Room One, Cordelia’s room, her boudoir where many a man had traveled many a mile to partake of the old scuzzbucket’s charms and delights.
Brayker tested the knob. “Back off,” he hissed, handing out dirty looks. His eyes found Jeryline. They seemed to flare somehow, to change, though she could not tell if the reaction was anger or happiness or hatred.
“Back off, dammit,” he said, and motioned with his head. “Jeryline, you come here with me. Take this.” He dug into his clothes and produced the key, held it up for her to see. She frowned, confused, part of her mind still in the basement where life was slow and easy, and then went to him. “Take it,” he said, and pressed it into her hand. “Cover me.”
She folded her fingers over it, reluctant even to touch it. The glass ball only had a few ugly-looking smatters of blood clinging to the inside. The entire thing felt greasy and warm.
“I don’t know how to use this,” she said, making faces at it. “What am I supposed to do? Throw blood all over the place?”
He shook his head. “You’ll know.”
Before she could react, he twisted the doorknob and kicked the door open. The topmost hinge let out a groan as the jamb shattered there. He took a step inside. Everyone crowded closer.
“He said to back off,” Jeryline heard herself snap at the others. To her surprise they did, giving ground so she could follow Brayker. Even Roach looked small and afraid. The deputy, that Martel guy, was a brown and green Gumby with the glint of permanent depression in his eyes. Irene was glowering at the damage to the door jamb. Uncle Willie had the glazed eyes of a diabetic needing insulin in a very bad way. What a crew, Jeryline thought dismally. What a small, unlikely crew to have assembled here in Wormwood for this dreadful night.
She stepped inside the room. There was a smell in the air, something electrical. Above that, a thin, salty odor like chicken blood. Brayker put his hand to the light switch.
“Damn,” she heard him whisper as soon as he clicked it on. She looked over his shoulder, the key held ready for whatever might come.
Cordelia was sitting in a chair by the window. The thin robe she wore while entertaining gentlemen callers was parted obscenely between the spread of her knees; her face looked as if it had been shoved into a vat of hot blue-green wax. Her eyes seemed to glow with a sullen bluish-red as she grinned hugely at Brayker, and a thick red line of blood oozed between her teeth to drip off her chin. Worst of all, though, worst of all, was Wally.
He was draped across her lap with his hands and feet touching the bloody floor, his face staring upside-down at the ceiling. In death his eyes had not closed. Large chunks of flesh had been bitten out of both cheeks. Jeryline clapped a hand over her mouth and turned, but not before she had seen Cordelia’s blue jaw hinge open; with her tongue she pushed a big white chunk of meat out to plop on Wally’s shredded shirt. A rind of skin on the chunk needed, ever so slightly, a shave.
Jeryline could not help it; she vomited a thick warm blot of supper into her hand. When she looked up, crazy with the need to drop the mess into a toilet and wash her hand, Brayker hoisted the shotgun to his shoulder, and fired.
Boom! In that instant Cordelia lifted Wally’s corpse up as a shield. Wally’s dead stomach exploded and a large clot of his innards splatted across her leering face. The knobs of his spine gleamed whitely inside the fresh hollow where his guts had been, while tattered ropes of meat and intestine dangled out of the hole like vines crawling out of a flowerpot. She stood in one lightning motion and heaved Wally’s body at Brayker. He staggered back against Jeryline, losing the shotgun. It bounced across the floor, clattering end-for-end while balls of smoke puffed comically out the barrel, and skittered under the bed. Jeryline crashed down on her butt, still able to hold her dripping hand away from herself like a falling drunk trying to save his beer, but losing a lot between her fingers. Brayker squirmed atop her, then rolled away.
Cordelia attacked. Her arms were wired with white streaks of veins beneath the blue skin, her face was gleeful and insane. Brayker tried to move aside but was still tangled in Jeryline’s feet and legs. Cordelia pounced on him and clamped both hands on his shoulders, ripping his shirt. Jeryline shrank away, not wanting to believe that Cordelia’s fingernails, which she always kept painted a slutty red, were now long yellow tiger-talons with little squares of fingernail polish still in place. When she opened her mouth to bite Brayker her teeth were twisted yellow fangs. An image sprang into Jeryline’s mind: the gleaming fossil teeth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
“The key!” Brayker howled as he fought and squirmed.
Jeryline rocked to her feet and looked stupidly at her hands. One was holding a thick pile of puke and the other held the key. At the right side of her vision, deputy Martel blurred across like a green and brown fish. He dropped to all fours, then flat onto his stomach, and wriggled under the bed.
“Jeryline,” Brayker groaned while Cordelia champed and slavered, her fangs less than a foot above his face. “Use the key!”
She raised the hand that held the key. Brayker had said she would know how to use it. So okay, where were the divine instructions for the proper care and handling of an enormous key? At least with a handful of half-digested cube ste
aks and potatoes she had a good idea where to dispose of it.
The question lost its importance when the deputy wriggled out from under the bed with the shotgun in both hands. By now everyone from the hallway had jammed themselves into the doorway again and stood there awestruck. For a moment Jeryline had the sensation of being an exhibit at a zoo where people pointed and stared through the bars all day.
Martel was shaking with excitement as he rose to his feet. “Get her off of you!” he shouted to Brayker on the floor. “Gimme a clean shot!”
Brayker was too busy guarding his face and neck. Jeryline walked a few steps on her knees, circling Brayker and the evil thing that had been a whore named Cordelia, trying to figure out what to do. Martel shouted things at her, commanded her to move or get shot along with Cordelia, but Jeryline was waiting—perhaps in shock at having seen enough to make her puke, perhaps in the hope that the key really could be a powerful weapon in her untrained hands—was waiting for the words of God to command her to use it.
“Goddammit girl, move!” Martel howled as he pranced with the shotgun, and stood on one foot long enough to kick Jeryline in the face. Pain drove from her nose into her skull like two white-hot nails up the sinuses. Instinctively, with her eyes mashed shut and gushing tears, she hurled the handful of thick vomit at Martel. With her other hand she lashed out blindly and felt the key connect with something solid: Cordelia’s body. Had to be. The key was wrenched from her hand as Cordelia jerked away in a sudden, huge twitch. She screamed as if being dropped feet first into a leaf mulcher, Jeryline’s mental epitome of pain and the lousiest way to die.
Martel made coughing noises. Jeryline was able to squinch her eyes open a bit. He was beside the bed pawing at his face—ook, the whole evening’s menu was represented there. His muddy boots skidded in a patch of blood and Jeryline-juice, and he boomeranged into the air, all elbows and angles suddenly, and thudded disjointedly down on his back. Again the shotgun clattered away.
Tales from the Crypt - Demon Knight Page 12