Demonworld Book 2: The Pig Devils

by Kyle B. Stiff

  Satisfied, Yarek opened the stairwell door and the Reavers poured inside. Iron stairs crawled up the long well in sharp angles. Harsh white light cut through handrails but left patches of gray shadow dripping down corners. They stalked up the stairs single file, approached the second-floor landing, then -

  “Body on second floor running to stairwell door!” came the cry. “Running! Scatter, hide!”

  Before he was finished, two Reavers ran ahead of Yarek to the stairs above. Yarek grabbed the handrail of the landing and leaped over it. He saw two Reavers in the rear running below.

  The door grinded open loudly. A thin, gray-haired man in a raggedy suit pounded down the stairs, shouting, “I’m gonna do it! Gonna do it! Nobody gonna stop me this time!” He took the stairs two at a time. Yarek hung below the second-floor landing, one hand fixed to the side, two feet braced against the bottom side of the stairs. He stared down at the man. His free hand gripped his handgun. Despite his acrobatic feat, despite the rush of his wild leap, despite the fact that the man was only a few feet from him - his breathing was calm and deep.

  The man kicked open the stairwell door on the first floor. He ran into the hall. As the door slowly swung shut, a Reaver in the shadows beneath the stairs swung into view. He held a gun trained on the back of the man’s head. “Gonna show ‘em I won’t be stopped!” the man shouted from the hallway. The Reaver sidestepped, closed the door with his free hand, then whirled onto the stairway before the man had a chance to look back.

  Yarek holstered his piece, swung out from the landing, and pulled himself up. The Reavers who had run to the third-floor landing helped him over the side. Yarek leaned over the landing and saw the last Reaver leave his hiding place from the lower level. “You! You ran down to the basement,” he said. The Reaver looked up, nodded. “Our heat sensors can’t pick up anything below street level. We don’t have any intel on who could have been down there.” He paused, said, “It might have looked like a good place to hide, but cut that shit out and trust your brother’s intel.” The Reaver nodded once. While the five regrouped, Yarek said, “Unit Two, how’s that walker outside?”

  The driver realized he had become fixated on the idea of killing the man walking down the street. To watch him, to study his movements, and to know that a sniper had death centered on the top of his head... just then the man walked up the steps to another apartment building. He played with his keys, turned once to look at the van - even looked into the eyes of the driver! - then entered the building. The driver exhaled, said, “He’s gone. Unit Three, ghost out for a while.”

  A Reaver behind him cleared his throat, said, “All the bodies on the third floor are dispersing. Moving slow. Fourth floor totally clear, I suggest you chill there a minute.” He watched as the red-yellow blurs of Unit One floated up to the higher landing. The Reaver studied the screen, said, “I’ve got... four bodies... they’re going into one room opposite the one they were in. They’ve stopped. They’re just floating around. Okay, two in the hallway. Three... okay, two again. They’re next to each other, end of the hall, away from the stairwell. In the original room, I’ve got... six... seven? Hard to tell, say seven bodies. Staying put. More heat signatures; they must be turning on televisions or computers. Now the two in the hall are slowly making their way to the... no, they’ve stopped.”

  He heard Yarek’s voice over the com say, “So that’s seven or so in the target room, two in the hall, four in the room opposite.”

  “Right.”

  “Any sounds at all? Any idea what they’re saying?”

  “Sorry,” said the second intel Reaver in the van. “They’ve got music turned up loud. I think they’re doing it on purpose, paranoid about bugs, it’s not like party music or anything. I can’t hear anything.”

  The third intel Reaver said, “Guardian radio channels say they’re nowhere near. Repeat, no Guardian units in the area.”

  “Then let’s get ready to rock,” said Yarek. “Unit Five, get in position to cut the power if I need it.”

  In the alley behind 312 Housing, a Reaver stepped out of the van and stalked over to the power box on the side of the building. He produced a pair of heavy plastic wire cutters and tore off the lock on the box. He crouched, ready to cut the wires that routed the building’s electricity at a moment’s notice.

  * * *

  The two men wore rough-knit clothes and had full beards. One wore a laborer’s winter jacket with the sleeves cut off. The album Sounds of the Outland blared in the hallway.

  “Pretty sure he’s holding back on us,” said one. “I’ve seen him get like this before, and in a way it’s good. Tightening security, probably because he’s about to make another hit. Maybe something big. But also...”

  “Holding back, like what?” said the other, nearly shouting over the music.

  “Like not letting us in. Like we’re supposed to be in his inner circle, guarding his life even, but when he starts talking nonsense a lot of the times-”

  “The man speaks in riddles. S’just the way he is.”

  “No, well I mean yeah, but also I think he does it ’cause he’s afraid. Afraid some little plan he’s got isn’t gonna work out. But then when it does, I mean, he’ll just come right out and tell us what he was doing, what he was gonna blow up or who he was gonna kill. All riddles aside. That stuff’s just bullshit, man... he’s not as much of an enigma as he puts on, and you’ll see that after you’re with him a while.”

  “But all we gotta do,” said the other, after a pause, “is protect his life. So he changes Haven for the better. I mean, if we don’t-”

  The first man jumped, startled. The second whirled and saw that the stairwell door was open, and they’d never heard it open because of the music. Strange, hunched forms blacker than the shadows in the hall glided forth. Arms extended, a flash. One man saw his comrade jerk awkwardly, blood spattered in the hall, then he fell limp and his head hit the floor with a terrific firecracker sound. Suddenly the other man remembered the gun at his belt, reached for it, heard the hiss of silenced bullets, and felt his arm go numb. One bullet, then two, smacked into his head and shattered his skull, splattering brains along the wall.

  The Reavers ran and stopped at two doors on either side of the hallway. Yarek paused for a second and wondered whether they should cut the power to the building or leave it on. On the one hand, they could switch to night vision, drop everyone in the confusion, and remain completely safe themselves. On the other hand, people on the lower floors would make calls to the power companies, then hang around outside talking and drawing attention. Any Guardian cruiser rolling by would definitely be curious.

  “Lights stay on,” said Yarek. He signaled to two men and pointed to the door across from them. Two others crouched on either side of the nearest door. “On my mark,” Yarek hissed into his com-link. He braced himself, then kicked the door open. The other door was kicked open almost simultaneously. Yarek and two Reavers ran into the room.

  Yarek’s mind, sped up by adrenaline, took in the room at a glance. He saw filth scattered on the floor, newspapers and blueprints tacked on the walls, bare mattresses on the floor, desks covered in documents, televisions blaring. The men in the room were raggedy, hard-faced, whirling in astonishment. One man sat at a desk facing the door, his face covered in a haggard beard, and he wore a ridiculous purple hat with a white brim and pom-pom on top. Alone among the conspirators, his eyes glared with hateful fury. Yarek ran forward, gun held high, shot twice into the chest of a man standing nearby, and saw the man jerk and fall. Yarek saw one man raise his hands, saw two others, guns in hand, whirl and immediately splatter blood onto the wall behind them. Another man dived for a couch and pulled a shotgun from under its cushions. Yarek turned to him in time to see another with a metal bat running at him. The man swung the bat, Yarek threw his right elbow around, caught the thing on his armored forearm, then leaped forward, slammed his elbow into the man’s face, whipped his left arm around and caught the man in a headlock. He point
ed his gun at the man with the shotgun. The man hesitated for a moment - Yarek aimed, pulled, saw the man’s eye explode, his nose shatter, saw the blood cascade down onto his shirt. Yarek whirled around, keeping the smaller man before him for cover.

  The other two Reavers pulled the man with the purple hat from his chair. One kept his gun on his head while the other patted him down. His eyes twitched. Yarek stuck his gun to the gut of the man in his grasp, pulled the trigger, felt his gun jerk, then felt the man go limp. He released him, then popped open the chamber of his revolver and began to reload.

  “What’s going on in that other room?” said Yarek.

  In his ear, a voice said, “Three dead, one prisoner. We’re coming in.”

  Yarek reached up to his helmet, then peeled back the dark visor just enough to reveal his mouth. Each set of Reaver armor was an enclosed unit; so much so, in fact, that they were not made for communication with non-Reavers.

  “Are you the Dove?” said Yarek.

  The man in the purple hat grimaced, coughed, then shot an eye at his captors before he said, “Hunh! What?”

  Yarek pointed his revolver at the man’s head, said, “You the Dove?”

  “Dove...?” said the man, eyes twitching about the business end of the revolver.

  “Look at this shit,” said one of the Reavers. He nudged a pile of open boxes with his toe.

  “Yeah?” said Yarek.

  “Looks like we got enough goods here to make some decent homemade bombs.”

  The man squealed hysterically. “All of those things are perfectly legal!”

  Yarek turned back to him.

  “Okay, I need to explain,” said the man, swallowing hard.

  “Think you already have,” said Yarek. He squeezed the trigger. The man’s head jerked back, then his body bent and slapped into the floor. His knees jutted into the air, spasming and knocking against one another. The Reaver nearest him bent down and watched the red flow out of his head.

  “Get a picture of his face while you’re down there,” said Yarek, smirking. He turned to the other Reaver. “You, get some pictures of the room.”

  “On it,” said the Reaver, working the wrist controls for his visor camera.

  Static in Yarek’s ear, then, “Unit Two here. Listen, we’ve picked up some Guardian chatter and a cruiser might be heading this way. Just passing through, but we’ve got these fake license plates...”

  “Fine,” said Yarek. “We’ve dropped all the hostiles, you guys swing around the block or something. Don’t want any curiosity from them. Unit Five, you stay behind the building and get ready to pick us up.”

  “Knock, knock,” said another voice on the com-link. Yarek turned to the door and saw the other two Reavers enter with their prisoner. The man was solidly built and had a scruffy beard. They led the man into the middle of the room. The man glanced down at the body of the man with the purple hat, then locked his eyes on Yarek’s red patch.

  “What’s up?” said Yarek. He snapped his fingers at one Reaver, then pointed at a television. The Reaver went around turning the televisions off, one by one, until a heavy silence sat in the room with them.

  “Says he’s an undercover Guardian,” said a Reaver.

  “Did you check his-”

  “Here,” said the Reaver, just as an image imposed itself on Yarek’s vision. He read the Heads-Up Display and saw a photograph of the same man, beardless and short-haired.

  “He-e-e-ell...” said Yarek. “Lieutenant Guardian Carlo Sytem. Pleased to meet you.” Yarek’s lips curled into something like a smile.

  Sytem nodded once. A thick line of sweat trickled down his face.

  “Undercover, huh? Now I wonder… why didn’t we know about you?” Yarek’s flat tone made it obvious that he already knew the answer.

  Sytem looked Yarek’s armor up and down, swallowed, said, “I’m a Third Force Guardian... assigned to infiltrate terrorist cells.”

  Yarek nodded slowly, said, “Third Force, led by the Secundus of the Guard and answerable to the Prime Minister. As opposed to the Main Force, led by the Head of Guard, answerable to the Senate.”

  Sytem, alarmed by the uncalled-for exposition, glanced at his captors quickly. The gesture seemed panicky, like a cornered animal.

  Yarek smiled wider, bared his teeth, and said, “Third Force... a third of the angels in heaven...”

  “What are you?!” Sytem blurted suddenly. “I... I remember hearing about some special training, some elite corps, I - I - I thought it was just some kind of Ranger unit, I-”

  “Be quiet,” said Yarek.

  “I - I had no idea you guys would be like... like this...”

  “Don’t worry about what we are,” said Yarek. His voice was loud, cutting. He spoke with the finality of a commander. “But you! Answer me - was that man the Dove? That man there?”

  “I... don’t know,” said Sytem.

  “How long you been with this terrorist cell?”

  “Fuh... five months... six...”

  “And you don’t know if it’s the Dove or not?”

  “He was just Nicholas to me.”

  “Don’t care what name you knew him by. By his actions, was he the Dove?”

  “Uh... he was very secretive... I just procured materials... protected him...” Sytem was beginning to swing his head about, as if near some kind of nervous breakdown.

  “So you Thirds knew about this cell,” said Yarek coldly, “but you didn’t do anything about it except help them gather materials?”

  “Gathering... in...tuh... intel...” Sytem swallowed, over and over.

  “A terrorist cell picked this area because it was mostly uninhabited. They needed secrecy for their business. But if there had been more people in the area, our job would have been a lot harder. How you Thirds found out about them is anybody’s guess. I’m guessing you don’t even know that yourself. We found out about them because some laborer tipped off a Main Force unit. Within a few days, we cleared them out. That’s the way things are going to be done from here on out.”

  “Doing... it’s my job...” offered Sytem.

  “Your job?” said Yarek. “Haven pays you to aid terrorists? The system stuck you down into one of the cracks in the bureaucracy - and you, you dumb son of a bitch, you probably don’t even know why. Because you didn’t need to know why, the bureaucracy didn’t need to tell you why. It just needed to keep tabs on one of its blind spots, with no regard for you as a person. Such a shame. Have you ever read any books on self-actualization and honest means leading to good ends?”

  “Have I… I… what?”

  “What are we going to do about this guy?” said a voice on the com. “He’s seen us.”

  Yarek paused. Sytem leaned his head down, shaking. It seemed to Yarek that he was fighting back tears.

  Yarek stepped forward quickly. Sytem jerked his head up. He saw Yarek’s teeth shining.

  “The fact of the matter,” said Yarek, “is that you were probably a decent person.”

  His foot shot out and slammed into Sytem’s knee. The man cried out and fell to the side as Yarek twisted around, stood over the man, and forced his own knee into the small of Sytem’s back as he hit the floor. He put his gun to the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger. Bits of brain and face spread out across the floor. Yarek was reminded of a childhood incident of spilling an entire bowl of steaming soup. Yarek jerked his visor down into place. The Reavers filed out of the room.

  They took the stairwell back down. On the first floor landing, Yarek said, “Unit Two is still out avoiding cruisers, so we don’t have any intel about who’s in the hallway. Let’s ghost for a minute and-”

  The stairwell door flew open. “I did it!” screamed the gray-haired raggedy man, the one they had narrowly avoided before. “I knew I could do it if I-”

  He stopped suddenly, eyeing the killers in black crowding the stairwell.

  “Who!” the man shrieked.

  Yarek raised his revolver and fired it into
the man’s head.

  Someone exhaled loudly into the com-link.

  “Bound to be casualties,” said Yarek.

  Chapter Five

  The Circus of Belief and the Conspiracy Junkies

  In an apartment complex inside a mountain in the northwest, Wodan sat with his parents. The home of the Kyners was warmly lit and decorated with religious knickknacks and shelves full of books from the Holy Series. Wodan’s mother hurried back and forth from the kitchen to the dinner table, forcing food into her smiling boy, while his father beamed at him from across the table, asking trivial questions just to hear the sound of Wodan’s voice. Wodan was happier than he had been in a very long time.

  Wodan’s parents were very old. Even his sisters were many years older than he; he was an accidental pregnancy. Rather than have an egg inseminated by the DoS Makers of Mothers, Mrs. Kyner had had her little Wodi-zygote taken by them post-insemination and held until a clean bill of health could be assured. This was not unheard of in Haven, as the terrible Pharaoh’s Curse disease did not afflict all newborns, only a few, and fewer still with each generation. Still, she had been taking medication to prevent just such a pregnancy, which Wodan knew because years ago one of his sisters had revealed this to him during a cruel game she called Time for Truth. She had also told him that he was adopted, that people treated him nice because he was dying of cancer, and that people told him he was smart because he was actually retarded.

  Wodan’s father Walter was short, like his son, but solidly built. He had thick, rough laborer’s hands, which Wodan studied as he ate and listened. “So why didn’t ya come an’ see us sooner, boy?” said Walter. His voice was a strange combination of high-pitched coarseness, a lilting growl not uncommon among laborers, especially in that area. “You wasn’t gone long enough, you thought you needed another week away from home?”