The Devil's Only Friend

by Dan Wells

  My phone chirped hysterically when it connected to the network, and I glowered at the thought of how many angry messages I was sure to have. I scrolled through the list—thirteen texts and twenty-one calls. They must really be pissed. I started dialing Trujillo’s number, to tell him I was coming in to Whiteflower, when suddenly my phone rang. It was Diana.

  “Hello?”

  “Dammit, John, where the hell have you been?”

  “Secret dance lessons,” I said, “what’s going on?”

  “Get to the mortuary immediately—as fast as you can. We found Rose.”

  I looked at my car, a hundred feet away through the snow. “What? At the mortuary?”

  “Are you running?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” I said, and broke into a run. Boy Dog followed, panting with exertion. We still didn’t know who had kidnapped Rose, but finding her at the mortuary meant one of two things: either Elijah had taken her there, or she’d shown up the way most people show up at a mortuary. “Is Rose dead?” I asked. “Did Elijah kill her?”

  “Elijah’s not even here,” said Diana. “Gidri’s gang showed up about forty-five minutes ago, with Rose slung over their shoulder—we haven’t dared make contact so we don’t know what condition she’s in.”

  So Gidri kidnapped Rose? But why? Did Elijah tell him to? Was Elijah the leader of the whole wretched group?

  We could figure out why later—first things first. “Don’t make contact,” I said. “Every human in that building will die.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Diana. “The cops won’t believe us—they still think this is some kind of drug ring and they’re gathering at the gas station around the corner.”

  “Gathering?”

  “Armed and armored,” said Diana. “They’re going to go in.”

  * * *

  I screeched to a stop on the edge of a crowd of cop cars, their lights turned off in the hope that the mortuary half a block away wouldn’t know they were there. I left Boy Dog in the passenger seat, hoping that he’d be okay—would I be back soon? Would he freeze? I couldn’t hurt him or allow him to be hurt; I had to follow my rules. I hovered a moment in indecision, then ran toward Agent Ostler.

  “Where have you been?” she snapped.

  “Selling cigarettes to children,” I said. “Have they gone in yet?”

  “Do they look like they’ve gone in?” She pointed to the massing crowd of police in armored vests and helmets, clutching assault rifles as Detective Scott gave them a final briefing. Fort Bruce was too small for a real SWAT team, but in every situation they typically encountered, this group would be enough. This was not a typical situation.

  I counted them as quickly as I could. “Looks like eighteen guys? Against four Withered?”

  “And all four are here now,” said Diana, walking toward us. She had a bulletproof vest of her own, with a small radio handset clipped to a strap on the shoulder. “Elijah drove up right after I talked to you. That puts him twenty minutes late to work, if that means anything.”

  Ostler sneered. “It’s a miracle he didn’t drive past this … bonehead parade. Surprise might be our only real weapon here, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Are you going in, too?” I asked Diana. “That’s a death trap in there.”

  Detective Scott approached with a frown, his handheld radio squawking. “This is your last chance to be straight with me,” he said. “We’re not going to let that woman die, but that’d be a whole lot easier if you’d just tell me what my men are going to find in there.”

  “I’ve told you before,” said Ostler. “They are ancient creatures we don’t even begin to understand—”

  “They are not vampires!” Scott hissed. “They’re not ghosts or goblins or whatever other lies you keep insisting on telling me. I have eighteen good men, with families at home, and if you can’t stop this charade long enough to tell them the truth—”

  “Don’t send them,” said Ostler. “If you refuse to believe anything else I say, at least listen to this: anyone you send in there will die, and you will not blame me for being anything less than clear about that.”

  Boy Dog howled from my car, lost and primal.

  “You’re not a part of this community,” said Scott. “You can waltz around here and watch our people get killed and kidnapped and then you can leave, but we have a responsibility here. We have to get up every morning and tell our neighbors we’re doing everything we can to protect them, and if that means going in there, then that’s what we do. It’s eighteen on four, with no sign of heavy weapons on any of the suspects. We have to take this chance.”

  “Send them in,” I said.

  “He doesn’t have the authority to give you that permission,” said Ostler quickly.

  “And she doesn’t have the authority to stop you,” I said. “You go, you do your thing, but you remember what she told you.”

  The detective’s voice dropped, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “What is this?”

  “It’s a war,” I said. “It’s been in the shadows for centuries—for millennia maybe—but if you’re determined to start the first real battle, we can’t stop you.”

  Scott looked back and forth among the three of us, then stormed off with a snarl. “Bunch of freaks.”

  “What are you doing?” Ostler demanded.

  “Communicating,” I said bitterly. “The Hunter wants a corpse, and the police are determined to die. It’s a win-win.”

  “I’m going with them,” said the radio on Diana’s shoulder, and I realized it was Potash’s voice, rough with static.

  “Stay in the car,” said Diana. “You can barely breathe.”

  “No,” said Ostler, “I’m sending you both—first in the door, since you’re the only personnel with any experience fighting Withered. If we can save even one of these idiots’ lives, we will.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Diana, and she ran off with her rifle—not her long sniper, but a short automatic that would be better in close quarters.

  Ostler handed me a radio. “If you have any brilliant insights, now’s the time to let them know. They’re the only people who can fight these monsters, but you’re the only person who can think like one.”

  I looked at the radio in my hand, then back at Ostler. “No radio silence?”

  “The cops are going to be broadcasting the whole time anyway.”

  “All right then.” I paused. “Do you and I get vests, too?”

  “You’re not going in there,” she said firmly.

  “And you’re so sure that what’s in there isn’t coming out?”

  She frowned, but walked to her car and opened the trunk, revealing an array of armor and weapons. I took off my bulky coat, shivering in the night air, and pulled on a vest. Ostler did the same. I clipped the radio to a strap on the front and switched it on.

  Words hissed across the radio channel like ghosts.

  “Team One in position.”

  “Team Two move to the back entrance.” It sounded like Detective Scott, but I couldn’t be sure. “Team Three, stay here to cover the retreat.”

  “Potash,” said Diana, “you need to hurry it up.”

  The only answer from Potash was labored breathing and the sound of boots in the snow.

  “Form up along this wall,” said Detective Scott. “Weapons hot.”

  “Shoot anything that moves,” I said. “Chairs, shadows, cats, I don’t even care. Anything you don’t kill will kill you.”

  Ostler scowled. “That’s your great advice?”

  I laughed dryly. “If you thought the raid on Mary Gardner was reckless and stupid, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “You’re broadcasting,” said Diana.

  “Go team,” I said. “We’re all out here cheering for you.”

  I should be in there, I thought. Not part of this raid, but the only one on the raid, and instead of a raid it would just be quiet, unassuming John Cleaver, picking up a night job to make a few extra bucks. I cou
ld learn about the hearses, dazzle Elijah with my knowledge of mortuary life, and over weeks and months find the cracks in his armor. I could kill him if they gave me time.

  But there was never any time anymore. The war had started and this was its future: terrified men without a hope of survival, future corpses lining up for The Hunter to eat.

  Elijah absorbed memories from the dead. The Hunter ate people and possibly controlled their minds. Gidri we had no idea about, and we didn’t even have a name for the final man. I had nothing I could tell the team.

  “Go,” said Diana, and the hiss of the radio was joined by the click of a lock opening, of a door swinging wide, of weapons being readied. Boots thumped and spare magazines jangled.

  “They’re arguing,” Diana whispered. “No, they’re fighting. Something’s gone wrong.”

  I heard crashes and a loud, feminine scream that was probably Rose, followed by an inhuman roar whose origin I could only guess at. Seconds later the channel erupted in the sound of gunfire, and I heard Diana shout “Potash, fall back!”

  What could I tell them that could save their lives? That Elijah should have been good? That kidnapping Rose felt like a betrayal I didn’t even understand? I heard Potash’s ragged breath and something that sounded for all the world like an axe biting into wood. The woman screamed again, and then I heard Diana’s voice, her words short and clipped.

  “I have one still alive in here but I can’t hit him without hurting the woman.”

  “So try harder,” I said, but something didn’t feel right. She’d said she had “one still alive.” Were all but one of the cops already dead? But I could still hear them shouting over the radio. Was she talking about a Withered, then? Did she have one of them already dead and another alive but not killing her? How was that even possible? Unless they weren’t Withered at all.

  “I need backup,” said Diana. She sounded like her teeth were clenched tightly shut from fear. “He’s healing.”

  So they were definitely Withered. What was going on?

  “Please don’t shoot us,” said Rose, barely audible through Diana’s radio, and I froze. Don’t shoot us. She’d said “us.” One of the Withered was still alive, so close to Rose that Diana couldn’t risk a shot. And now Rose was pleading for his life.

  I started running.

  “John, come back!” shouted Ostler, but I ignored her and sprinted to the mortuary, shouting into the radio: “Don’t hurt Elijah!” I’d been right about him: he was good. He wasn’t working with Gidri and he hadn’t kidnapped Rose. She was defending him. The only way the other Withered could have already fallen was if Elijah himself had attacked them.

  He was good.

  “Officer down,” said a man on the radio. “Repeat, officer d—no, two down!”

  So there was at least one Withered still up. I had to go carefully. I ran past Team Three, ignoring their warning as I dashed through the door. The hallway inside was a chaos of light and dark, and far at the end I could see Potash and a group of police locked in combat with what looked like a thick, spiny rosebush. Halfway down the hall was a bright doorway, yellow light spilling out into the corridor, so that’s where I ran.

  It was Elijah’s office and it was devastated. Furniture was smashed and overturned and blood and ash covered the floor. Elijah stood in the far corner, his chest sliced open; blood and soulstuff spilled out in thick rivulets, greasy and black. Behind him was Rose Chapman, covered with cuts and bruises, staring out in wide-eyed terror, and against the opposite wall stood Diana, her rifle trained on them both. Between them on the floor lay three bodies: the first I recognized as Jacob Carl, Elijah’s counterpart on the day shift; he sprawled against the wall with his eyes wide open and his head twisted nearly backwards. Beside him was the tallest of the Withered, completely inert, and closest to me lay Gidri—young and handsome and still as the grave. I stepped toward him, feeling the familiar rush at the sight of a corpse—but no. His chest was moving. He was alive. I looked at the other Withered and saw the same. They didn’t have any visible wounds. I stooped over Gidri to examine him closer. How had this happened?

  But of course there was only one answer.

  “You drained them?” I asked. Elijah moved his mouth but no sound came out; the slash across his chest must have damaged his voice.

  “He can only drain dead bodies,” said Diana.

  “Obviously not,” I said. I touched Gidri’s throat, feeling his pulse. “If they were dead they’d turn to ash. That means he incapacitated them, and draining their minds is the only weapon he has.” It looked like he’d drained so much of their memories they couldn’t even think anymore, couldn’t even stand. They were infants—worse than infants. They were hollow shells.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Rose.

  Potash appeared in the door behind me, covered in blood and grease and splinters. His machete dangled from his fingers; he didn’t try to speak but simply gasped for breath. Beyond him the police were calling for medics, and I knew they’d won their fight. That shouldn’t have happened—we should have all been dead. But Elijah had turned on his own kind, and turned their four-monster army into a lone, desperate runner, and suddenly the odds were in our favor. We’d won because of Elijah.

  Diana seemed to be thinking the same thing, but it hadn’t convinced her. “Protocol says we kill him anyway—”

  “Protocol can wait,” I said, and I looked at Elijah. If he could drain the living, why didn’t he? What was stopping him from draining my memories, or Diana’s, or Rose’s? He could drop us in seconds, and we’d never even remember that he’d gotten away. But instead he stood there and watched me, and his face didn’t show fear or determination or anything else I would have expected in a battle scene. The corners of his mouth turned down, his brow wrinkled over his eyes. He was sad.

  We’d thought he was forced to use dead memories because no one would ever take them if they could take living ones instead. We’d had him completely backwards—he could take living memories just fine, but he chose not to. What were we missing? What made a living man’s memories so much worse than a dead one’s? Why should he be so sad about a living man with no—

  And then everything made sense.

  “These aren’t the first people you’ve drained without killing,” I said.

  His face, already sad, collapsed into a despair so deep it seemed to draw me down with it. “I never want to kill,” he said. His voice sounded ragged and raw, as if the gash in his chest were only half healed inside. “I thought I could … sustain myself without hurting anyone, but it was all wrong. I never meant to hurt him.”

  “Who?” asked Diana.

  “Merrill Evans,” I said, and Elijah closed his eyes. How had it happened, I wondered? Some night, twenty years ago, when Elijah’s mind was fading and he was desperate for more memories to fill it. The only sustenance he really needed, but not a body anywhere to take it from. Perhaps he’d gotten sloppy? Perhaps he’d let it go too long? And then he was stranded, without a mind to call his own, and there was Merrill Evans. “It isn’t really Alzheimer’s,” he’d told me that day in the lobby. Elijah had broken a man’s mind, and that knowledge hurt him more than any death ever could, because he’d done it himself.

  I didn’t know how a lot of things felt, but I knew what it felt like to fail someone.

  Elijah sank to his knees.

  “I have a shot,” said Diana.

  “Wait,” I said fiercely. Elijah couldn’t die here—not like this. I looked at Rose. “We’re with a special branch of the FBI and we’re here to rescue you. We have an ambulance outside.” I pointed at Diana. “Will you go with my friend, here?”

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Rose.

  I nodded. “Outside.” She hesitated, probably still in shock from the last few hours. But after a moment, she stepped around Elijah and took Diana’s hand. She led Rose out, casting me a glance halfway between hope and fear, and then they disappeared into the hall.

/>   “How did you know about us?” asked Elijah. His voice was better now; he was healing quickly.

  I wanted to trust him but I was still too cautious to tell him everything right up front. “We have what you might call an informant.”

  “Another Withered?”

  Close enough. “Friend of a friend.”

  He nodded, as if this made some kind of satisfying sense. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s John Cleaver,” I said. I realized that this was the first time I’d introduced myself to a Withered—the first time, maybe, that any official overture had been made between the groups. I wanted to add more circumstance to the occasion but I didn’t have any authority or even a title … and then a sudden whim took me and I couldn’t help the small smile that crept into the corner of my mouth. “Professional psychopath.”

  He studied me a moment before speaking. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  “The war I assume Gidri warned you about is real,” I said. I pointed at the carnage in the room, at the blood and ash and destruction. “I take it you didn’t like his offer, so I’d like you to hear mine.”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t want to kill them.”

  “You didn’t kill these.”

  “Just wait.” He paused, and I wondered what he was thinking about. “They’re my brothers,” he said at last. “Not literally, but … we’re the same.”

  “Don’t insult yourself,” I said.

  His silence stretched out, broken only by Potash’s labored breathing in the background. After what felt like ages, Elijah spoke again, and his voice was soft and distant.

  “We had such dreams, you know. Back in the beginning. I don’t even remember it all now, it was so long ago, but I remember the excitement—the thrill and the power, the dreams of immortality. We were going to rule the world. I guess we did, for a while.” He swept his hand across the cramped, bloody room. “Now look at us.”