And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Mac also found the massive dynamite charges as well, which confirmed his overall hypothesis about this boat. There was no doubt-the wire was the pentagram and the ship in the center was where the demon was being held.

  This yacht would be a beauty if it weren't so firmly fixed to its spot-a three-masted schooner with every conceivable luxury. He considered the masts. Accept­ing the fact that he could not cross the ten meters to his target ship undetected, he had to grant that all hell would break loose. That meant eliminating the other guards if at all possible. Well, he had the dead guard's submachine gun. If he could just make enough of a disturbance to bring them all out into the open, then cut loose on them . . . It might work. But still, how would he cross the ten meters?

  He spent a quiet hour trying to figure out the means, and even more time, after he had come up with a solution, wishing he knew more about physics or at least something about lumberjacking.

  It took still more time to set it all up. The dynamite in the hold was bound together with straps in groups of six sticks, all connected from their blasting caps to a common copper wire. The wire branched at several points, each leading to a plunger-type detonator that used static electricity generated by the plunger, caus­ing interaction with fine metal brushes to provide the motive spark. A simple system, and with this many detonators a cornered guard could trigger them from almost anyplace on the ship and, with a nice little delay circuit in the emitter of the plunger box, have at least a few seconds to get away.

  The system did not seem to be booby-trapped. Mac gingerly removed one stick and its blasting cap from the assembly after cutting the binding straps, then cut the copper wire after the junction. It took a lot of time and effort to follow the wire to its plunger box and then to get the wire, which was wire-stapled, to come free. Finally he had it and reached the second big problem in his plan.

  Placing the single charge would be easy, although he had no idea just how much of an explosion one stick would make. A hell of a bang, he guessed, if the old movies were right. He intended to blow up the mast nearest the target ship-he hoped without break­ing the pentagram or sinking the yacht-and take advantage of the disturbance to use the guards and the mast itself to cross to the target ship. The only problem was, where did you plant the charge in order to take out the mast and have it fall in the direction you wanted? How, in fact, could you contain the dynamite blast so that it wouldn't spend its force equally in all directions and splinter the 16+-meter mast?

  At least he didn't have to worry yet about the guard being missed. Once or twice others had called for him, but, upon receiving no answer, had assumed he was goofing off below decks, perhaps grabbing a catnap. It seemed to be a common enough practice among them that they thought nothing of it. They were secure here; any attack would come from massed federal boats moving in hard or rival gangsters with guns blaz­ing.

  They hadn't counted on a lone outsider.

  There was enough room around the mast support hole in the upper superstructure to plant the stick of dynamite if he could decide where to put it. He remembered seeing some logging once where the tree had fallen toward the largest cut. That meant, if all things held, placing the dynamite between the mast and the target boat. This he did, dampening it from underneath as best he could with pillows, bedding, whatever he could get his hands on.

  Satisfied, finally, that he'd done all he could, he ran the copper wire outside and got down near the stern of the boat. He had no desire to be blown overboard by the force of the explosion. He held the guard's submachine gun; he was as ready as he'd ever be.

  He pumped the plunger up and down from a prone position. It started to whine, and he saw a small meter on the top climb rapidly into the red zone. When it reached that point, he let go and braced himself.

  The brushes inside continued to interact for a few seconds, then the whine started to decline and the meter started to drop. He worried now that he hadn't adequately understood the mechanism, that the wire had come loose, that the dynamite had fallen from its position-anything that would prevent an explosion.

  The whine continued to diminish and the seconds dragged on. He grew panicky but wasn't about to move as long as any sound issued from the box. He remembered tales of people having been blown apart when they'd gotten up to check about why some explosive hadn't gone off. Not that he could be blown apart, but he could be thrown into the water. Even a stake through the heart seemed preferable to drown­ing.

  And then it went off. The explosion was louder and of a magnitude stronger than his wildest imaginings; the whole ship shook despite its foundation, and a large part of the bridge superstructure flew in all directions. The mast itself was snapped like a twig and blown backward from the bottom. It fell forward, as he'd hoped, but crashed over into the water, missing the target boat by the smallest of margins, perhaps a meter from the stem. It simply wasn't long enough-the added six meters didn't quite compensate for its distance behind the bridge nor for the distance it would be blown back at the base.

  It would have to do, he decided. The explosion's roar was still echoing from the shore, and lights began coming on all over the place. The guards on the picket boats rushed on deck, as he'd hoped. He stood up and opened up on the nearest one, cutting him down, then leaped to the roof of the ship's superstructure and continued firing at every moving creature he could see on the ships. The right and wrong of killing the men had never entered his mind. These were mob­sters, anyway.

  One guard had a chance to get back to cover and opened up on him. The bullets struck him and whirled him around; they didn't hurt, but they knocked him off his feet and made him drop his own gun. He lay there a moment, then crawled carefully forward to the weapon and grabbed onto it.

  There were shouts from shore now, and from the target boat came a call: "What's happening out there? What's going on?" It was a woman's voice.

  The guard who'd cut him down naturally assumed he was dead, and after checking to see if anyone else was lurking about, he stood up and peered at the other ship, trying to get a make on his attacker.

  He was the only one left. Mac jumped up, shooting, and cut him down. The guard carried a look of ab­solute disbelief to his death.

  Realizing that help would be on the way at any moment, Mac Walters knew he had little time to spare. He looked at the mast, cockeyed from his posi­tion to about a meter from the target boat, and changed into a bat. He hadn't the strength to fly the distance, and there were better shapes for this that he couldn't master; but being a bat made him an almost invisible target, and its legs provided perfect if slow traction. Furthermore, the bat also had a perfect sense of balance and position.

  He made it faster than he'd thought possible. Confused reinforcements were still getting into boats on the shore by the time he reached the closest point of mast to target. He knew what he needed now and changed into a great gray wolf. Taking only seconds to figure angle and get a footing, he leaped for the low rail of the target ship's lower deck and barely cleared the rails.

  A woman screamed. He immediately changed back to himself and ran inside the nearest door. Two stun­ningly beautiful but fully capable women stood there, both holding submachine guns on him.

  "All right, bud, hold it right there," one, a redhead, snapped at him.

  "Yeah, or we'll cut you down and don't think we won't," chimed in the blond.

  He had no doubt that they would, but time was running out. He made eye contact with the redhead, got it, and forced through his mental orders without the other woman even realizing it.

  He turned to the blond. "Put down your gun," he ordered quietly, trying to control his excitement and nervousness. She looked puzzled, then, following his gesture, saw that the redhead was now pointing her weapon at her.

  To her credit she didn't drop her gun but turned back to him. "What kind of magic ... ?" She started, looking him determinedly in the eye.

  That was a mistake. Wishing he had time to take one of their minds and learn more about the
ship, he walked past them. They would continue to stand guard; he wouldn't like to be the next person who tried to get through there.

  There were a lot of people on this ship. A white-clad black man who might have been the chef or steward poked his head out of a cabin door as Mac stalked imperiously down a corridor, and then reached out to grab him. It did little good; the strength of a vampire is beyond mortal men, and the man was rudely tossed back into his cabin and slammed against the bulkhead.

  Mac found a stairway, tossed two ordinary and frightened-looking men down it with a grab and a pull by each arm, and went up a deck. If this one followed the pattern, the main room should be amidships on this deck.

  It was. It was also decked out like a sultan's palace-incredibly ornate, almost overdone in its luxury. If this was Theritus's prison, O'Malley had made it a very comfortable one.

  "Theritus! Demon! Are you here?" he shouted loudly.

  A woman with a pistol appeared at the far end, braced herself, and fired a full volley of shots at him. He flinched when they hit him but stood his ground and stormed toward her. She tried to turn and run, but he was too fast. He caught her, turned her around, and looked fiercely into her frightened eyes.

  "Where is the demon?" he thundered. "You will tell me!"

  "Ca-captain's cabin," she managed.

  "You will take me!" He held her so that she pre­sented something of a shield, hoping they wouldn't fire for fear of hitting her. These constant attacks on him were slowing him up.

  There wasn't a great distance to go, though, and they encountered no more trouble. She pointed toward an oaken door forward, just underneath the bridge. "He is in there," she told him.

  He had no doubt that she was telling the truth; he held her at least tenuously in his hypnotic grip. He turned her again and looked deeply into her eyes.

  "You will find a weapon and you will allow no one to disturb us," he commanded.

  There was no questioning. "Yes, Master," she re­sponded and walked off.

  He approached the door and decided not to stand on ceremony. He grabbed the handle and pulled it open with such force that it came right off its hinges, the lock flying.

  It was a truly luxurious cabin, too, and on its heart-shaped bed sat the demon, wearing a nightshirt, hold­ing an unclad woman in each arm. The women looked terrified; the demon looked puzzled.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Theritus hissed, not in the least intimidated.

  "I'm from Asmodeus Mogart," Mac told him. "His life and my world are threatened. We need your jewel to save it. I'm here to get it!"

  Theritus laughed. It sounded more like the barking of a small dog. "And what makes you think, bold sir, that I will hand it over?" he responded haughtily.

  "It's all over and you know it," Mac pointed out. "It's been a good life up to now, but O'Malley's pledged your jewel to my partner for some dirty work he wants done. The feds will find this place now no matter what-the explosion and gunfire will guarantee it. Your good life's over."

  "Then the cops will break the pentagram, freeing me," retorted the demon, who still hadn't let go of his bed companions. "They cannot hold me."

  "That's why O'Malley will get your jewel to my partner," the vampire argued. "He's got nothing to lose. Give it to me now and save even more lives!" Including mine, Mac thought glumly.

  The demon considered his words, sensing their truth. "There's no way O'Malley, even O'Malley, could get the jewel without my permission, unless . . ." His voice trailed off as he thought it over, talking more to himself than to Mac. "Unless he sends the shoggoths to kill me!" he shouted excitedly. He released his grip on the women and leaped over one to the floor. He looked genuinely frightened.

  "You don't understand. O'Malley's master is the enemy of my people, of all people everywhere," he babbled, sounding and looking like a man becoming unhinged by nerves. "That's how he trapped me! If he sends the shoggoths-they'll be sent directly to this pentagram! I have to get out of here!"

  Mac didn't understand him but knew he somehow had an advantage. "Okay, then-give me the jewel. You can't get out of here with it, but maybe if I wished us both out of here, it would work!"

  The demon looked thunderstruck. "Of course! Of course! You aren't under his spell!" He turned, fum­bled in a drawer, and took out a small jewel box. He walked toward the stranger, then hesitated.

  "Once I give you this-you won't leave me?" he asked nervously.

  "I give you my word," promised Mac.

  The demon handed him the box. Mac tripped the catch and opened it, then unwrapped an object bound in layers of satin. Outside there were the yells and screams of many people, the sounds of a lot of running in his direction on the ship and around it, and the sounds of a lot of shots.

  "Quickly! Touch my arm!" Mac ordered the demon, who did as instructed. Even so, he looked around at the women and the cabin. "Too bad," he murmured. "It was the best racket I've ever been in."

  "Jewel! Take us to the gully near my hideout!" Mac ordered.

  A gunman reached the door, saw the two of them, and turned his machine gun in their direction. The women on the bed screamed in terror and shouted, "No! No!"

  Mac and Theritus vanished.

  Theritus's goatlike feet were sinking in the mud. It was raining slightly near the culvert. He was still in shock of some kind, but he was thinking through it. He turned to the vampire.

  "All right-hand me the jewel back now!" he or­dered.

  Mac Walters looked at him strangely. "Are you kidding? I told you I needed this."

  "Give it back!" the demon screeched angrily and leaped at him. Mac easily sidestepped the lunge, and the creature went face down into the mud and lay there, unmoving.

  For a moment Mac thought he'd killed him, or at least knocked him cold. He carefully pocketed the jewel and approached the mud-caked body. The rain had soaked the nightshirt clean through, leaving no doubt that Theritus had a tail.

  The demon wasn't dead or out. He was crying, in fact. As Mac put a hand on him he looked up into the vampire's face. There was madness in the demon's own features, madness mixed with fear.

  "Please!" he pleaded. "I beg you! Without that stone I am trapped here, unprotected, too close to the An­cient Ones. This is a thin area! Can't you understand that?"

  Mac didn't, but he realized that there was pure ter­ror in the demon now, something he'd never seen in the creatures before.

  "You mean there's something here that can kill even you, no matter what," he said rather than asked.

  The demon nodded. "Yes, yes-that's it exactly."

  Mac Walters thought it over. Time! This was wast­ing so much time! An idea came to him.

  "Theritus, could I drop you somewhere else, say a training level, and get back here?"

  The frantic expression faded entirely and the demon looked thoughtful. "Why, yes, surely-if you know the right number to the levels."

  Mac nodded. "Look, I left Abaddon in a training area. I think I can reach it and drop you. Now-how the hell do I get back to this one to pick up my part­ner?"

  The demon brightened. Mac didn't know what the creature was scared of, but he was certain he didn't want to meet it.

  "All right, all right-take me there! Anywhere! When you want to come back here, just tell the jewel to come to Main Line plus one thousand and seventy-six. That's here."

  "One thousand and seventy-six," Mac repeated. "Okay-let's get out of this rain." He reached out and grabbed the demon's hand. "Take us to the training level now occupied by Abaddon but at least one kilometer from him!" he commanded. They both vanished again.

  The training ground was the same gray nothingness he remembered it as being-and over there was the western town, still going.

  Only now this barren land was populated. Heavily populated by all sorts of people, nonpeople, creatures, and demonic figures. A whole host of them.

  The training ground did not change you. Mac was still a vampire, still dead-and as such, he could see the dead. He wanted out
and fast.

  And yet-how much time had this detour taken? He couldn't take a chance on its having been too long; dawn had been close by when he left.

  "Jewel!" he commanded. "Take me to my coffin inside the culvert on level one thousand and seventy-six!"

  He vanished.

  As he traveled the gray spaces he began to wonder what could possibly frighten a demon, and nervously realized that he'd taken the creature's word for it that level one thousand and seventy-six was the right one. What if he'd been double-crossed? He worried-then appeared literally lying in his culvert hideaway. He'd bet right now all down the line. It was daylight out there-he could feel the lethargy overtaking him already.

  Were it not for Jill, he'd return to Mogart immedi­ately, but he couldn't leave her here, couldn't abandon her after what she'd done. Mogart had said that all the time lines on the levels they'd use were vastly speeded up and that the fastest ones were saved for last. He was confident he was in time.

  He awoke at dusk but immediately realized that he couldn't put through his plan right away. He didn't know where Jill McCulloch was. Somewhere still in North America, that was certain-and surely not Alaska. Too far for the time. But he couldn't risk going to her yet. It was dusk in Chicago, but not out West, not yet. He'd have to give it two hours to be sure.

  He also couldn't be certain what he'd run into there. He needed to renew his strength with blood first, and that would use up the time.